Page 95 of It's Always Been You
My eyes lift heavenward.God, why am I like this? Why did You make me this way? Why can’t I just . . . be normal?
My inner arms itch as I think about how easy it would be to go home, lock myself in the bathroom, and slip back into the comforting embrace of old habits. But I’ve grown weary of harming myself. Because Brandon was right. Taking a blade to my skin is just another way to numb the pain—the same thing as pushing people away. It’s just another way of avoiding big emotions when the going gets tough and it feels like I can’t stomach what’s on my plate.
Something’s got to give. I can’t continue like this.
“Except I’ve been journaling for years,” I say out loud, like God is walking beside me. “It doesn’t help. What else can I do? What elseisthere?” I snort. “I guess I could see a shrink.”
Come to me, you who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your soul . ..
I pause in the middle of the sidewalk. The rain picks up suddenly, slashing against my cheeks as I lift my face to the overcast sky. Did I just—? Was that me, recalling that verse? Or did He just . . . respond to my prayer?
And if He did, what’s He saying? That I should . . . come to Him?
“How do I do that?” To an outsider, I must look like an absolute lunatic, speaking to the air like this. “What does ‘casting my burdens on You’ even mean?”
After what feels like an eternity but is only a moment in reality, I decide it was just a fluke. He wasn’t speaking to me. That was just wishful thinking.
By the time I make it into the house, my clothes are soaked through. Peeling my coat from my shoulders, I kick my boots off and head into the kitchen to wring my hair out in the sink. A warm shower and a hot beverage will fix this. Once I’m dry and cozy, I will text Brandon a very long-winded, heartfelt apology.
He deserves one.
I cringe as I think about how I shoved him. Raised my voice. Acted like a total lunatic . . .
Plink. Plink. Plink.The house is silent as the moisture from my hair drips into the sink. The only other noise is the steady ticking of the cuckoo clock in the hallway. Grabbing a fresh tea towel from the cabinet, I wrap my hair, then fill the electric kettle and switch it on.
While I wait for the water to boil, I poke my head into the living room, curious about what Grandma is up to, but the room is dark and empty. Confused, and a little weirded out, I pad down the hall, assuming she’s just taking a cat nap. I poke my head into her bedroom to check up on her, then pause and frown, baffled.
Her neatly made bed sits empty.
Dread fills my stomach, weighing me down as I head back to the kitchen. “Grandma? Hello?” Rushing to the window above the breakfast nook, I push the curtain aside to make sure her car is still sitting in the driveway.
It is.
What in the world? Where is she?
Frantic now, I hurry back down the hall, toward the stairs. “Grandma?” I cry, fighting the inclination to panic. She’s probably just downstairs. And she’s probably fine. Probably.
The door to the basement is ajar. The light above the stairs is on. Warily, I push the door open and begin my descent down the steps—then pause. A strangled scream escapes my throat when I spot her. She’s curled up at the bottom of the steps. “Grandma!” She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even move. I almost trip down the steps, heart hammering in my throat. “No, no, no, no.No!”
I miss the last step, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m already crumbling to my knees beside her. “Grandma! Please, God, no, no, no.” I gently touch her shoulder, and she moans. She’s pale as a sheet, and her leg is bent at an unnatural angle.I search for other signs of injury while I feel around my body.
My phone. Where is it?
“Evie,” she croaks. “Thank God you’re here . . .” She shifts and cries out in pain, and I gasp in terror.
“Don’t move,” I order as I rise from the floor. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” I repeat like a mantra, trying to soothe us both. I whirl around, trying to think straight. “I-I need—” My throat tightens, and I struggle to rake in a breath, clawing at my skin when I realize I can’t breathe.I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe. God, help me.I’m so close to a panic attack. I can feel it coming on, but I need to keep my head on straight.
Relax, Evie. Think. Think!
“My phone!” I cry, attempting to snap myself out of it as my chest heaves up and down. “Get your phone,” I gasp, coaching myself through the rising flood of panic. “Go upstairs. Find your phone. And call an ambulance!”
I take the stairs two at a time, scrambling for a moment before I find my bag in the entryway. The sudden realization that my phone is still missing makes my blood run cold. My throat tightens up again, and I see stars in the corners of my vision as despair grips my heart. I've already searched my bag for it, and I know it's not in there.Lord, please! Please, please, please let me be wrong. . .
Check the front pocket.
Warmth thaws my frozen veins when I remember that I slipped my phone into the front pocket of my purse this morning as I rushed out the door—not theside pocket where I usually put it. My hand is shaking so hard that I almost drop the phone when I pull it out.Thank you, Jesus.Somehow, I manage to dial the numbers 9-1-1.
As I rush back down the steps, the dispatcher tells me everything I already know in a calm, unhurried tone—don’t move her. Make sure she’s comfortable. An ambulance is en route. It won’t be long now. The paramedics will be with us shortly.
