Matters of Faith (3 page)

“Chloe,” Ada repeated, drawing it out, glancing at him sideways. “Chloe and Calvin. Cute. Chloe and Cal and Meghan. And joining them for the weekend, Marshall and Ada the vegetarian,” she sang, squeezing his knee playfully.

He laughed, his irritation and bordering-on-violent desire fading, pride at the thought of walking into his house with this beautiful girl lifting his spirits and filling his lungs with something lighter than air. He went with it, praising God for the sheer miracle going ninety miles an hour in the driver's seat beside him.

“THEY'RE here,” Meghan cried, “they're here!”

She flew past me, pounding down the steps before the screen door had a chance to maim her. My hands stilled under the faucet, the strawberries falling from my fingers to thump into the colander as I peered out the window. I could hear Marshall's car now, moving too fast up the drive, sending a flock of ibis winging for the safety of the sky.

“Cal!” I called, drying my hands and trying to slow my heart. The car came into view, shell dust and sand obscuring its lower half as though it were being deposited beside the house by a cloud. I took a quick glance around the kitchen, satisfied with the dish of hummus, the white corn chips, and the beautiful green edamame in my mother's blue ceramic bowl.

I stood on the porch while Meghan danced around the car, the dust settling enough to see that Marshall wasn't driving. I felt a twitch of disapproval, but it quickly disappeared when the passenger door opened and Marshall unfolded himself.

Meghan threw herself at him and he caught her with a grunt, swinging her sideways and holding her captive while she squealed to be released. He swung her back upright and she hit him on the shoulder, brushing her hair back into place with her other hand while he ducked her fist. I laughed and heard Cal moving in the kitchen just as the driver's side door slowly opened. I watched as Ada exited the car, smiling shyly, nothing at all like my vision of her as an athletic blonde. You could nearly hear Meghan's awed inhale, and I wondered if Marshall had somehow, subconsciously, picked this girl just for his little sister.

This waif, this pixie, was a near dead ringer for Winona Ryder in Meghan's favorite years—the funky leggings, spiky bangs, lots of buckles years. She grinned at Meghan and held her arms out. I almost cringed in embarrassment for her, trying too hard, too soon. But I underestimated something, either my daughter or Ada, and Meghan circled the car and hugged the girl, briefly, but hard. I moved down the steps quickly, and Marshall met me at the front of the car, lifting me off my feet for a moment.

“What's up, Mom?” he asked, letting me inspect his face. He hadn't shaved, not that anyone more than three feet away from him would notice. He flushed and ran his hand across his jaw. “Come on.” He took my arm and turned me toward Ada. She flashed me the same grin she'd given Meghan. Thankfully—for both of us—she didn't open her arms for a hug, but held her hand out. I shook with her, instinctively clasping my other hand over hers when I felt how cold her slender fingers were.

“It's so nice to meet you, Mrs.—”

“No, call me Chloe.”

“Thank you, and thank you for having me to your home,” she said, pulling her hand from my grasp and looking up at the house, its three stories towering before her. She slid her dark sunglasses up into her hair as she tilted her head back, and I saw with a little shock that she had a thin, silver hoop through her left eyebrow. It winked in the sun, sparking cold and white like a star. She turned on that brilliant smile again, and I heard the screen door squeal open at the same time.

“Cal,” I said, turning around and motioning him down the steps. He hadn't needed my encouragement and was nearly upon us. “This is Ada, Marshall's friend.”

“Great to meet you, Ada,” Cal said, taking her tiny white hand in his. It disappeared up to the wrist in his big brown hand, like a bait fish, caught and calm with inevitability. “We've been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Dad,” Marshall said, appearing at Ada's side and placing a proprietary arm across her shoulders. “How's it going?”

Oh
, I thought with a start at his tone. Oh, this was new, this attitude, this was completely new. I didn't even know what it was, some male thing, some claiming of manhood on Marshall's part, some test. The very air was charged, with more than humidity, more than happiness at our son being home. Cal released Ada's hand and clasped Marshall's shoulder, giving him a shake. Marshall stood his ground, though I could tell it took effort.

“It's good, kid,” Cal said, and I nearly flinched when I saw Marshall's bravado collapse in the face of his father's condescension. Cal had won for a moment.

“Come on, come on,” Meghan said, tugging on Ada's elbow. Ada ducked out from under Marshall's arm and allowed herself to be pulled into the house, scattering the tension like so many flies. I reached out for Marshall and we walked into the house behind them, with Cal trailing after us. I heard the screen door catch his heel and felt a nasty little measure of satisfaction for that small, well-deserved punishment.

AS Marshall finished unloading the car, he and Cal maneuvering around each other, I followed Ada. She trailed Meghan up the stairs slowly, glancing at the family photos that ran up the wall in their mismatched frames. Meghan was clutching an old-fashioned, battered train case in one hand, and with the other she steadied herself on the railing as she twisted back and forth to catch glimpses of Ada.

I hung back when we reached Meghan's room, leaning against the doorframe while Meghan gave her the grand tour.

“Do you want the top?” Meghan asked, gesturing toward the bunk beds, freshly made with the bright red splashes of the peony sheets. “Or the bottom, because I don't mind either one, and when I have sleepovers sometimes my friends want the top. So that's okay.”

Meghan had never had a sleepover, something that had somehow escaped me before and that broke my heart now.

“I'd love the top,” Ada said with a smile at me, making her eyes crinkle and the silver loop in her eyebrow glitter. The corners of my own mouth tugged up of their own volition. It was hard to resist her smile or the fact that she was making my child happy.

Meghan deposited the train case on the top bunk, and I noticed that her usual zoo of stuffed animals was nowhere to be seen, likely hidden in her closet to avoid any whiff of immaturity.

“Hey, I love Winona Ryder,” Ada said, looking admiringly up at a
Beetlejuice
poster. Meghan nearly swooned.

“I have almost all her movies,” she said and ran to the little TV with the built-in DVD player we got her for Christmas. She opened her dresser drawer and pulled out a stack of movies to prove her devotion. “We can watch any of them you want. I mean, we can stay up, you know?”

“I'd love that,” Ada said. “If your mom thinks it's okay.”

They both looked to me and I nodded. “Sure, of course. It's not a school night.”

“Yes,” Meghan whooped. She ran to the bottom bunk and laid the movies out in a neat row. As Ada bent over to inspect them, her shirt rode up, and above her low-slung cargo pants peeked a black, tribal tattoo. I nearly gasped aloud. I am not necessarily against tattoos, but seeing it, so stark against the perfect white skin of this young girl, this young girl who was my son's new girlfriend, and who, according to Marshall, was deeply religious, was shocking.

“So, Ada,” I started, unsure of what I would say next. “Marshall tells us you're from Nebraska.”

She turned around and flopped back on the bed, making the DVDs bounce out of their orderly row. Meghan frowned slightly, but then she, too, turned and flopped onto the bed, trying to mimic Ada's loose-limbed grace.

“That's right. Have you ever been there?” Without waiting for an answer, she reached over and with her black-painted fingernails tickled Meghan's belly. “It's
freezing
there right now. I'm so glad we're here instead. Have you ever seen snow, Meghan? Meggie? Does anyone call you Meggie? That's cute.”

Meghan giggled, at the tickling, at the nickname, at the fact that this incredibly cool girl with a wire through her eyebrow was here in her room. I hoped she wouldn't notice the tattoo.

“Meghan's never seen snow,” I said. “We're planning a trip for her thirteenth birthday, though, aren't we?”

Meghan inhaled sharply, flashing me a grateful look for the entry. “We're going to go to New York City. Just me and Mom, when they have the Christmas decorations up. As soon as it snows she said we'd go, I don't have to wait for my actual birthday. Have you been to New York?”

“No,” Ada said, somewhat wistfully. “You're so lucky to have a mom who's so cool.”

Meghan grinned at me. I appreciated the sentiment, but I wasn't the cool mom. I was the mom who had to watch everything, every morsel Meghan placed in her mouth, every bit of dust in the house, every well-meaning adult who tried to tell me about a homespun remedy for Meghan's allergies. That hadn't left much time for cool.

“What do your parents do?” I asked, as Meghan gathered up the DVDs and Ada rose to inspect Meghan's desk.

“My mom runs the commissary and my dad is a foreman for the orchards.”

“The orchards?”

“Apples. Mostly Jonathans, Winesaps, Red and Golden Delicious,” she answered, picking up one of Meghan's EpiPens and turning it over in her hands, her voice turning vague and painfully bored. “All-natural, no pesticides, natural fertilizers. We grow everything in the community. Whole foods, no preservatives.”

“Is everyone a vegetarian?” I asked. Meghan slid the drawer shut on her DVDs and turned to listen to Ada.

“No,” she said with a shrug. “Hey, what's this about?” She held the EpiPen out to Meghan, who cast a quick, doubtful glance in my direction.

“That's Meghan's EpiPen. It's a shot of epinephrine, in case she has an allergic reaction,” I answered.

“Marshall told me about that,” Ada said, placing it back on Meghan's desk. “You know, all these allergies now, they're really just the result of preservatives and altered foods. Have you ever tried a whole foods diet? Cutting out all preservatives, additives, anything not totally organic?”

I laughed. Not just at the question: What hadn't we tried? But at the audacity of this child to even ask the question. “Meghan's allergies are tied to her immune system, not to preservatives.”

Ada looked skeptically at Meghan. “So, you've tried a whole foods approach?”

Meghan shook her head. “No. But eating animals is gross,” she said, and I looked at her in surprise. She'd never mentioned being interested in vegetarianism. Meghan glanced quickly between us. “I mean, I like a hamburger sometimes, but, I don't know, maybe we could try the whole foods thing? Maybe I wouldn't need the EpiPen?”

“Sweetie,” I said, “there's a difference between being a vegetarian and what Ada's talking about—”

“You know there's a lot about exposure therapy online,” Ada said. “Have you looked into that at all? Marshall and I were reading about it—”

“Meghan's first exposure was plenty enough,” I said firmly. “Thank you, Ada, but we have a good system now and everything is fine.”

“But, Mom,” Meghan protested, “you're not even—”

“Your mom's right,” Ada quickly interrupted. “Of course. I shouldn't have even said anything. I'm sorry.”

Meghan shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “It's no big deal, Mom,” she muttered.

The silence was full and seemed somehow specific, weighted, as if it were pushing softly at me. They clearly wanted to be alone. I felt, for the first time with Meghan, that it was time for me to back off; she didn't need a chaperone.

“Well. You girls get to know each other and come down when you're ready for a snack,” I said, and they looked at each other with small, satisfied, and very adult smiles. I heard Meghan's door close quietly, and I stopped for a moment, listening to the low laughter that filtered out of my daughter's room.

Marshall rounded the corner with two suitcases and seemed surprised to see me at the top of the stairs. I motioned for him to come up.

“Hey, you. Need some help?” I asked, holding my hand out for a suitcase.

He shook his head. “No, I got it.” He pounded up the stairs, skipping every other step, and covered their length in seconds, landing beside me without even losing a breath. “Ada in with Meghan?” he asked as he passed Meghan's closed door. I followed him to his room, where he swung his suitcase up on the bed and dropped the other one, Ada's I presumed, by the door.

“Yeah, they seem to have hit it off,” I said, now leaning against my son's doorframe, keeping that Mom distance, feeling more natural about it now that I was with Marshall. “She's very pretty.”

He fumbled with the clasp on his suitcase, his face in quarter profile to me, enough to see a smile tease his lips. But he didn't answer me, just flipped the lid of his suitcase up, allowing it to fall back on the bed with a muffled thump. I moved into the room and sat lightly on the edge of the bed.

“Your father and I are trusting that there's not going to be any nighttime activity while you're here, Marshall.”

“Mom,” he began to protest.

“No, just listen to me. I'm allowing Ada to stay with your sister because it seemed to have been worked out beforehand, and I didn't want to disappoint her. And you're the one who let them e-mail, so you have only yourself to blame for that. I don't want to have to talk to Meghan about why Ada slipped out of her room in the middle of the night. Is that clear?”