Illusions (The Missing #1) (8 page)

Simple things that wouldn’t matter to most people. But for me they were moments of bliss that I treasured.

I had been smiling when I walked inside.

“Get your hair out of your face, Nora!”

I had jumped and dropped my bag on the floor. My mother was standing in the living room, straightening books on the shelf.

“Mother. I didn’t know you were here. Your car wasn’t out front,” I said, pushing my hair back. Wanting to curl into a ball and fade away.

“Rosie’s borrowing it. Her Volvo is being inspected.” Clipped. Harsh. She spoke with no love. No joy. “It’s Thursday. You need to get changed. I laid your clothes out on your bed.” She never looked at me. Her back was all I could see of her.

It was Thursday.

I shivered.

“But Rosie’s borrowing the car,” I pointed out. Then wished I hadn’t said anything. I knew better than to question Mother. I knew better than to talk too much lest she focus on the things I wished she wouldn’t. I invited her criticism and ire when I spoke.

I needed to remain invisible.

Unseen.

“She’s going to drive us to the church. She wanted to come this week. Isn’t that nice? She’s such a God fearing young woman. Beautiful on the inside as well as the outside. We’re lucky to have her in our lives.”

Lucky.

So very, very lucky.

I turned to go upstairs and stopped. Mother was watching me with a strange look in her eyes. It wasn’t her normal anger. She looked thoughtful. Pensive.

“There should have been more. This house should have been full of voices and tiny laughter. It’s what we wanted.”

I held my breath. It was almost as if she forgot I was there. Her eyes were far away and lost. Something about her expression almost made me feel bad for her. She seemed . . .
sad.

I thought, for a brief moment, about reaching out to her. My fingers twitched, and I wanted to touch Mother. I wanted to hug her and to have her hug me back. I imagined what it would feel like to have her hold me after all this time.

But then her eyes cleared and her face hardened. Her lips curled in derision as she looked away from me. “But you made sure that didn’t happen, didn’t you, Nora? You ruined it all.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I didn’t dare ask. I wanted to. Because I knew that whatever her words meant, they were the roots of her hatred.

Though I was terrified to know the truth. I was scared of her honesty. Yet I felt an irrational guilt that this miserable life that we both endured was entirely
my fault.

I stared at my hands clasped in front of me, hating the fine tremors that I could never seem to control. “I’ll go change,” I said quietly. Retreating. Far away from her hateful words and even more hateful gaze.

I all but ran up the stairs and closed myself in my room.

It was Thursday.

I hated Thursdays.

I looked out my bedroom window at the thick branches of the elm tree just beyond the glass and wished I were rebellious. I wished I were impulsive. If I were then I’d lift the sash and climb out onto the window ledge. I’d hook my leg around the closest branch and hoist my body onto the sturdy trunk.

Then I’d climb all the way down to the ground. And once my feet were on the grass, I’d run.

I’d run far away and never look back.

But I wasn’t rebellious. I wasn’t impulsive. I was Nora Gilbert.

Ugly, dutiful Nora Gilbert.

And right now I had to get dressed in the outfit my mother had chosen for me to wear.

A few minutes later, I met my mother in the hallway wearing a long blue skirt and white blouse. I wanted to tell her that I had been capable of picking out my own clothes since I was five, but I didn’t dare. I knew better than to argue. I knew better than to pick unnecessary arguments. My feelings about
anything
were inconsequential. I had stopped trying to make myself heard a long time ago.

“I hope I’m not late,” Rosie said, letting herself inside. As though she lived here. As if she belonged.

“Of course not! You’re right on time,” Mother beamed. “Come on, Nora. Don’t forget the scarf,” she reminded me.

With my head down, I tried to ignore the sound of Rosie and Mother’s pleasantries. I picked the scrap of fabric up from the table just beside the door. I wrapped the yellow patterned scarf around my hand, so tight it cut off the blood flow to my fingers. I enjoyed the numbness.

I followed the two women out to the car. Neither spoke to me the entire way to the church. I was fine with that. I hadn’t wanted to talk anyway. I was too busy dreading what lay ahead of me.

Rosie pulled into the parking lot of the small, whitewashed building and cut the engine. I didn’t get out right away. I knew I would be reprimanded, but I couldn’t make myself open the door.

Mother banged her hand on the window, startling me. Her face was thunderous, and I hurried out of the car before she could forcibly remove me.

Rosie stood off to the side, her eyes sparkling.

We went into the church, bile rising in the back of my throat.

“It looks just as I remember it,” Rosie cooed, looking around the small space. During the few short months she had lived with us, she had been the dutiful child, attending services every Sunday with my family. Mother loved to see her dressed up in frilly clothes, her hair curled and lovely. Rosie was given the special spot between Mother and Dad. I sat on Dad’s other side trying not to care that I was an outsider in my own family.

After Rosie went back into the system, Mother hadn’t gone to church for months. I had been happy for the reprieve. I never liked the rapturous sermons and messages of fear and obedience preached from the pulpit.

But when we returned, Mother was lit from within by a new purpose. A renewed vengeance. And I had been the focus.

I looked up at the giant stained-glass window that took up most of the far wall. It was the only beautiful thing about the place. Looking at it, I could almost ignore the horrible twist I felt in my stomach every time we came.

It was a small, country church with a congregation of only fifty members. And Reverend Miller reigned over his sheep with the fiery vehemence of the fervently fanatic.

Mother patted Rosie’s shoulder and walked past her, down the aisle towards the door to the side of the pulpit. I was expected to follow. And I did.

I left the sanctuary, closing the door behind me.

I wasn’t there to pray.

I was there to be healed.

Mother too had her illusions.

Mother had latched onto faith healing in those dark days after Rosie left and father died. She had become convinced that God would turn me into the daughter she wanted me to be.

When that had failed, she had turned to medicine. Despite just having the reconstructive surgery, Mother still insisted I attend the healing session. Because it was obvious that in her eyes, and in the eyes of every single person who looked at me, I still wasn’t good enough.

We entered a large office just beyond the sanctuary. A tall, balding man sat behind a desk, hands folded, head bent low.

He looked non-threatening at first, but when he opened his mouth he could bring anyone to their knees. He plagued on people’s worries, their fears. He molded and manipulated them to meet his own agenda. I hated him.

Mother loved him in a manner that was almost idolatrous. Though she would never acknowledge that particular sin. Or any other.

We waited until the reverend was finished with his prayer. We would never interrupt him by making a noise. I had accidentally stepped on a creaking floorboard once and was rewarded with a nasty pinch on my underarm. The bruise had lasted for almost two weeks.

Finally Reverend Miller looked up, giving us his non-verbal consent to enter the room. We walked to our usual spots. Mother and Rosie sat on the sofa, and I took a place on the floor beneath a large wooden cross on the wall. I tucked my legs beneath me and smoothed my skirt. I felt sick and shaky.

Reverend Miller smiled and greeted us. I barely heard him. My head was full with other things.

“Remove your shirt, Nora,” Reverend Miller instructed. I was only ten years old, but I knew what was he asking me to do wasn’t right. Mother stood off to the side, her hands folded in prayer, her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent supplication.

I hesitated and Reverend Miller noticed. He smiled and it seemed so kind, so understanding that I instantly relaxed. “You can turn around so I just see your back,” he offered softly, and I sagged in relief.

Not questioning, I removed my shirt and held it over my developing chest. I turned so that I was facing the wall. I was tense. Unsure of what was about to happen.

“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice. Do you understand, Nora?” Reverend Miller asked.

I didn’t want to anger Mother by saying that I had no idea what he was talking about. So I nodded.

And then he hit me.

I opened my mouth in a scream, but no sound came out. Then he hit me again. Over and over with a thin, wooden cane he kept in the corner of the room. I had noticed it before but hadn’t paid it any mind.

I noticed now.

The pain was indescribable. The agony was intense. I cried and cried while Mother prayed and prayed.

Prayed for me to be beautiful as I was left broken and bleeding . . .

I didn’t acknowledge Reverend Miller when he approached me. I didn’t say a word when he told me to get to my feet.

I didn’t move as he wrapped the pale, yellow scarf around my face. Covering me up. Hiding me away.

I swallowed the loathing and the fear as Reverend Miller pressed cold, clammy fingers to my lip. I could feel him all too clearly through the material of the scarf.

“Dear Heavenly Father, take this child into your arms. Bless her with your love. Show compassion to her struggling mother, who tries to find a way to love such an abomination. Heal this child and this family. Purge the evil from Nora Gilbert and wash away her sin. Cleanse her soul so that it is reflected on her skin.”

His voice rose and rose, and I shrunk away from his fingers, but his hands held firm. I couldn’t move. Not until he was finished.

Then my mother’s voice joined the Reverend’s. Rosie soon followed.

“Cleanse the abomination. Purge the sin. Wash away the heinous blight. Lead her along the path of righteousness and embrace her in your glory! Help her mother love a child of wickedness. Help Nora turn away her dark nature.”

Then the scarf was gone and my shirt was removed. I turned to face the wall, ready for what was to come.

“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice,” Reverend Miller intoned darkly.

“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice,” Mother and Rosie repeated.

I felt the bite of the cane. I felt the blood dripping down my skin. But I didn’t cry anymore. I didn’t scream.

I just waited for it to be over.

The pain wouldn’t cure me. I was past healing.

Mother was a fool.

I stared up at the ceiling, trying to blank my mind. When I had gotten home I had gone to my room and lay across my bed on my stomach. My routine was ingrained. After a few minutes I carefully wiped antibiotic cream on the open wounds, the ones I could reach. Then I wet a towel and clumsily draped it across my back, lying down again.

I stayed that way the rest of the evening and into the night. After a few hours I was able to get changed into my pjs and waited until Mother had gone to bed before I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. My mother hadn’t bothered to bring me anything. She never did.

Afterwards, I returned to my room and got into bed, making sure to lie on my side.

I didn’t want to think about Reverend Miller. I didn’t want to think about his hands touching my face. I didn’t want to think about the hot lick of pain shooting up my back every time I moved. And I definitely didn’t want to think about my mother’s fevered fanaticism as she prayed to her God to make her daughter pretty. Medical science had failed her. All she had left was her Lord.