She smiled prettily. “We are making a difference—by taking care of what God has given to us in our children.”
“That’s not what I mean, Eva.”
“I know.” She touched my arm. “I know.”
“I want a life of my own—heart, mind, and soul, who I really am. I want my life to be my own, and yet I also want it to be my family’s and God’s. I don’t know how to reconcile.”
She laughed. “You want to figure it all out at once, don’t you?”
“I do.”
She shook her head. “Not everything is about logic, but you know that—I’ve read your poetry.” She paused. “It’s about surrender, I think.” She shielded her eyes in the sun with a palm over her eyebrows, called out for one of her daughters. “Madeline?”
“We’re in the lake, Mommy,” Madeline called in return.
Eva grabbed my hand. “Come on, Joy. Let’s go have some fun.”
C. S. Lewis:
My saddest moment, you asked me? Of course it is obvious—my mother’s death when I was ten years old. She withered away with cancer and it is the defining dreadful moment of my life, all stable happiness gone. It was as if the continent of my life sank into the sea. And by the by, please call me Jack, which is the name all of my friends use.
Joy:
Yes, don’t our breaking points thereafter influence our life? Mine? Maybe there are too many to count, but if you must make me choose, it is the day I saw a young girl commit suicide. My senior year at Hunter College I was studying at my desk and looked out to see her fly like a bird from the top of a building across the spring green quad. When she landed, askew and bloody on the sidewalk, I knew I’d never be the same. When I discovered the cause was her poverty and hunger, I believe it was my first impetus toward communism—the unfairness of it all.
And yes, by the by, I am honored to be considered a friend, and Jack it is. Please call me Joy.
“What do you dream of when you dream of more than this, Joy?” Eva asked as we ambled down the hill.
“When I was very young, and for years afterward, I had the same dream over and over.”
“Tell me.” Eva stopped midstep and lifted her sunglasses.
“I’m walking down a road. It always begins in a familiar neighborhood, but as I continue, I round a corner onto a grassy path and suddenly I’m on unfamiliar ground. But still I walk and walk. I know I’m lost, but for some reason I’m not afraid. There are willow trees and oaks lining the walkway with high limbs that protect me. There are daffodils and tulips bright, just like my childhood parks. The grass is thick and emerald. It’s too lush and familiar for me to be afraid. I continue onward until the path opens.”
“And then what?” Eva was now interested.
“Doesn’t just that image of the path make you long for something wonderful? Like I’m about to tell you the best story you’ve ever heard? One that will satisfy your heart?”
She laughed. “Yes, it does. Go on.”
“The path opens into a woodland everlasting green with grand rocks and a forest floor full of small mushrooms and flowers,” I said. “It’s a place I call Fairyland. And when I arrive there, I feel that my heart is going to burst with happiness. Far off over the hill there is a castle, and its spires rise into the clouds. I’m not there yet, but I already know it’s a place where there is no hate, no heartbreak. Anything sad or terrible is only a lie. All is well. Peace reigns.”
“Do you ever make it there?” Eva asked. “In your dream?”
“No.” I shook my head, and the old disappointment that often filled me when I woke from that dream returned. “I always wake up before I arrive. All I can do is see it there.” I paused. “I told Jack this dream too.”
“Lewis? You told him that? I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
I laughed. “We haven’t even met, but yes. The amazing thing is that he has imagined the same place. He wrote of it in his Pilgrim’s Regress, this Fairyland. Well, he calls it ‘the Island,’ but it’s the description, the idea of a place where longing is fulfilled.”
“We all want to believe something perfect lies ahead. That’s heaven, Joy.”
“I know. But here’s the difference—I dreamt this when I didn’t believe in anything greater than what our eyes can see. It was Jack’s book that revealed to me what my dream truly meant.”
“Does his pilgrim ever reach the island?” she asked as if this were the most important thing to know, and maybe it was.
“Yes, he does.”
She exhaled as if in relief.
Jack:
You must become frustrated that I can’t answer all your questions, Joy. Your mind is as quick and lithe as any I’ve known. But sometimes I have no answer but his, which is “Just follow me.” Your marriage and your husband’s infidelity sound like horrors, but you also sound resolute to love.
Joy:
Yes, with the questions that won’t let me rest, it’s best to remember your answer. Again and again I will turn to that: “Follow me.”
Eva stopped as we crested the hill, spying Bill and Chad on a blanket with a picnic basket between them. All six children were at the lake’s edge, splashing and calling one to the other. Multihued wild flowers, thimbleweed and liverwort, aster and doll’s-eyes, bloomed in open-faced eagerness that made them seem desperate for attention.
“Look at this world,” I said. “It’s such a wonder, profoundly beautiful. I want to live in it that way—not as if life is one big chore.” I leaned over and picked a flower, held it to the sun.
“That’s a lovely thought. You, my friend, you are the most fascinating woman I know. I’m thrilled you’re here.” She hugged me with a tight squeeze before descending the hill to the men.
I stood still for a moment. The lake rippled with our children’s splashing and swimming. Bill and Chad cast a handsome scene, leaning back on the blanket and laughing.
It was two lives I lived: the one right there, the sun extending its warmth toward us, the children calling with happiness, the cry of songbirds in the canopy of oak trees overhead, the splash of lake water. Then there was the second, parallel life: the one where my mind was preoccupied with how to describe this time and feeling to Jack. What would I take of this day to share with him? I was living a life with him in my mind while externally picnicking with my family. It was both disorienting and balancing.
I walked carefully down and reached the blanket where Eva sat, her face lifted to the sun, laughing so freely. I was envious. There she was, happy with her husband and four girls.
Chad, his dark hair plastered against his round and eager face, smiled at me. “Welcome, ladies.” Mosquito bites welled on his freckled arms and he scratched absently.
Eva turned to him, and he leaned down to kiss her lips. “What are you boys doing down here?”
Bill sat up. “Poogle!” he cried in a joyous voice that suggested I had just arrived from far off. He too leaned over, kissed me with the sweet taste of Chianti on his lips, and palmed my cheek gently. “Aren’t you glad we came?” He turned back to Chad. “How can we ever thank you?” Exuberant, he was up and off to run into the lake with the children. He swooped Davy over his head and ran into the water with him to squeals of delight.