Chapter 4: The Simple Truth

The air in Arcadia and the air around God's house felt like they belonged to two distinctly different atmospheres. In Arcadia it was early fall: leaves were beginning to change color, temperatures rose during the day then fell at night, and the city air was full of smog. It was the change of seasons. But in the world that lay beyond Joan's world, it was always spring. The grass was always green; there were temperate spring breezes during the day and cool, refreshing winds from the lake at night. The air was clear. Flowers of many different colors dotted the landscape far beyond where the house sat nestled amongst the trees. It was paradise, the perfect get-away.

Joan loved all of this simple beauty compared to the gaudiness of her actual home; however, there was one room in the house that she favored above the rest, and that was the sunset room. It only stood a few doors down from her own bedroom and that second evening in the house she decided to have a look at it.

She expects to walk into a huge room with wooden floors surrounded by glass panels to let the light in; instead, she finds a nice, still rather large room with deep purple carpet, a sofa and loveseat set, a coffee table decked out with a porcelain tea set and sterling silver utensils, a dinette set and a chez lounge, along with several filled bookcases. Just like the rest of the house, this room smells like flowers. Joan concludes that it must be one of God's favorite smells.

She takes her shoes off outside the door then steps in quietly, hoping not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. Slowly, she walks the entire area of the room, examining each knick-knack and piece of furniture as if it were a rare jewel and, feeling satisfied, she sits down in the loveseat facing the lake. Thinking back, today should have been the second worst day of her life – Kevin's accident ranked as the first – especially considering the whole Bonnie and Adam thing, but it hadn't been. Maybe that was why God wanted to go with her: he knew what was going to happen and he wanted to be there for her.

As the sun began to set, the lake's surface turned from a pure blue to orange, to red, and finally to indigo as the moon took sun's place in the sky. Joan sits there for hours watching the change, not really thinking about anything, but enjoying herself nonetheless. It was so easy to relax in that room. Joan couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so well rested. It had been a while, that was for sure, because of all this Adam drama. But that wasn't important right now; the room was warm and the lake was so pretty... she curls up on the cushion and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, Adam is fuming in the garage. He'd tried to alleviate his anger by sitting quiet for half an hour but that hadn't helped at all. As he sat there he kept getting images in his mind: Joan getting on the bus to go to school, working at the bookstore, closing the bookstore and heading home... Joan, whom he loved still, running into Greg's arms with a smile on her face, hugging him, kissing him... it was too much to handle.

Adam had been seriously pissed off when Bonnie had approached him after Mrs. Girardi's art class.

"I told her," she'd said. Adam had stared at her, hoping she didn't mean what he thought she meant. "You told who...what," he replied.

"Joan," Bonnie said. "I told her about our baby."

Adam stood there, stunned. He blinked and tried to get the rest of his body to follow suit. Instead all that moved was his mouth. "Bonnie..." he sighed, "How could you?" She'd stared at him then; glared at him, really, as if she knew she owned a part of him that was weak and she liked it. She smiled... if an evil smirk can be called a smile. "I just thought it'd be for the best," she said and walked away.

He couldn't shake that look from his face. That smile... it sent a chill of fright down his spine. Recalling it to memory took nothing but when it surfaced, he panicked. And he knew that Bonnie was right: whether he wanted her to or not, she did own him. She'd slept with him; she was going to have his baby. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. I wish I'd waited for Jane. I shouldn't have wanted it so badly... it was too late to change now; the ripples were already in motion. Oh god...

God sets Joan on her own bed and, after a few minutes, decides to crawl in next to her. The blankets are cozy and warm in the cool room. Joan is warm, too. It's been thousands of years since I've been this close to a human. He was still Greg in appearance; he'd considered changing but decided against it because he wanted to see Joan's reaction when she woke up. Maybe he'd join her; maybe he'd rest. He snuggles down in the blankets and closes his eyes, constantly alert, yet resting.

When she wakes up not much time had passed; the moon is higher in the sky than it had been, and it was darker. Joan realizes two more things: the first is that she's back in her room, in her bed under the covers. The second: someone is lying next to her. She doesn't have to look to know who it is. She turns over and snuggles close enough to feel his breath against her forehead.

"I thought God didn't sleep," she says in a hushed voice. She watches him stir.

"Well technically," he says, "I'm not sleeping; I'm resting. I don't need to sleep." Joan opens her mouth to ask why and God covers it with his hand. "Don't," he says. "I don't need to sleep," he says, repeating each word distinctly. He stretches. "But you do. I'll leave." He starts to throw the covers back on his side when Joan tugs on his pajama top.

"Don't leave," she breathes, curling up next to him again. "I don't want to be alone."

God hasn't moved yet. What would the safest course of action be right now? He looks at her; she isn't lusting, just tired and in need of a friend. She isn't used to being in a house with just herself and another person: Joan needs a companion, especially considering all that she'd been through in the last five days. Still, if he could get away... "You're not alone," he tells her.

"I know that," she says, "but...please..." She yawns. "Stay with me, just for tonight."

He looks at her not wanting to leave. He knew that what Joan was feeling was the most innocent form of love, like a lost child longing for her mother. Taking that into mind he complies, paying attention to her breathing as she falls into a deep sleep. He brushes a loose strand of hair from her face. "My Joan," he whispers. "You don't have a clue..." He places an arm around her, holding her close, waiting for the sun to rise.

Meanwhile, Grace Polk is having a hard time sleeping. She tosses and turns for two hours before finally sitting up and throwing the covers off. Something just wasn't right about...everything. She steps into her slippers and pads downstairs into the kitchen. The last two days had thrown her for a loop; first Joan gets dragged off by some stalker after school and everyone's in a panic, and the next day she shows up on some creep's arm like nothing happened. Was she delusional; had she imagined it? No, and no,. If anyone's lost it, it's Girardi. Who sees people that obviously aren't there? She pulls out a bottle of root beer and pops the cap off; chugs it, wipes her mouth and leans against the counter. She would never admit her real reason for worrying, and it wasn't Luke. It was Joan.

Unbeknownst to anyone but herself, Grace was actually fond of Joan. It was fun to have a normal girl friend that didn't obsess about boys and makeup and dating... instead Joan obsessed about benevolence and morals and human behavior and, as of late, religion; specifically God. Now, everything was God this and God that, God, God, God. It was annoying as crap... but secretly, Grace was starting to get interested. What does God think about? Does he have friends? Is he mean, kind, righteous, just, fair, wrathful, what? Does he really make bad things happen? Can he do that if he really is a good, loving God like the Christians and Catholics and Jews say he is?

Grace wonders about all of this in her heart.

And will never speak a word about it to another soul.

Joan is outside in her pajamas. The moon and stars glitter in the night sky; the air is fresh and cool; a pleasant wind caresses her cheeks and ruffles her hair. Water laps at her slippers. She looks down; she's standing on a lake. Her shoes are sopping wet so she takes them off, wrings them out and flings them back to shore. She turns around to see God in his corduroy jacket, sitting crossed-legged on a big lily pad. He pats the spot next to him. "Come have a seat, Joan." He smiles. Joan crosses the surface like she would a 6 foot tall balance beam, hoping that she won't sink and drown; knowing that if she does God will catch her. She makes it to the lily pad and sits next to him. He points at the surface.

"There are tadpoles in this lake." He leans back on his hands. "I love those little things." Joan looks at the dark, smooth surface. Suddenly Joan can see beneath the water. There had to be millions and millions of tadpoles swimming around down there. Joan frowns. "What makes them so appealing," she asks.

"They trust me," he replies. "They believe me when I tell them that one day they'll walk on land. They don't bicker and gripe about it if it takes too long. Instead, they wait for their legs to grow out, and when they do they leave the water in a frolic, grateful for what I've done. I'm also pretty fond of flowers."

"Really."

"Yeah; haven't you ever heard? "'Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I say to you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'" He looks at her and smiles. "'If then God so clothes the grass which today is in the field and tomorrow is thrown into the oven... how much more you, O you of little faith?'"

"Flowers...have faith?"

"No, they don't have that kind of capacity for free will. They simply know."

"So for people...faith is only half of the equation; it won't work unless we...what?"

God chuckles. "Joan, faith without works is dead. That's true, but here's what most people miss: you don't really have faith unless you believe in your heart that I am who I say I am: good, kind, benevolent, just, and above all else, loving."

Joan thinks about that for a few seconds. "If you love us so much," she says, "why'd you give us free will? We'd all be like, Christian robots or something, serving you. You'd like that, right?"

God stares at her, not angry but temperate. "Does that sound like love to you, Joan?" She gets quiet. "Would you really enjoy being a robot?" His face is stern and wise; older comes to mind. Joan shudders. This is almost as bad as seeing him upset.

"I'm a father," he says, "not a dictator. I gave you free will so that you could choose to love me; that's how it works. I'm a gentleman: I don't force myself on you because I love you. I give you evidence that I'm around; you just don't pay attention. You see, I'm not so desperate for relationship to use force to get it. I reveal myself bit by bit until you decide to come to me. That's how I work." He turns his focus to the lake. "Without free will you wouldn't have real relationships, with other people or with me. You wouldn't have the ability to love. You would exist only for my entertainment and that's not what I want.

"I long for every individual human to love me, to accept the fact that I died for them, rose again three days later and sat at my father's right hand and waited like I wait now for all men to be drawn to me. I endured pain you could never imagine in a million years. I did it all for you..." A tear rolls down his cheek. "I did it for you, Joan... because I love you." He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead.

The image melts away and Joan wakes up, still in bed.

Her feet are wet.