Devoted (6 page)

“Not exactly,” Dad answers. “But we need to pray very hard for her to get well.”

At services, Faith walks up to me and asks why Mom hasn't come back to church.

“Dad said she still wasn't feeling well, and we need to pray for her,” I answer.

Faith nods and says, “‘The prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.'”

“Yes, I know,” I answer.

“You mean, ‘amen,'” Faith responds.

“Yes, amen,” I answer, turning my attention to baby Caleb.

That night, after Ruth and I put the little ones to bed, I head toward my parents' bedroom door to check on Mom again, if only to watch her breathing or to see if she'll at least have a glass of milk. But Dad stops me and insists she needs her rest.

“Better to leave her alone right now,” he says, and my heart breaks a bit because I so want to see my mother.

Instead, I sit down at the computer to balance the books and do a little more work on the Walker Family Landscaping and Tree Trimming website. I frown as I work through this month's latest expenses. Business has been slow, and even though Dad always reminds us we should owe no one anything but love, we still haven't received all of Mom's medical bills, and I have no idea how we'll figure out how to pay them.

Dad is in the bedroom with Mom—the two are talking in low tones, and I can't make out what they're saying. Ruth is in the kitchen writing out a list of groceries for the next week. One of my older brothers is showering upstairs, and I can hear the hot water chugging through the pipes like a train. My brothers don't help with bedtime for the little ones, and their lack of evening chores affords them the luxury of a long shower at the end of the day.

My fingers flutter over the keyboard like hummingbird wings, and as I work, I try to ignore the little itch that's been building in the back of my brain for days now.

An itch that began when I spoke to Lauren's mother at church last Sunday. That intensified when I had to throw away my book.

Suddenly I see the words
Lauren Sullivan Texas Calvary Christian
sitting in the search box, looking me right in the eye. My heart pounds so hard it aches.

I hit Enter.

Pressing that key feels like a release. Like when I water the plants in the front yard and push my thumb against the garden hose for a minute, letting the water pressure build up and tickle me before I move it just a little and let the water explode all around me, the spray kissing my bare feet.

Maybe nothing will happen, I think, but in a millisecond my eyes focus on the very first link.

BUTTERFLY GIRL—About Me—Links—My Very Favorite Things—The Great Escape

Hi! Thanks for finding me on the Interwebs. My name's Lauren, and when I was a teenager, I escaped from a scary situation that involved abuse and …

That's all I can read unless I click on the link. What are the Interwebs? I'm not even sure this is Lauren Sullivan, but the word
abuse
stands out. Lauren didn't like what happened at Calvary Christian, I know that. But it wasn't abuse. Abuse is hard smacks and kicks, not the kinds of swats my parents have given all of us since we were little. Abuse is someone touching you inappropriately in your private areas. Mom was careful to explain that to us when we were little, and I know she took it seriously from the way she almost always got tears in her eyes when she talked to us about others imposing their sexual immorality on innocent children. Touching in the wrong way is abuse. What happened to Lauren made her run away, but how can she call it abuse? Weren't we just trying to bring her closer to Jesus?

My eyes shift down and there are links to results from track meets and spelling bees at other schools and districts with names involving Lauren or Sullivan or Calvary or Christian, but none of the other links that pop up seem to be even close to belonging to the mysterious, redheaded Lauren Sullivan from years ago.

I take a deep breath and listen some more. The shower upstairs has stopped running. If I strain, I can still hear Mom and Dad's muffled voices. Even though I don't know what they're saying, something about the sound pricks at my heart.

But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed
, I think, remembering the book of James. I tug hard at the ends of my long hair in an effort to wake myself out of this daze I've sunk into. I pull so hard I wince, and the skin on my scalp fights my pulling. A sharp sting travels over my skull. I yank hard one more time for good measure. To make sure I don't click on that first link.

Quickly, I clear my history and double-check to make sure there's no trace of my searches.

“What are you doing?”

I turn around wearing a face that has to give me away, I'm sure of it. It's Ruth, the memory of
A Wrinkle in Time
and my promise to never read it again no doubt burned in her brain. She's holding a piece of paper in her hand.

“Nothing,” I answer. “I'm just finishing up work for Dad.”

“Okay,” she answers, a long, wary pause sitting awkwardly between the word's two syllables.
Oh-kay
.

“I thought if you had a chance you could go over the grocery list with me, just to see if I've missed anything,” she continues.

“Sure,” I say, burying the realization that despite all of my promises about how I won't read certain things and how I will listen to our father, I'm now lying to Ruth for real.

 

6

I stare at myself
in the bathroom mirror and rub away the crust lining my red-rimmed eyes. A blemish is peeking out on my chin, a painful one that will soon erupt into an ugly face-volcano. I remind myself not to be vain—it's not godly behavior—but in the same breath I can't help but think that I wouldn't look so worn out if I could sleep at least six hours a night. Either Isaac wakes up coughing or Sarah has a nightmare or my own guilty thoughts creep into my brain and won't let me drift off. After I found the Butterfly Girl link last night, I shifted positions so many times in my twin bed Ruth finally muttered that I might want to try sleeping on the couch.

For a moment the idea seemed appealing because I would be so close to the computer and might be able to get on it again. As soon as the thought slipped into my brain, I pinched myself on the upper thigh. Hard.
No, Rachel.
Finally, I managed to fall asleep, only to be woken up by my alarm what felt like five minutes later.

And now there's a pounding on the bathroom door.

“Rachel, I hafta use the bathroom!” Gabriel cries. “And Dad said you gotta get downstairs and help.”

“All right!” I answer back. My brain searches for the right words or Scripture to ask God for strength, but the words won't come, and I give up and scowl at myself in the mirror. It's not something I do often, and we never scowl in front of each other—a merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance, and being born again means we should always be merry—but something about scowling in private feels like releasing just a bit of steam out of a boiling pot.

When I head down to the kitchen, I discover Faith standing there, wiping down the counters and buttering toast and cleaning sticky faces. Faith always seems to have twenty arms when it comes to housework, and all of them work faster than mine.

“‘To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed,'” my father says, standing with his arms crossed, smiling broadly at Faith.

“Let all your things be done with charity,” Faith responds, blushing slightly.

“Hi, Faith,” I say, walking over to start washing the first round of dirty breakfast dishes, quickly, so my father witnesses my efforts. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might use the help of your big sister today,” my father says, answering for Faith as he sits down at the kitchen table to lace up his work boots. “As your mother continues to recover, so much is on your shoulders, Rachel, and I want to make sure you're able to keep things running smoothly here at home.”

I don't know if it's because of the mountain ranges of dirty laundry collecting in the family room and the hallways or the overcooked meatloaf or my copy of
A Wrinkle in Time
, but my heart sinks. I touch my Titus 2 bracelet and for a brief moment I feel sorry for my future husband, stuck with a girl who's more interested in books than in being a good helpmeet. With a girl who looked up Lauren Sullivan's blog.

As I approach my older sister, she looks at me carefully. “Rachel,” she says in a whisper that's still loud enough for everyone to hear, “I need to speak with you.” She guides me out of the kitchen and around the corner into the hallway leading to Mom and Dad's bedroom.

“Rachel, have you examined your outfit carefully in the mirror this morning?” she says, her hands planted firmly around my shoulders. She's an inch or two shorter than me, but her grip is solid. Sure of itself.

I glance down, anxiously searching for my offense. I'm wearing one of my ankle-length denim skirts, but it's clean with no obvious stains. I have my black boots laced tight—the ones that used to belong to Faith—so I know they can't be my error.

“What is it?” I ask, panicking.

“Look at your shirt,” Faith says, speaking slowly and deliberately.

“It's a white shirt,” I say, and it is. A simple white button down with three-quarter sleeves. Clean. No stains.

“Rachel, your undergarments are clearly visible through this shirt,” Faith answers, the sweet tone of her voice cut with a firmness Faith has used with me since I was young and got distracted when I should have been helping during bedtime. “And you know that's not appropriate. Remember Timothy. ‘In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with adorned hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.'”

I look down. Faith's right. My white button down has been washed so many times it's more transparent than I noticed, and the outlines of my tan resale shop bra are easy to spot. My cheeks flare up, and I'm grateful at least that Faith maneuvered me out into the hallway where my father wouldn't overhear yet another one of my stupid mistakes.

“I'm sorry, Faith,” I start. “I've just been so exhausted lately, and I didn't realize…” I trail off. There's no excuse for this, so I shouldn't even try. “I'm going to run upstairs and change right away.”

“Yes, I think you should,” Faith answers.

“Of course,” I say, my cheeks reddening so much I think I might melt right there in the hallway.

Faith lets go, and I race upstairs and into my bedroom where I shut the door to change. It's rare that I'm in my bedroom without Ruth or Sarah there, too, asking me to help them find a missing sock or wiggling in front of me while I try to braid their hair. I open the closet we share and start pushing hangers aside, looking for something appropriate and clean, but I feel the ache in my throat about to crack open. Before I can stop myself, I sink to the floor of the closet and collapse into tears. I can't do anything right. I can't control my temptations not to think about Lauren, and I can't run the house properly. I'm not godly, I'm not good, I'm not like Faith, and my future husband won't ever appear if I keep being the mess of a girl that I am right now.

“Lord, please be with me,” I beg, hot tears sliding down my cheeks, frustrated that minutes before I could only scowl instead of finding the right words to ask God for guidance. I can't even pray as well as Faith, who remembers the right Scripture to use at the right time. I clutch the hem of one of Ruth's dresses and scream into it as loud as I can, muffling the noise so no one hears me. Just as we don't scowl in front of each other, we don't raise our voices in anger in this house. Ever. But for a moment, I feel lighter.

I wait, worried someone will come up the stairs to find out what's wrong. But no one does, and I take a few deep breaths and get up, forcing myself to focus on the clothing hanging in front of me until I find a dark blue button-down shirt that I can wear. I ball the white shirt up and shove it to the back of my closet. My mom always has us cut up old clothes to use for cleaning rags—it's cheaper than paper towels—but right now I just want this shirt out of sight until it doesn't remind me of all the ways I can't stop stumbling.

Finally, I manage to calm myself and head downstairs to continue the morning routine. I catch up on laundry while Faith goes over lessons with the little ones. When lunchtime comes, I carry a ham sandwich on wheat bread and a glass of milk into my mother's room. Even though I offer her food several times a day, I have the best luck trying to get her to eat something in the middle of the day.

My mother is sitting up in bed, propped up on some pillows and staring out the bedroom window to her left. I washed the windows carefully late last week and the sun is streaming in, but my mother looks past the sun somehow. Her hands are folded in her lap like they've been sculpted there. Like they can't move for anything. When she hears me come in she turns to look at me and smiles, but it's a practiced smile. Just her cheeks pulling up on the sides, and only barely.

“Hi, Mom,” I say in a soft, low voice. I can't stand to see her this way. Once when I was younger, Mom burned her hand on the oven rack, and it left a welt as thick and long as a number two pencil. But when she burned her hand she exclaimed, “The joy of the Lord is my strength!” and kept going. That's the mother I know.

But this mother is propped up on her bed, halfway here and halfway somewhere else. Since the day Mom lost Joshua, I've managed to read about miscarriages a few more times on the computer, and some websites mention a condition called postpartum depression and medications that might help. Dad would just say that God is the great physician. But why do Mom and Dad believe in doctors for our bodies and not for our minds? After all, our brains are part of our bodies. But my questions are irrelevant because there's no one to give me the answers.