The Reaping (4 page)

As I walked past the mirror to step into the shower, a dark spot on my cheek caught my attention.  I leaned over the sink to look closer.  It was a single red drop.  I wiped it away with one finger and brought it around for inspection.  My heart kicked up to a quicker pace.  It looked like blood. 

I stepped back to examine myself for injuries, almost hoping to find one.  I’d rather have scratched myself during the night than think that it had somehow come from my dream.

I stood in a shaft of Saturday morning sun that was streaming through the bathroom window.  The light turned my normally mousy-brown hair to a glistening spun gold in a way I hadn’t noticed before.  It looked almost as if the color had lightened overnight to a beautiful honey blonde. 

Shaking off the distraction of my hair, I inspected my face.  I saw no injuries or scrapes and still no evidence of the abrasions that had been there the evening before.  In fact, I was as good as new, the skin on my arm, hip and leg having healed as well. 

“What is going on?”  I asked my reflection. 

Having no answers, I pushed the troubling thought aside and focused on the day ahead and skirting Dad’s questions about where my scratches had gone.

After a quick shower, I dressed and went out to the garage, knowing Dad would already be out there.  And he was.  Still working on the exhaust, too.

With an internal sigh of gratitude, I slipped into our routine.  For once, it was welcome and comforting.

After lunch, I was helping Dad with the Flowmaster mufflers, tightening up some bolts he had started for me while he held the muffler assembly in place.  He had been grilling me about engine parts.  Any time we worked on a project, he used the time to teach me everything there was to know about the subject and then quizzed me relentlessly about it until we were finished.  Today was no exception. 

I had both hands on the wrench, straining to make the bolts as tight as I could when Dad threw me a curve ball.

“So, Carson, is there something you’d like to tell me about your hair?”

At first I was confused by his question then I remembered the lighter, more golden tint I’d noticed in the light that morning.  I didn’t think anyone else would detect it.

“No.  Why?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Just the way he said it was enough to irritate me.  “Notice what?  I haven’t done anything.”

“Carson Marie, you know better than to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.  When have I had time to do anything to my hair?”

He was thoughtful for a second before he answered.  “Last night I guess.”

“Well I didn’t.  I think it’s just getting lighter.”

“Overnight?”

“I guess so, Dad.  What’s the big deal?”

My temper was escalating by the second.

“No big deal.  You know how I feel about that kind of thing.  And you know I’d better not catch you in a lie, young lady.”

“I’m not lying!”  I was shouting, suddenly fuming. 

I was jerking at the wrench furiously when it slipped causing me to mash my fingers against the floor of the trunk.  I dropped the wrench, barely able to hold back the string of obscenities that rushed to the tip of my tongue.  I was positively livid; a reaction way out of proportion to what was happening, but not one that I seemed to have any control over.   

Within seconds I heard Dad yelp.  When I looked down at him, he was shaking his fingers.

“What did
you
do?”

“I don’t know why, but that muffler got hot all of a sudden. 
Really
hot!”

I could see that it was beginning to take on a reddish glow like metal typically does when it is superheated.  As quickly as it had come, my anger dissipated, eclipsed by concern for my dad.

We rolled out from under the car, each examining our injuries.  Neither was bad.  I felt sure we’d live.

“Maybe it’s time for a break.  How about some lunch,” I suggested.

As soon as we went inside, I poured myself a huge glass of water before I fixed us each a sandwich.  I was suddenly parched. 

After that we ate in silence, neither of us willing to broach the subject of my irrational anger.  As I nibbled my sandwich, more thirsty than hungry, I couldn’t help but wonder where all this temper was coming from.  And the language!  I never used bad language and was shocked that it had come so quickly to mind.

When we were finished, we headed back out to finish the exhaust.  When it was done, thankfully, Dad let me off the hook and said we’d start on the suspension Monday.  I had a free night.

I decided to go for a run before taking another shower.  I changed into my running clothes and shoes and hit the pavement.  I thought of my options for a free Saturday night.  It only took about a half mile to realize that I had few and those weren’t very appealing.  Homework, science fair project prep, call Leah or lock myself in my room. 

What a depressing thought!  I shook off that funk, unwilling to let it ruin one of the few things I truly enjoyed.  I redirected my thoughts and let my mind drift to the incident with Stephen Fitchco the previous evening.  I wondered what he would be doing on a Saturday night.  I doubted his options would be as boring as mine.

All too soon, I was back at my mailbox with no better choices than when I’d left.  Resigned, I decided to shower and spend the night locked in my room. 

The next morning I woke feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.  I had fallen asleep before I had a shower and then dreamed the same dream about the bloody snow and the stranger.  It took a lot of effort to drag myself from the comfort of my warm bed and make myself get into the shower. 

I spent a little extra time on my right shoulder, having seen a smudge of grease on it as I undressed.  I scrubbed the spot with my loofa, knowing that would get it off.  The rough sponge could remove anything, and I mean anything, including several layers of skin if I wasn’t careful. 

Spontaneously, I decided the rest of my skin could use a nice exfoliation, too, so I squirted some shower gel onto the sponge and went to work buffing the remainder of my body.

I stepped out of the shower feeling soft and smooth from head to toe.  Unable to see my reflection because of the steam, I took my lotion into the bedroom to complete my morning ritual. 

Just to be sure I’d gotten the spot off my shoulder, I walked to the full length mirror on the back of my door and turned halfway around where I could see my back.  Not only was the smudge not gone, it seemed to have gotten bigger and was turning a reddish orange color.  It had a teardrop shape to it, fat on one end and dramatically tapered on the other.  It reminded me of a flame, licking up toward my neck.  Maybe I’d burned myself and not realized it.  After all, Dad said the muffler had been hot.

As I turned back to face the mirror, I noticed how the light shone on my skin, even without lotion.  I walked over to the window and held my hands up.  My skin looked different.  Better.  Luminous.  I turned my hands over then held out my arms. 

My skin was practically flawless.  It looked like a thin, peaches-‘n-cream veil covering a pool of shimmering liquid.  I looked at my belly and legs and they, too, were covered with the same sheen.  The tone and texture were absolutely perfect, looking airbrushed like I’d seen on models in magazines.     

I walked back to the mirror to put on lotion.  As I massaged the scented cream into my skin, I noticed several other subtle, nearly imperceptible changes as well.  My waist, it looked a little more trim that usual, my belly flat and taut.  My hips flared out in a more womanly curve then tapered down to legs that had never looked leaner.  And my boobs—they seemed fuller and were tipped with a perfect dusty rose.

If I didn’t know my body so well, I might not have noticed.  But I did.  I don’t know how long I stood studying my reflection and all the differences I found there, but I was so immersed in my own thoughts, I jumped when Dad knocked at the door.

“Hurry up, Carson.  We’re going to be late,” he boomed.

Pushing the bizarre thoughts out of my head, I hurried to the closet and pulled out a neat fitted dress in black that buttoned up the front.  Church clothes were the one area in which Dad never fussed about me splurging and looking like a girl.

I slipped on my shoes and went to stand in front of the mirror one last time before heading out the door.  Sure enough, even my clothes fit a little differently, the material a little more snug around my hips and chest, looser around my waist.  I shook out my hair, which looked even lighter against the black of my dress, and then rushed out to meet Dad.

I hopped into the truck, which was already running, and Dad sped away.  I saw him cast several sidelong glances in my direction, but, much to my relief, he didn’t say a word about my appearance.  I hoped he wouldn’t notice anything but my hair.   I doubted that would be the case, however, because Dad is extremely observant. 

We walked into church just as the choir was starting to sing.  There were no seats near the front so we had to walk all the way down the aisle to the back row where there were still a few empty spaces on the pews.

As we passed, I saw several people who normally never paid me any attention looking at me and whispering.  Some were girls, some were guys.  I wondered what they saw.  A freak, a weirdo, a pretty girl, something different they couldn’t quite put their finger on?  It made me more than a little uncomfortable.  I’d been a wallflower all my life, plainly
not
noteworthy.  I’d wanted attention, yes, but in a good way.  The
good
kind of attention.  I didn’t know if I could stand the curiously repulsed attention that being a freak would get me. 

Appropriately, Mike, Dad’s pastor, taught in 2 Corinthians 12:6–8.  I didn’t usually pay much attention, but this time I couldn’t help but see the parallels to my own life.  Paul had some sort of affliction, one he called a “thorn in the flesh”.  Three times he asked God to remove the thorn, but God didn’t. 

What a God,
I thought bitterly.  Paul was one of His best helpers and He wouldn’t even take away a simple “thorn”.  I’d never really thrown in with Dad’s beliefs.  And hearing lessons like this did nothing to convince me that I was missing out on much of anything.  But Dad always made me go, though usually it wasn’t too bad.  I mean I got to dress up to go sit and daydream for an hour.  I’d definitely had worse hours in my life, that’s for sure.

That night, my sleep was anything but restful; my dreams were plagued with the same images.  Over and over, I’d find myself in the bloody snow, terrified by a dark stranger.  And each time, at the same instant, I’d wake up in a near-panic, only to fall back asleep and dream it all over again.

By the time Monday morning dawned, I was exhausted.  I got ready in a daze, dressing in my usual jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt.  After brushing my hair out straight, I had a quiet breakfast with Dad then walked up the street to meet Leah.

She was waiting by her mailbox, as she always was.  Dressed in a plaid skirt, red sweater and knee-high socks, she looked like a Catholic school girl, as she always did.  A
geeky
Catholic school girl. 

She fell into step beside me, matching my rhythm.  She had to take almost two steps for my every one, though, what with her shorter legs and all.  But we moved together like a well-oiled machine.  She started chattering instantly, telling me all about some book she’d read over the weekend.  As usual, I tuned her out.

Leah’s hand on my arm brought me back to the present.  She stopped and faced me, fists on her hips.  “So what’s the deal?  Are you going to tell me about your makeover or what?”

“Huh?”  I was lost.