Prodigal Daughter

Tears stung Melissa’s eyes. “I thought he loved me. I wanted…oh, I don’t know what I wanted. Maybe to be someone other than Melissa Hamilton.

“At first Dean seemed genuinely happy about the baby. It wasn’t until he started talking about how much money my ‘old man’ would shell out for his grandkid that I started to see Dean for what he was. Someone who wanted me only because I was Wallace Hamilton’s daughter. Dean didn’t have stars in his eyes when he looked at me, he had dollar signs.”

“I’m so sorry. It must have been awful.”

“Once I convinced him that my stern, Southern father wasn’t going to give his pregnant, runaway daughter a dime, Dean couldn’t leave fast enough.”

She didn’t tell her sister about the way Dean had thrown a wad of money at her and told her to “Get rid of it.” She didn’t mention how she spent the money paying for another week in the same motel, or about the days and nights she had waited in that dingy place hoping Dean would change his mind and come back for her. Even now, she shuddered to recall the fear and loneliness that kept her pinned in that small room with the snowy TV, peeling, faded purple wallpaper and black mildew climbing the tiles around the chipped bathtub.

After a week, she accepted the fact that he was gone for good. There had been nothing left to do but pack her few belongings and board a bus.

Amy took Melissa’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m glad you came home.”

Melissa nodded, too choked by emotion to speak.

Amy rose from the sofa. “Why don’t I fix us a cup of tea?”

Without waiting for a reply, she moved to the kitchen and Melissa had a few minutes to compose herself. She was so much more emotional of late. One minute she was fine and the next she found herself crying a river. It had to be the pregnancy. She certainly didn’t intend to shed one more tear over Dean.

Leaning her head back on the sofa, Melissa closed her eyes. She was so tired. Her nerves had been strung tighter than fiddle strings all day. She needn’t have worried. Her big sister was happy to see her in spite of the trouble she brought. Maybe being home wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Melissa opened her eyes and wondered where she was. Pushing her hair out of her face, she struggled to sit up. Both her neck and her back protested the change in position. The afghan covering her slid to the floor and she remembered she was at her sister’s condo.

The living room was dark except for a single lamp glowing softly on the cherrywood desk in the corner of the room. She squinted at the clock on the wall. It said six-thirty.

The darkness beyond the window had to mean it was six-thirty in the morning. Had she really slept away half the day and all of the night?

Rising, she stretched away her aches, then wiggled her toes and wondered where Amy had stashed her shoes. Looking around, she saw them peeking from under the Monet-styled throw her sister had used to cover her. She folded the blanket, donned her clogs and headed for the kitchen. Now, she was definitely hungry.

A quick survey of the fridge netted her cream cheese and blueberry bagels. She popped the bagels in the toaster, set the kettle on to boil and happily discovered her favorite brand of tea bags in the cupboard beside the sink. She inhaled their pungent fragrance and was instantly struck by memories of herself, her sisters and her mother all enjoying morning tea on the terrace at home.

“You’re up early.” Amy stood in the kitchen door. Her normally immaculate hair had run amok in the night and the pink terry cloth bathrobe over her pajamas had seen better days.

Melissa felt a stab of guilt. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I have to go into the office early today. How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think. I couldn’t believe I was so tired, but I’m as hungry as a horse.”

“I’d offer to make breakfast, but I see you’ve helped yourself. Will you fix me a cup of tea while you’re at it?”

“I was just thinking about how we used to join Mom on the terrace for tea in the mornings. Dad would be bellowing from inside the house, ‘Nora, where’s my briefcase?’ Mom would smile and say, ‘It’s on the hall table. Right where you left it, Wallace.’ Then he would come out and give us all a kiss before he left for the office and tell us how pretty we were, but you knew he was really telling Mom how pretty she was.”

Amy slipped her arm around Melissa’s shoulders. “There will be plenty of good times with Mom and Dad again.”

“I hope so.”

“Have faith. I don’t believe the Lord is ready to take our dad. I think He has other plans for him.”

“I wish I shared your belief, but I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Is that because of Jennifer?”

Jennifer Wilson had been Melissa’s best friend since kindergarten. She had been witty and funny—always laughing and often getting them both into trouble. Then, the year Jenny turned sixteen, she died of cancer, and Melissa had been by her side.

Melissa nodded, the ache of grief suddenly sharper than it had been in a long time. “God doesn’t care how good someone is or how hard you pray. Dead is dead.”

“Oh, honey. You are so wrong about that. We can’t know what God has planned for any of us, but He loves us. And dead isn’t dead. Death is simply crossing over to a better place where we get to meet Jesus face-to-face.”

Melissa used the whistling kettle as an excuse to end the conversation. “Looks like the water is ready. Do you want cream or sugar in your tea?”

Amy hesitated, but seemed to understand that Melissa wanted to change the subject. “A little cream.”

The conversation lagged until the women were seated at the table. Melissa finished half her bagel before Amy spoke again.

“What are your plans, Melissa?”

“I plan to finish the rest of my breakfast.”

“I’m serious.”

“The funny part is, so am I. I can’t think beyond the next fifteen minutes, let alone make plans for my future.”

“You have someone else’s future to think about.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m not mother material. I mean, look at me! I can’t take care of myself. I’m a college dropout. I’ve always lived at home. I’ve never had to take care of anyone. I don’t even have a job.” Melissa’s bagel suddenly lost its appeal. She laid it on her plate, then picked up her spoon and stirred the contents of her cup.

“You have a job.”

She glanced at Amy and raised one eyebrow. “I do?”

“Dad wouldn’t let Tim fill your position at the paper. Instead, he placed you on indefinite leave. You still have a job—one with benefits, like health insurance, which will come in very handy.”

“Do you see what I mean? I never even thought about insurance.”

Amy reached across the table and laid a hand on Melissa’s arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve had a lot on your mind. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

“I wish none of this had happened. I wish Dad wasn’t sick and I wish I’d never met Dean, or run off with him. I wish I could erase the past six months and go back to being a bored copy aide at the Dispatch, answering phones and compiling paperwork for the editors.”

“Oh, Melissa.”

“It’s not possible. I know, but I wish it were.”

“It’s going to be hard, but you have to start looking ahead.”

Melissa remembered Richard’s advice and nodded. “I need to take things one small step at a time.”

“That’s right.” Amy smiled and took a sip of her tea.