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Lindsay Ryder

Mary

The feeling always hit her in the most inconvenient of places. Most often it occurred on campus where she was trying to earn a degree, to make a better life for herself. Something small would set her off – something silly such as remembering an assignment she still had to do or realizing she had forgotten money for lunch, small things that brought a terrible despair to the surface once more. Today, it hit her worse than it had in a long time.

The classroom she was in was one they call a “smart” room with a projector hung from the ceiling and a computer station for the professor. A white screen had been pulled down in front of the dry-erase board at the front of the room. The screen read, “An Introduction to Chemicals of the Brain,” in tall black lettering. Other students began to file in with their bags in tow, each one looking especially thrilled to be in class. Mary took out her notebook and dated the page. She began copying from the screen. Taking notes in class had been the one piece of advice from her counselor that she had trusted.

The big clock on the wall clicked loudly to read 10:30, and the professor cleared his throat. He talked at length about chemicals of the brain, or “neurotransmitters.” Every couple of minutes he would flip to another slide packed full of information. There was a noticeable sound of pens scratching paper, and Mary’s was no exception. She was a slow writer, and this professor irritated her with his slide-flipping habits. Without warning, tears began to fill Mary’s eyes as she wrote frantically and tried to pay attention. She held them back as best she could, not wanting to miss a class for the fear that she would miss something or worse, lose points.

Through the endless scratching, she heard the professor say, “An imbalance of this chemical can cause depression.” And then she couldn’t hold herself back any longer. The tears now flowed freely down her cheeks as she listened. That was the reason the doctors had given for her mother’s sudden fall from grace and her unexpected depression. It was one of those “chemical imbalances” that was so easy to blame. Mary couldn’t make herself listen to this garbage any longer. She grabbed up her bag and scrambled out the door, leaving classmates to stare at her empty chair, wondering.

The memories were coming back to her now. Mary found it hard to see as she fumbled down the hall. At last she found the door, bursting outside into the biting cold of January. It was snowing mildly, and the wind blew her damp hair across her face. She cried out loudly as the memories came flooding back to her again. Images flashed across her mind, a church, a service, and her grandfather whom she had never before seen cry. The agony of the memories hit her like a blow, sending her to her knees on the frozen earth.

A voice came to her: “Mary, you know she loved you very much. Your mom didn’t do this to hurt you. You must see that!” Her step-father had said that, but he hadn’t been there when they had the fight. It had been over something stupid, or at least Mary thought so. Apparently, her mother felt otherwise. Why else would she have done such a horrible thing? Mary remembered coming home that fateful day to a deathly quiet house. There was no way to forget how it had felt to find her own mother, her best friend, lying in a pool of her own blood with knife in hand. She had left no note, no answers. It seemed to Mary that God had abandoned her mother. Since that day, she had been suffering with a terrible pain that would not let her go, and God seemed not to care overmuch for her either.

It wasn’t long before Mary began to feel the cold through her jeans. The ice-covered ground had begun to make her knees ache, and she welcomed the feeling of it. The tears that were still coming began to freeze as they spilled down her face. The pain that the cold was bringing was almost like redemption. Her flesh offered up in sacrifice to a terrible God who only seemed to take away. At least it was proof that she could feel something other than the pain of her mother’s unspeakable death.

Just then, Mary realized that there was a presence at her shoulder. Her back was toward him, her hair was in her face, and at first she wasn’t sure who it was. He placed a surprisingly warm hand on her shoulder to support her. With frozen fingers, Mary reached up and pulled matted and frozen blonde hair from her face. Slowly she turned, wanting to know what passing stranger dared to interrupt her suffering.

It was a young man, and instantly she remembered him. He was the one that had many of the same classes and had always been kind to her. His name was Zach. His hair was a soft brown, cut short. His eyes were a deep-sea green that Mary thought she might lose herself in, given the chance. He was wearing blue jeans and a black shirt and jacket. A silver cross on a matching chain hung loosely about his neck.

As she turned to look at him, she couldn’t help but notice the concern in his eyes. It was almost too much for her to hope that another human being had any genuine care for her anymore. He extended his other hand, offering strength as she stood, though Mary wasn’t quite sure why she was accepting his help. Without a word, Zach picked up her bag and led her back to the building. The warmth inside surprised her a little, and her knees and cheeks began to tingle as they thawed. Zach led her to the quiet staircase near the door, sitting on the bottom step and setting down her bag. He looked at her, his deep green eyes searching her features.

After what seemed like a terribly long time to Mary, he spoke. “I know what happened to you. My father…” He paused. Zach’s eyes became watery and far off, and he brought his clenched fist to his face. “My father did the same thing.”

It was enough. In two sentences, Mary understood him entirely. Something inside her finally snapped, relinquishing its grip on her soul. For a moment Mary and Zach simply looked at each other, revealing more than words could have said. Mary felt her arms rise up and around Zach’s neck, and he returned the gesture whole-heartedly. Mary knew in that moment, even in the very depths of her soul, that God had not abandoned her after all.