Devoted (28 page)

Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's.

We had always been told we were children of God and not of the government, so the government should have no business raising us.

But still I opened the car door, got out, and headed inside, my father's words leaving me as quickly as they'd come, slipping through my mind like water through my fingers.

“I'm trying to remember the last time we had a student enroll herself,” Mrs. Murphy said to Mrs. Sweeney after I explained my situation.

“It's been ages,” Mrs. Sweeney said to Mrs. Murphy, popping open a can of Diet Dr Pepper. “Mostly they're trying to figure out how to get out of school, not get into it.” She winks at me.

“I'm impressed with you,” Mrs. Murphy added, pointing at me for emphasis, her neon-pink fingernails impossible to miss.

“So am I,” said Mrs. Sweeney.

“Thank you,” I said. I waited to feel myself blush, but I didn't. I was impressed with me, too, but the complicated process of simply enrolling reminded me once more how big and unknowable and strange this school experiment was going to be for me.

But by the time I've gone to the grocery store and made it back home, I'm also tired. I fish through my purse and find my keys, finally pushing open the front door with my hip and setting everything down before my arms fall off. The mail's here by now, but I'll have to make a second trip for that.

When I do, I briefly imagine a soft, pastel-colored envelope waiting for me—a birthday card from my parents or maybe from Ruth. But I know that's impossible, and I know that no matter how impossible it is, I still wish the impossibility of it didn't sting so much. I fight off the feelings of sadness, and when I make it to the mailboxes at the bottom of the stairs, I see ours is so full the mailman couldn't close it. Struggling, I pull out a stack of envelopes that look like bills or junk, and then I see what's been taking up the space. A thick, worn paperback novel with a white envelope slipped inside.

The book is called
The Hobbit
, and on the outside of the white envelope it says
Rachel
in a tiny, barely readable print. Next to my name are scribbled the words
Hey, I tried to stop by but you weren't here so here you go—Mark

I immediately dump all the junk mail and the bills on the grass by my feet and rip open the envelope—but carefully, so I don't destroy the note on the outside.

The card inside the envelope has a picture of a dog on it wearing a funny hat and sunglasses. It says
Hope You Have a Doggone Happy Birthday!

Inside Mark has printed—more neatly this time, in black ballpoint pen.

Rachel,

Hey, just wanted to give you a book I thought you might like. There's books by the same guy that come after too so if you like it tell me and I'll loan you the other ones. And if you end up at school let me know and I can give you some tips. Like don't take Taylor for U.S. Government. I'm serious. Okay, hope this is a happy birthday for you. And by happy I mean stupendous, amazing, ecstatic, thrilling, epic, and dynamic.

Later,
Mark

PS I win this round.

I read the card over and over, and I keep rereading it as I gather the mail on the ground and head up the stairs and bump a shoulder hard into the doorframe as I head into the apartment. But it doesn't hurt.

When I've read the card at least twenty times, I tuck it into my purse. I'll show it to Lauren eventually, but for right now, I want to keep it just for me. I examine
The Hobbit
—its cover has been taped back on more than once—and I run my fingers down the creased spine. It feels like a really good book.

By the time Lauren gets home for lunch, I'm thirty pages in and I already know I'll be asking Mark for whatever comes after.

“Hey, birthday lady,” Lauren says, heading for the kitchen. “Man, I'm starving.”

“So,” I mention, trying to keep my voice casual, “I enrolled in school today.”

“You did?” Lauren responds, stepping out from the kitchen.

“I really did,” I say.

“Wow,” Lauren answers, and she pulls me in for a hug. When she lets go, she puts her hands on her hips and grins. “Look at you,” she says. “I'm making us lunch and we can talk about it.”

When we sit down at the table to eat, Lauren starts asking me questions like how will I know what courses to take and when is the first day, each one coming on the heels of the next. I know she's curious as well as worried about me taking on such a big change, but her questions start to feel suffocating somehow. Suddenly, without any notice, all the excitement from the morning—my own phone, school, Mark's card and gift—collides with what I've been trying to ignore all day. I push my sandwich away.

“What's wrong?” Lauren asks.

I remember Mark's word.
Mournphia
. My life is full of mournphia.

“It's just that…” I start, my voice soft. I remember my last birthday. How Ruth used strips of bacon to make a smiley face on one of the pancakes my mother made for me. How Sarah scribbled me a picture of flowers for my present. “It's my first birthday without my family.”

“Oh, Rachel,” she says. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Do you think they're thinking of me?” I ask, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

“I'm sure they are,” Lauren answers, and she reaches out her hand for mine and squeezes it. Her hand is small, soft, but her grip is tight and reassuring. “I know they are.”

I shut my eyes and hot tears spill out.

“But Lauren, they never came to look for me.”

I'm crying hard now, and Lauren's eyes are reddening. She scoots her chair over and wraps her arms around me, letting me fold myself into her. Letting me cry and cry. Finally, I'm all cried out, and I dry my eyes with one of the paper towels Lauren set out on the table for lunch.

Then Lauren asks me, “Do you wish they'd come to find you?”

I sniffle a little and shrug. “I don't know,” I say. “I guess … I guess the answer is yes. I mean, if my dad came here right now and demanded I go home and live under his rules, I wouldn't go. I couldn't. But that they never came to look for me? That they never wanted to see if I was all right? How could they not even try?” I feel the ache in my throat building up again.

Lauren nods at my answer, and I prepare myself for a long speech about the ridiculousness of the church and its rules. But she doesn't deliver one. She just rubs my back and keeps nodding.

“Everything feels good and then sometimes it feels so sad,” I continue, choking my way through the words. “When is it just going to be okay?”

“I wish I knew,” Lauren answers. “But I think you need to just let them go, Rachel. I know it hurts, but I think you need to just focus on what's in front of you, you know?”

I don't answer. Instead, I take a few deep breaths, and we sit in silence for a while, Lauren's hand still resting on my back. An idea begins to burrow even deeper into my mind.

“I think there's something I need to do before I start school,” I say. And I'm pretty sure Lauren's not going to agree with me about it.

“What?” Lauren asks, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“I think I want to go back,” I tell her. “I want to see them, even if it's for the last time. I owe it to Ruth at the very least. I need to say goodbye to my family. I don't think I can just cut them off or let them go. I think I need to at least say goodbye.” The thought of driving back there makes my stomach knot up. But the idea that Ruth may be waiting for me to show up back home at any moment, repentant, makes my heart hurt.

“Rachel, are you sure that's what you should do?” Lauren asks. She frowns, and the creases in her brow deepen. “I mean, if you think it's what you need to do then I guess you should. I just don't want…” It's clear she's holding back, fighting the urge to talk me out of it. “No, it's your decision. You have to do what you think is right.”

I nod firmly. “Yes, I think it's what I have to do. I'll go tomorrow. And get it over with.”

Lauren gives my back a final pat and pushes a small smile onto her face.

“You can borrow the car if you want,” she says.

“Thanks,” I tell her, and we sit there together not speaking, our lunch left uneaten on the table in front of us.

 

22

I pull into the yard
in front of my house just before suppertime.

I stare at the house for a moment. Up until I moved to Lauren's apartment, it's the only home I've ever lived in. Honestly, it was the only place I really knew in the world outside of Calvary Christian Church. And I know it as well as I know my own reflection.

The small plaque with John 3:16 inscribed on it hanging over the open entryway into the family room.

The hall closet downstairs where Mom always hides the Christmas presents even though she knows we'll peek.

The wall of Sheetrock in the garage where Sarah and Isaac like to color with crayons, and Ruth and I always let them because it's just the garage.

The rich scent of fresh mud coming from the work boots lined up by the back door after my dad and brothers come home from a job.

The sounds of Sunday mornings, when Mom wakes us up by singing “To God Be the Glory” or some other favorite hymn.

To God be the glory

For the things He has done

With His blood, He has saved me

With His power, He has raised me

I know every bit of this place. Every square inch.

I cut the engine and when my heart speeds up so fast it hurts I turn it on again and shift the car back into drive.

It doesn't have to be today. I can come back.

But I know—as intimately as I know every bit of my family's house—that my heart won't let me. I need to make it clear to them that I've changed. That I'm glad I've changed.

I knock on the front door. Little Sarah opens it, and I wait for her to run to me, to grab me around the knees. But she doesn't. She just looks at me, her expression forlorn. Her gaze measured.

“She's here,” she says over her shoulder. “It is Rachel. Ruth was right.”

The door opens wider, and my father is standing there, my mother close behind him. The other little ones are gathering around their knees.

And Ruth is there, too, her face still, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Rachel,” my father says in a neutral voice that reveals nothing. “Come in.”

At this, my mother steps up and hugs me, my throat seizes, and I'm taken aback at how much I want to cry at her touch. Her hug is tight but quick, just like always, and she releases me as soon as she's taken me into her arms.

“It's good to see you, Rachel,” she says. She sounds like she's speaking to a stranger, and I guess she may as well be.

And I know she allowed my father to send me out of the house, and I know she lives in fear for my eternal soul. But the truth is you only get one mother in your life, and she's mine.

And you always want the mom you've been given.

I swallow my tears back—tears I swore I would not shed—and look toward Ruth. My little Ruth. She's watching the exchange with careful eyes, and I can tell from the tiny red hives spreading up her neck that she's anxious. I give her a kind look, and she nods at me, but she doesn't smile.

“Rachel, we were sitting down to supper,” my father says. “Why don't you join us.”

I remember the parable of the prodigal son from the Bible. What happens after the prodigal son returns? Does he have to go to Journey of Faith? Can he read Madeleine L'Engle books? Is he allowed to go to school and talk to kids his own age without a chaperone?

Is he allowed to ask questions, seek knowledge, find answers?

No. Of course not.

At my father's words, I nod and head toward the table, then my body remembers that my father and brothers sit down first—I'm supposed to help bring in the food—and I make an awkward move toward the kitchen counter where I see stacked plates and a big pot of macaroni and cheese.

“Thank you for helping,” my mother says, smoothing things over, and soon Ruth joins me as I scoop the food out onto the plates and she carries them to the table.

After she's taken in a few plates, I manage to reach over and squeeze her shoulders. She gives me a wary smile but doesn't say anything.

Once everyone is served, I take a seat at the table. I've chosen my outfit carefully—an ankle-length skirt and loose, three-quarter-sleeved blouse. Faith's boots are tied tight around my ankles. My hair is down. In the weeks I've been gone, I haven't gone so far as to wear pants, but I've certainly relaxed my understanding of modesty. Still, I don't want my clothes to be a reason for my father to send me away without getting a chance to speak for myself first.

“Father God, thank you for your love and favor,” my father begins, and I bow my head instinctively. “Bless this food and drink we pray, and thank you for all who share with us today, especially your servant, Rachel.”

After a few bites in silence, Jeremiah can't help himself. “Where have you been?” he asks, wiping his chin with a paper napkin. “You just left all of a sudden and we weren't supposed to talk about it. Only pray for your soul.”

Mom's face tightens, and Dad shoots him a look. My heart breaks for Jeremiah. He's forgotten that in this family asking questions that make people uncomfortable is inappropriate. Better to stay sweet and just smile. Better to stick with the carefully practiced words and routines, with everything everyone wants to say sitting just under the surface, like a ticking bomb we've all chosen to ignore.

“I've been staying with a friend,” I finally answer. My mother looks down at her plate. I can feel my older brothers staring at me while I chew.