The Fireplace, Installment Six

Jon followed a subtle distance behind, waiting until Mary had turned the corner at the top of the stairs before making his inconspicuous ascent. Blessed with an ever-curious nature—as well as a caring heart, he had to know what was bothering his sister. But he wasn’t sure she wanted him to know.
The picture had also reminded Mary of that night, and once she stepped into the room, she knew she’d relive it. Stepping across the threshold, she paused, seeing it all as if it was happening on a screen before her eyes.

§

Mary was nearly eighteen and had wanted to go to a party. She’d never been to the hostess’s house before, and her parents had never met the girl’s family. They just knew that there was something that didn’t feel right about it. They told her no.

Mary was livid, ranting that they didn’t trust her—didn’t recognize that she was almost an adult.
She had followed her mom to her bedroom. Margaret was the easy target because she was the one who had actually broken the news to Mary, before Ted got home. “I’m not a child anymore! I can make my own decisions!” she yelled through irrational tears.

“Honey, if your dad and I felt this would be a good party for you to attend, we would have no objection,” her mother explained, folding clothes as she spoke. “But I’ve talked to several parents who feel the same way. Charlotte has a reputation for throwing wild parties…when her parents are out of town.”

“That’s not true! Her parents will be there!”

“Well, I haven’t been able to get hold of them, so I have no way of knowing if that’s true or not. I don’t know this girl—only her reputation—and I just don’t know whether she can be trusted or not. I mean, if she’s had other parties behind her parents’ backs, what’s to say she won’t do it again?”

And that’s when Mary said something she thought she’d never say. “I can’t stand you, Mom. You just want this perfect life, with perfect people, who never do anything wrong. And you think I’m going to do something wrong too just because others do. It’s just not fair, and I don’t need you in my life—I can figure it out on my own!”

As soon as she’d spoken the words, Mary knew she’d crossed a line. In her heart she had regretted it always. Shortly after uttering the words, Mary had collapsed, fainting from the weakness that had begun to plague her body. The illness was still unknown at this point, and though she was taken to the hospital, Mary was only diagnosed with dehydration and fatigue. Well, she was a very busy senior who pushed herself hard for good grades, so fatigue was kind of non-negotiable.

What Mary regretted now, looking back on the event, was that she’d never actually apologized for the things she said to her mother. She had collapsed and been taken to the ER—after that, she had sort of put the event out of her mind. Her mother seemed to handle her with kid gloves for a while and give her more space. Mary had been grateful for the space but never for the division that caused it. And for years now she’d been too ashamed to tell her mother just how sorry she was.

§

Jon stood at a distance from their parents’ room, trying to pick up on any clues in Mary’s mannerisms. Though he couldn’t hear her, she was quietly reading aloud her clue: This is where the masters sleep. And in this spot, true treasures keep. Treasures…what would her mother consider treasures?

And then it dawned on her—as a little girl, whenever Mary wanted to crumple up a picture she’d drawn or a poem she’d written because it wasn’t quite good enough, Margaret would always take it gently and ask if she could keep it, stating, “I treasure all the things you do—because I treasure YOU.” Secretly, it was one of Mary’s favorite things to hear, so at times she’d “pretend” to not like her own creations, knowing that Margaret would bolster her confidence and sense of complete acceptance with these predictable yet powerful words.

Mary went directly to the left side of the bed, kneeling where her mother had knelt for years to pray—underneath the bed, directly in front of the small carpet Margaret used to cushion her knees a bit was a brown leather box with buckled clasps on the front. Mary slid it carefully out from under the bed and began to undo the buckles.

Jon moved a bit closer down the hall, noting that Mary seemed completely focused on what she was doing. As she opened the box, a folded piece of paper caught her eye. She opened it gingerly, as it looked like it had been opened and closed hundreds of times. On it was a picture Mary had drawn as a young girl—of herself standing on top of a stage—she was dressed in a princess dress but there were small bumps representing muscles showing just under the sleeves. The caption, in Mary’s youthful handwriting, read “Mary is a strong girl.” Above her image was a plaque, also drawn by Mary, with a tiny inscription: “Incredibly Strong Girl Award.”

Jon now stood in the doorway, though Mary hadn’t noticed his presence. At the very bottom of the picture a Scripture passage had been written, in her mother’s unmistakable softly-looped cursive: Psalm 18 – “For who is God besides the LORD? And who is the Rock except our God? It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You give me your shield of victory, and your right hand sustains me; you stoop down to make me great. You broaden the path beneath me, so that my ankles do not turn. I pursued my enemies and overtook them; I did not turn back till they were destroyed. I crushed them so that they could not rise; they fell beneath my feet. You armed me with strength for battle; you made my adversaries bow at my feet.” 

Only, in most places where the pronoun “my” was used in the original, Margaret had substituted “Mary’s” and where it said “me” she had changed it to “Mary” or “her.” “I” had also been changed to refer to Mary. Tears streamed down her face as she became aware of the many nights her mother had spent no doubt declaring these verses in relentless faith—pleading actively for her daughter’s life—that this would be the case for Mary. A broadened path, complete strength, victory! And it had ultimately happened. 

She began to weep, in part from the guilt over how she’d spoken to her mother without ever making it right; in part from recalled despair of her illness (when she believed she truly was dying); and in part out of thanksgiving that God had spared her life. 

Jon rushed to her side, no longer able to keep his presence hidden. “Oh, sis,” he said, kneeling and embracing her in one swift compulsion of sympathetic brotherly love. She leaned on him for a time, glad for his understanding presence. 

After her crying had subsided, Mary lifted her head. She felt her brother needed some explanation as to what had just occurred. “I found this.” She slowly lifted the worn paper and handed it to Jon ever so carefully, as if it could fall apart at the slightest jostle. 

He laughed quietly at the picture, but once he read the verses, his eyes met Mary’s in unspoken comprehension of the significance of this item. Handing it back to her, he sweetly brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her forehead. “I’m so glad you are here.” 

Mary knew that he didn’t mean here for Christmas but here as in, alive. Jon helped her to her feet and she looked around awkwardly. “What is it?”

“Well, I never did find my next clue.”

“Um, I kinda think you did. Did you notice that the part that was highlighted?” Quickly Mary looked again in the box. “That means there’s cotton stuffing in here somewhere.” Sure enough. There was a wad of the sock-filler underneath the next few pieces of paper. Mary victoriously stuffed it into her sock. 

Opening the aged paper once again, Mary noted that there was indeed a highlighted section—You broaden the path beneath Mary so that her ankles do not turn. They stared at each other, wheels turning—then in unison got the message—“The path!” Rushing down the stairs, they began to laugh like school kids, practically falling over each other in their enthusiasm to get to the back door. Jon reached it first but in a spontaneous gentlemanly gesture opened it for Mary. She rushed out onto the short cobblestone path that led to her mother’s treasured garden area. There sticking out of a flowerpot was the final “ticket.” Grabbing the pink piece of paper, Mary read aloud so Jon could share in the moment: “You made it! What a blessing!”

“I made it,” she smiled, and as her eyes met Jon’s they both knew she wasn’t referring to finding the final clue.