Once Was Lost (3 page)

“Yeah,” I say to Robby, who’s staring at me with eyes that are the same blue as Vanessa’s. “She’s going to be fine.”

Out in the yard the ripe tomatoes are almost jumping into our hands. It’s dusk, and the hummingbird moths hover and swoop around the lavender bushes while Daisy, Vanessa’s golden retriever, walks the perimeter of the yard over and over. The Hathaways’ yard is smaller than ours—they live a little closer to the main part of town where the houses are packed in a little more tightly. But it’s definitely a better yard. They have a drip irrigation system, with a trickle of water constantly seeping out, just under the soil, and neat rows of summer produce. I wonder if I could do that without any help.

“My mom is so dumb sometimes,” Vanessa says, straightening up among the tomato plants.

“It’s okay. It’s just… I didn’t know she knew. And that you know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I move to another plant, but most of the tomatoes on this one are still a little green. “I was going to. You haven’t been back that long.”

Vanessa, along with almost the entire youth group except for me, went on a mission trip to Mexico. A lot of kids had to raise the money, but Mom didn’t want me to because of how my dad’s job already involves asking for money. When you stand there every week and pray before the offering plate is passed, people get funny about it.

I change the subject. “I love your haircut. It makes you look older.”

She reaches a hand to her neck. “Really? It feels so short. This one old lady in Mexico thought I was a boy. Ugh.”

“No, it’s cute. And with the highlights cut off it looks more cocoa-y.” I find a dark red tomato and pluck it from the vine. “Maybe I should chop my hair off, too.” Even though I’ve always had long hair, the same ashy blond as my mom’s, maybe short hair like Vanessa’s could help me feel less weighed down by… everything.

“I like your hair the way it is.”

We pick for a while, just listening to the crickets, before she says, “I wish you could have been there, in Mexico. It wasn’t the same without you.”

“Thanks. I wish, too.”

“Sam? Is your mom really going to be okay?”

I blink several times and bend low, pretending to be interested in the plants. “Yeah. It takes time.” That’s what they said in the family orientation.
It takes time, and patience, and perseverance
.

“Are
you
okay?”

She wants me to talk, as in really talk, about my feelings. And I know she’ll try again when we’re in our sleeping bags tonight, and in the morning when we’re getting ready for church. And every time, I know I won’t be able to.

“Mm-hmm.” I hold up my bowl of tomatoes. “Do you think this is enough?”

The outline of her head in the dimming yard nods.

Day 2

Sunday

There’s a poster in the youth group room that probably
came from some youth group–supplies warehouse in Texas or Colorado that I imagine is filled with T-shirts and coffee cups and rubber bracelets with what are supposed to be inspiring messages for The Youth, as everyone who is not The Youth calls us at our church.

The poster—now kind of curling and dusty—shows a bunch of multicultural-looking teens in fashions from five years go, falling all over each other on comfy couches, big smiles on their fresh faces, surrounded by pillows. One of them holds a Bible and a notebook in his lap. On the bottom of the poster are big yellow capital letters:

COMMUNITY HAPPENS!

Don’t forget the exclamation point. Everything for The Youth has exclamation points.

When I was in sixth grade, I’d come to the church on Saturdays to help my dad get ready for the next day’s services. I’d collect all the pencils from where they were holstered in the pew racks, sharpen them, and put them back. I’d restock the offering envelopes and make sure every pew had the right number of Bibles and hymnals. One time, my dad sent me down to the youth room to look for a missing communion tray and I stared at that poster and pictured myself in it, smiling, knee-to-knee with the other youth group kids, who would be my best friends. My community. It would be like having a whole bunch of brothers and sisters, and we’d know everything about each other. Because, as we’re reminded all the time at church, community happens through sharing. “Getting real.” With God. And with each other. Telling each other about the not-so-pleasant things that may or may not be happening in our lives. In theory, community ensues.

I believed in the theory, and expected that once I hit high school my life would be filled with all this understanding and friendship and spiritual bonding, and my faith would come alive, just like the poster promised. It hasn’t really happened that way.

Now I look around at our monocultural faces, which are sort of smiling, but not nearly as happily as the poster faces. Mine least of all. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to share. It’s not like I want to feel like this, live forever in this mood of resistance and suspicion and doubt. But I’ve been feeling this way too long to remember how not to. How would they react if I really did share, the way we’re supposed to, and said: My mom is in court-“suggested” rehab and my dad has no clue how to deal with it or even talk about it, and I think I might be depressed? What if I said that?

Maybe this morning my dad will finally say something, officially, to the congregation about Mom, and then everyone will know and I can exhale. Then tomorrow, he and I will sit down and have that talk he promised about how things are going to be, how we’re going to deal with it. And next Sunday, I can share, and finally make them all understand what I’ve been going through, alone, all this time.

For now, I sit with my lips pressed together while Vanessa, still touching the back of her neck every ten seconds like she’s looking for the hair that used to be there, shares. She shares about how on the Mexico mission trip she realized how lucky we all are to have indoor bathrooms and clean drinking water. And Nick Shaw shares his excitement about moving into the dorms in a couple of weeks and also his anxiety because he doesn’t know if he’ll like his roommate and also he’ll miss Dorrie. That’s Dorrie Clark, who lives up in Dillon’s Bluff and goes to a different high school but has been Nick’s girlfriend for ten months. Their success as a couple is a disappointment to nearly every girl who’s ever met Nick, me included. Not that I know him that well or sit around daydreaming about him. It’s just that Nick is the kind of guy every girl wishes would choose her. He’s a rare combination of tall and athletic and cute, and also sincere. He asked me to dance at a wedding once, and I just thought that was really nice, like he’d seen me sitting there looking bored and danced with me out of the kindness of his heart. I don’t know any other high school boys who would do that.

Then Allie shares that while in Mexico, she woke up early one morning and something told her to go outside, and she did, and saw the sunrise and even though all of the poverty and despair had her wondering if God really pays attention, the beauty of the red and purple sky seemed to tell her yes, God is there, and knows what he’s doing. “I really felt it.” Her pale eyes are damp. “It was like a personal message but at the same time something everyone in the world could see. At least, everyone in that village, on that morning. It was… I don’t know. Hope.”

I glance at Daniel to check his reaction. He and Vanessa are the only ones who really know me, and at least understand my family a little bit. Even they can’t totally get it, though, because no one can know what it feels like to be the pastor’s kid unless they are one. Daniel, who normally would roll his eyes at Allie’s personal messages from God, is staring at her, really listening, and nodding a little bit. He almost looks like he wants to say something, then notices my glance and doesn’t. Instead, he scoots lower into his chair and scratches at his round face.

Allie talks some more and I start to envy her Mexico experience. Right now I would love to have a personal message from God. I want to believe the way I used to, when my dad or mom or sometimes both of them would pray with me at night and I would picture God listening, kind-eyed and bearded. He was real to me, as real as my own parents. I don’t know when God stopped being someone I saw as my true friend, and turned into something I’m mostly confused about. But if I can believe that Allie believes, maybe that would feel close enough. Like if I can latch on to some third- or fourth-hand experience of real faith it will almost be enough to make up for what I’ve lost.

Through all the sharing, Erin, our youth group leader, leans forward with her elbows on her freckled knees while asking follow-up questions and making noises like “mm” and “oh” the way she does every week. The other thing she does every week, eventually, is turn her gaze to me and ask, “What about you, Sam? What’s going on?” I always have to be coaxed. Now that I know that life in youth group isn’t like the poster, I’d rather be helping out in the little kids’ Sunday school class where everything is simpler—just coloring in scenes from uncomplicated Bible stories, then moving on to juice and animal crackers.

This time, Erin says, “We missed you on the trip, Sam. How’d you keep busy?”

I’m not sure who all this “we” is, because no one else has mentioned or commented on the fact that I didn’t go. No one else seems to notice me at all, generally. I mean, at youth group stuff they do, because they have to, because Erin is vigilant about making sure everyone feels included. But a few of them go to my school and actively look the other way when they see me there, and more than once I’ve caught them all talking about some party or outing they obviously all had together without inviting me. Because I’m the pastor’s daughter, I guess. As if I’d take notes and run to my dad if one of them swore or talked about sex or sipped a beer. I wouldn’t.

Maybe it’s got nothing to do with being the pastor’s kid. Maybe it’s just me.

They’re waiting. What did I do to keep busy.

“I’m redoing our backyard. To make it more drought-friendly.”

“Oh, cool,” Erin says.

Thankfully, no one else has to come up with a reaction because Gerald Ladew, the organist and choir director, comes in to warm up the youth choir, a few of the junior highers—who meet in a separate group—trailing behind him. “Come on,” he says to the high school members of the choir: Vanessa and Daniel and Allie and Paul. The Franklin twins are in it, too, but they’re not here today. I can read music and sing a little, but I hate standing there in front of people so I faked not being able to carry a tune when Gerald auditioned us all in spring.

He herds them toward the old upright piano, warped and water-stained, another “just give it to The Youth” treasure, like our ratty couches and the coffee table with the one leg shorter than the others. The youth room is the dumping ground for stuff too ruined to be in congregants’ actual homes anymore. There’s still a pile of musty World War II–era pup tents in the corner some ancient church member thought we could use on the mission trip. No one had the heart to tell him no.

“Pretend that this is in tune,” Gerald says, plinking out some notes. “Where’s my soloist? Anyone seen Jody?”

Jody Shaw, Nick’s thirteen-year-old sister, treks in late, because now she’s the one who gets to help with the little kids’ Sunday school, like I used to. She drags her feet, complaining it’s too hot up in the sanctuary to sing, let alone put on choir robes.

“Don’t be a whiner.” Nick, whose hair is exactly the same shade of reddish-brown as Jody’s, gives her a playful little shove with his foot as she passes by the couches, where we’re sitting opposite each other, the only ones not singing—other than Erin, who’s writing something on the wall calendar.

I can tell he’s only teasing, because like I said, Nick is actually truly nice. But Jody whirls around, furious, and kicks out one skinny leg. Her foot makes contact with Nick’s shin.

“Hey,” he says, laughing. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

Jody’s mouth makes a funny shape, and it’s obvious she’s about to cry. “It’s okay,” I say quickly. I hate knowing that someone else feels bad. “He’s just kidding. And it is really hot. Don’t wear robes,” I say. “My dad won’t care.”

Jody nods and regains her composure. “I know.” She looks at Nick. “Just be nice to me.”

“I am. I will. Sorry, Jo-Jo.”

I’ve never heard Nick call her that. It’s sweet.

“Don’t upset my soloist,” Gerald calls, frowning in Nick’s direction and running a hand over his balding, sweaty head.

“Okay, okay.” Erin comes over and steers Jody by the shoulders to the piano. “It’s the heat. It’s making everyone crazy.”

I study Nick’s face while he watches Jody and the rest of them do their vocal warm-ups. I’m always watching Nick and Jody, and Kaleb and Kacey Franklin, and Vanessa and Robby. I can’t imagine anything in the world better than having a sibling. Even if you fought sometimes, it would be worth it to always have that one person who knows what it’s like to be part of your particular family. Someone you can look at to see who you are. And if I had a brother or sister, I wouldn’t be the only pastor’s kid.

Specifically, I always wanted a little brother, like Vanessa has. She and I were around eight when Robby was born and for like a year after that I kept asking my mom for a brother, too. That never happened. As far as I know, my parents didn’t even try. I guess one was enough. Or too much.

Nick reaches to rub his shin and catches me staring. “It does kind of hurt,” he says, sheepish. “Don’t let Jody make you think I’m not nice to her. It’s her. Ever since she turned thirteen it’s like the sister I knew has been taken over by an alien. A very emotional alien.” Then he smiles.

It’s hard to explain how it feels when Nick Shaw smiles at you. Not butterflies or blushing. It just feels good. “I won’t,” I say. “Anyway, it’s common knowledge that thirteen kind of sucks.”

We hear the pre-service music starting upstairs.

Erin comes over and gathers her stuff. “That’s our cue.” Then she turns around and gives us a goofy grin. “And remember, this is the day the Lord has made.” She holds out her hand, palm up, as if to say, “Well?” It’s one of our little youth group rituals that’s corny and embarrassing, but Erin always makes us, no matter what.