Requiem

By TD Babcock

Audrey Davis knew deep loss twice in her young life. Abandoned by her mother and then stunned by the death of her beloved Gran, she spent her young years in the foster care system. In college, she discovered what it means to have family and to fall in love for the first time. Another shattering loss was too much, and she flees into a new life, only to find new love and a life she never dreamed she would have. However, as time and circumstance diminish the once-brilliant sheen of her life, she wonders where God is and if she can ever find her way back.

Doug Simpson witnessed things as a child that no one should ever have to see, and despite becoming a man that people adored and reached out to, he could not quite escape that scared little boy he once was. Could these two find each other for keeps, and could they find the One whose love heals more than man can bandage?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973664963

TD Babcock

TD Babcock lives in the Pacific NW with her husband and her mutt Henry. Writing is like second nature to her—from spiral notebooks in childhood to today’s laptop. She likes to say that from the first word written, she just watches it take off and hopes to keep up.

Book preview

chapter 1

2004

My mother named me Audrey. It was the first and the last thing she ever did for me. She loved her drugs more than she loved her health, her family, me. She left me in the hospital shortly after delivery. My gran, when she heard this, got in her car and drove four hours straight to the tiny hospital in the desert to pick me up.

Gran lived alone until she brought me to live with her in a smallish house two blocks from the ocean, in the not-so-affluent part of Laguna Beach. Our house was cozy and warm, and while my clothes usually came from Goodwill or the church’s cast-off bin, I didn’t know the difference. At least until I started first grade. Children are cruel. My school was a mix of middle-class kids (the superrich kids went to private school), children of the hired help, and then kids like me. I was the only kid on our block, as the street consisted mostly of retirees living on Social Security.

Gran gave me my life. My mother may have birthed me, but Gran was my rock. She prayed for me and with me. She constantly had her hand on me, my hair, my arm, my leg. When I think of the word comfort, it’s Gran’s face that comes into focus. Every morning without fail, she was in her rocker, coffee by her side and Bible in her lap. We went to church if the bus was running. If not, we watched on TV preachers with big hair and big voices and choirs singing mightily about God, angels, and keeping the devil away from your door.

Gran died when I was seven. I don’t remember much, just that I came home from school and our neighbor, Mrs. Stevens, was waiting on the sidewalk. I saw the ambulance first, and some police officers were standing around. I started to cry out of instinct. Mrs. Stevens rushed toward me and bent down.

The policeman was nice, but he wouldn’t let me look toward the house as they loaded the ambulance carrying my life away from me. I kept thinking, How could God, who loves me, take my gran? No! It was interesting that I didn’t think of my mother—or my father, for that matter. I never heard Gran mention their names at all, so their coming to take care of me wasn’t even on my radar. I just knew that I was alone.

The foster homes I went into over the next ten years were okay; nothing terrible happened to me. I was fed and had clothes to wear. But I didn’t have Gran—or her touch. She was the one who fed the inside of my soul. I had Gran’s Bible. Mrs. Stevens made sure it was packed up in my box of belongings. Most of the time at night, especially in the first weeks, I would fall asleep clutching that worn leather book, crying until I was sure there was nothing left.

I learned to read the classics and how to do algebra, I learned that the sun is a star, and I learned that sixteen ounces of gold is not the same volume as sixteen ounces of feathers.

I also learned how to do two things that saved me. I began to write in a journal as soon as I learned how to write sentences. It was something I could do that belonged just to me. I kept my journals in my locked box under whatever bed was mine at the time. And I learned to run. I ran everywhere, just because it seemed freeing to feel the wind in my hair, the sun (or rain) on my face. In seventh grade, I joined the junior high school track team, and I found my niche.

Which leads me to today. I write this as an introduction to my application to attend Caldicott University. I hope to write for the Coronet, and I hope to make my gran proud because I know that she cheers me on from heaven. These are my goals, and I know I can begin my journey to a successful life from this fine institution. Thank you for your consideration.

chapter 2

May, Present Day

Wake up. Wake up.

Audrey Simpson could feel the pull of wakefulness and ran toward it, running away from the mists and the fogginess of the nightmare. She opened her eyes and felt the dampness of the sheets that she clenched in her hand. She breathed deeply and tried to relax her muscles, one by one, as she had trained herself to do when she ran in college. She let go of the sheet and sat up, running a hand through her hair and sweeping it away from her face. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, automatically glancing over to Doug’s side of the bed. It was empty, of course, and it looked as if it hadn’t even been slept in. It probably hadn’t.

She got up and went to the dresser in search of a hair band. Quickly, she swept her dark-blonde hair into a ponytail and yawned again. On the nights she dreamed, she usually didn’t sleep well. It would be a long day, so she was thankful that the company they were expecting wouldn’t be coming until the next evening. It was couple from Florida, she seemed to remember, people Doug was hoping would invest in their ministry. She had been puzzled when he had told her about this; usually, he left these sorts of things up to Jon. Jonathan Betts was his worship director and his best friend. This dinner was important to Doug. He had told her he wanted her to make sure that Maria, their cook, was in top form.

Audrey turned away from the mirror and grabbed a fleece from her closet to throw on over the tank top she had worn to bed. The plaid flannel pajama pants that Doug hated kept the chill away from her legs as she left the bedroom and headed down the hall to the kitchen. All was quiet. The kitchen was spotless, except for a lone coffee cup resting in the sink. Audrey went to the coffee brewer and made her own, adding a teaspoon of sugar substitute and a splash of the whipping cream that Doug also favored. After a brief stir, she raised the cup to her lips and sighed. How she loved that first sip.

She stood at the sink, looking out over the backyard, which had been expertly touched up just the week before. With the coming of spring, the velvety lawn sparkled with dew, and the flowering cherry trees were in full bloom. Pots of tulips were splashes of color, their reds, yellows, and purples creating a kaleidoscope to the eye.

Wrapping her hands around the warmth, she left the kitchen and continued through the open eating area, with its high ceilings and French doors leading out to the massive deck that spanned the width of the house. Cozy Adirondack chairs were grouped together with tufted, poplin-striped cushions in red and white, and a freestanding rock waterfall pumped a clear, trickling flow. The chairs faced west, with a beautiful view of Puget Sound and, in the distance, the Olympic Mountains, which still held a healthy amount of snow for May.

Audrey’s destination was her favorite chair in the corner, in front of perpendicular windows on the other side of the dining room. It was a cozy, red-and-white plaid cotton rocker—the lone remnant of her small apartment in Seattle. She sank down into it and grabbed the heavy cabled afghan to put over her legs. Setting the coffee cup on the side table, she grabbed Gran’s Bible, and before flipping it open, she suddenly held it close to her heart. She was filled with a longing so deep it brought tears to her eyes. She remembered Gran’s smell so well. It was a combination of violets and vanilla. If she closed her eyes, she could almost picture the woman who had rescued her from what would have been a terrible start to her life. Having the worn, dog-eared Bible helped her feel like Gran was still there; it was Audrey’s connection to a time that was good and sweet. Where nothing could or would hurt her. Where God was there, even if they didn’t have all the things everyone else had.

Audrey’s lovely face changed into an expression of something else, with a quick twist of her lips. It was ironic, really, she thought—not for the first time. From the bare necessities growing up, working her way through college, and starting out at a fledgling magazine to now. She was in a home she had never dreamed she would be living in and married to the biggest name in church evangelism; there was nothing she wanted for. She was nearly as popular as her husband, with her radiant smile and beautiful hazel eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, and natural peaches-and-cream skin. Her Bible studies had to be moved to the larger auditorium at Community Worship because there was such a demand. The book she and Doug had written the year before, on living with difficult circumstances, had been on the best-seller list for eighteen weeks. She took care to wear simple but classy clothes and to remember, as Doug frequently reminded her, that wherever she went, she reflected their ministry, with him as a pastor.

And where is God?

The words came suddenly—and not for the first time. She could barely hear the voice, but it was there. Anyone who heard that question would be astounded. God was there! God was in that amazing church building that sat a mere six hundred yards from their home, on a rise overlooking the house Doug and Audrey Simpson lived in. He was in the latest of electronic equipment that brought the Gospel to the masses, thousands in person and hundreds of thousands over the airwaves and through television, plus millions on You Tube and social media. God was in the five hundred acres of mountain property facing Mount Baker to the north that Community Worship just purchased to build a retreat getaway for those who needed it. That’s where God is, people would tell you.

Gran’s Bible fell open naturally to the Psalms, and this morning, Audrey’s eyes focused on the faded words on the worn pages: The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. She closed her eyes, but the words she read meant nothing to her, as if they had bounced off cold, hard stone.

Has my heart turned hard? she wondered. There was a time so long ago that God’s Word was the first place she had turned to. Even when she did, as was her habit each morning, the words became less like comfort and more like … work. That was it. More she had to do, more expectations, more that Doug wanted. More on her list.

I’m still here, came that voice.

I wish I could find you. She sighed, hugged the Bible to her again, and closed her eyes.

chapter 3

May, Present Day

I am a lucky man. Doug Simpson had this thought several times a day. On this early morning in May, even though it was barely eight o’clock, he sat behind his massive desk in the second-floor corner office of Community Worship, overlooking majestic Mount Rainier from one set of windows and the Puget Sound from the other set on the perpendicular wall. It was midspring, and the skies had the fresh, watercolor look from spring rain. He could see his house below, the sprawling, three thousand-square-foot palace that the church had built for him, and the emerald green, manicured lawns surrounding it were pristine. Yes, he was surrounded by beauty, not the least being leggy Sarah Carpenter who sat across from him, shapely legs crossed and her turquoise eyes on him. He had hired her as his personal assistant a few months back, and he had to admit that sometimes it was hard to keep his thoughts on the tasks at hand.

He cleared his throat and leaned back in the cinnamon-hued, soft Italian leather chair, idly clicking the pen in his hand. I’d like you to try to reach Winston George, he said, and Sarah bent her blonde head to the electronic tablet in her hand. "He’s the religion editor of the Tuscaloosa Times. He wasn’t very complimentary in his last column, according to some of our clients." Client was the term for those who regularly sent in cash, checks, and credit card information to his weekly broadcast. I’d like to talk to him. Find out why he is so hostile.

Sarah nodded. There is also a problem from the eleven o’clock service yesterday. Apparently, a woman became hysterical when she couldn’t get to the front of the sanctuary to talk to you. She said she had a message to you from God.

Doug Simpson twisted his lips. Regularly he had people wanting to tell him things from God, one of the by-products of a nationwide ministry. Usually his assistants, more like bodyguards, were there to keep them at bay. That should probably be a security issue, don’t you think? He didn’t like to deal with the mundane.

Right, Sarah said, bending her head. I thought you should know.

Who is picking up Thomas and Deidre Crenshaw from the airport? Doug asked. They are coming to our house for dinner.

I will do that, Sarah said.

Have Mace drive you, Doug instructed. Given that there are no delays, I’ll expect them by six. He rose, keeping his eyes averted from Sarah’s legs. "I think