One day, Mrs. Sanderson took both of my hands into her own. We stood there beside a giant window projecting a Technicolor world with rays of sunshine gleaming through giant oak limbs and lemon-yellow flowers lining the sidewalks underneath. She tightened her lips and squeezed my hands so hard it almost hurt, and then she told me the one thing that everyone else seemed to agree on when it came to explaining the death of my mother.
“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Sanderson said. I remember her smoothing my hair behind my ears and gently putting her hands on my shoulders as if to keep me from floating away. “Your mother went on to be with the Lord.”
It was like the whole world outside her window darkened and faded, and even now I sometimes find myself waiting for it to brighten back to the Before. But there’s no getting back to the Before when you’re trapped in the After.
And that day at school was the last time I ever drew a mermaid or spoke of my mother.
STEP 6: Show how following the Kingdom’s steps will take away all of their burdens. Seek a commitment, even if the commitment is only to try the next step.
Girl Before Mirror
The next week, Heather sifts through the clothes in my closet, where each rejected hanger screeches with rhythmic shoves to the left.
“Why don’t you ever wear any of this?” she asks.
Heather decided we must find the perfect outfits before my first church service on Sunday. “It’s important to look as sharp as possible. Our appearance directly reflects our spiritual commitment. And, to be honest”—she lifts a pair of frayed blue jeans off the floor—“you could really use some help in that department.”
“Hey,” I protest from my bed littered with notebooks, where I’m studying for an art exam. “I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t you want Josh to notice?” Heather can’t bring up Josh’s name without using that suggestive tone or adding a smirk. I ignore the bait. She still doesn’t know he calls me, and I’m afraid of giving her a reaction to interpret. I haven’t actually seen Josh since the Pictionary game, but his calls are the bright spots in my day. Somehow, he always manages to catch me when Heather isn’t around, which is rare these days. After our conversation about my mom, Heather quickly became more than just a Bible study partner; we are friends, and to Heather that means spending almost every free moment together.
I study the Picassos from my list. The first one is a colorful abstract image of two figures facing each other. The female on the left pushes one hand against a thick vertical barrier; her other arm reaches through it to grasp a distorted version of herself. This is Girl Before Mirror. The barrier is the mirror. Check.
“A little birdie told me Josh has been talking about you to his Discipling Partner. What do you think about that?” She arches an eyebrow, and turns back to sifting through clothes again.
I pause to wrap my head around this new piece of information. “Who. Ben?”
“Yes. Josh doesn’t do anything without Ben’s approval, and Ben can be very … well, let’s just say, opinionated.”
I remember how Ben’s presence at the Pictionary game sparked a sense of edginess. It was so contrary to my first encounter with just Josh, Heather, and Andrew. An uneasiness seeps into my thoughts.
Heather inhales a sharp gasp. “Oooo, Em. This is cute. Can I borrow it?” She pulls out a forest green skirt and matching beaded top.
“You can have it,” I say.
“Wait. They still have the tags on them,” Heather says, frowning. “Are you sure?”
“It’s okay. I don’t care.”
I’ve never liked the clothes my stepmother Patti bought for me, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. Throughout high school she tried so hard to bond with me in the only ways she knew how, shopping being the primary one. So when I first broke the news to Patti and Dad about going to Boston for college, she spent months scouring catalogs to acquire a cold-weather wardrobe for me, something I’d never needed on the Gulf Coast. The problem is she’s never quite processed the fact that I don’t dress like my stepsister, Tamara. Patti would literally faint if she knew I wore the same 501s and faded sweatshirt four days in a row without washing them.
I look back down at the list of art left to memorize. A twinge of anxiety darts through my mind. I’ve only checked off three things. It’s the first time I’ve ever allowed myself to get behind in art history—in any of my classes—and my exam is tomorrow morning. I haven’t even been to the coffee shop to study since we played Pictionary.
Although the Quiet Time and Bible Talks have been cutting into my studies, I really look forward to them. My QTs, the solitary periods of reflection and prayer, leave me centered in a way I’ve never experienced before, and I like the challenge of the BTs, the study guides staggered with blanks, and the slippery sound the onionskin pages make as we search for the answers. When a verse interpretation confuses me, Heather guides me to its true meaning.
Heather practically lives in my dorm room now. We’ve even started meeting up at lunch, sometimes ditching the cafeteria for the food stalls at Quincy Market, trying something new each time. Since I met Heather, Boston has become an exciting city I enjoy exploring, but it also feels more like home—something I never expected to feel.
I look up the next image as Heather struggles with the zipper of the suede skirt. I smile at the goofy way she’s contorting herself to get it to zip. I’ve never met anyone with more determination than Heather.
“Just wait until you hear him speak,” she says, as she closes the stubborn gap with a quick zip.
“Who?” I’m looking at my notes again, suddenly overwhelmed by the stress of having to memorize more than one hundred images in my art history book, which is open to a full-page reprint of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus.
“Um. Earth to Emily?” Heather turns around to shoot me a disapproving look. “The Leader,” she answers. She pulls the top over her head, and then frees her hair from its neckline. Maybe it’s my fatigue, or the utter desperation to cram for this exam, but in that moment, Heather’s reflection looks eerily similar to Botticelli’s redhead perched atop the half-shell in my textbook. Only a nineties version, clad in Ralph Lauren.
I smile as I look back down at my list and write: Heather = Venus, then place a check mark beside the word Botticelli with a small wave of relief.
Heather begins digging through my closet again. She pulls out a green and pink floral-print Laura Ashley outfit, the kind with a Peter Pan collar and balloon-shaped pants. “Nooo, no, no,” I say, remembering the day I got the outfit in the mail. The note said, “I thought this would look so cute on you. Love, Patti.” I also remember how Sadie had walked into our dorm room just as I was trying it on, and then proceeded to laugh at me periodically for the rest of the day.
“Oh, this will match the green in my outfit perfectly, though,” Heather says. She hangs it on my closet door and stands beside it. “See?” she pleads.
I picture my stepmother watching this unfold with a tight-lipped smile, her eyes sparkling approval. Oh, Emil-eeeeee, she’d say. It just makes me so happy that you liked it. Maybe I’ll mail Patti a picture of Heather and me together to appease her two nagging concerns: bad fashion choices and lack of friends. “All right. Fine,” I say, determined to get back to my notes.
I have exactly two hours to finish studying if I want to get a decent night’s sleep and wake up in time for my QT before the exam. I try to block out my other assignments and the packed calendar of looming deadlines.
“It’s settled, then,” Heather says. She peels off the skirt, pulls her jeans on, and looks down at her watch. “Oh! We almost forgot about our BT!”
My face turns numb with panic. “Heather. I’ve got to study for art. I’m scared I’m going to fail this test.
“I have an idea,” she says, grabbing an index card off my desk. “We can have a shorter BT … without Bibles.” Her eyes flicker defiantly.
I sigh. “Okay, as long you promise it will be quick.” I sit up and re-clip
my hair—still hesitant but grateful for her concession. Heather hands me an index card and leads me to my desk chair.
“Okay. Close your eyes.” I do as she says and breathe in. “Think about your frustrations. Think about specific things. Like a list. What frustrates you more than anything? It could be people, places, situations, anything. Just think about it, and then write it all down on this card.”
I open my eyes and scoot my chair up to the desk. My mind begins spewing frustrations faster than I can write. Exhaustion. This dorm. Noise. Deadlines. Papers. Exams. Not enough time to roam museums. Sadie. Sadie’s friends staring through me. ANGER. (Why am I so angry?) My mother will never see me graduate from college. Or get married. My mother will never know me at all. I will never know her. Dad.
Rage creeps into my hand as I write. Then a wave of sadness overlaps the anger.
“Are you done?” Heather is smiling at the success of this activity, but her tone changes when she notices my expression. “Trust me, you’ll feel better in a sec.”
As I look at my card jam-packed with scribbled words, I feel gutted and exposed. “Are you going to read this?” I ask.
“Of course not. This is just between you and God. Fold it in half if you want.”
I fold the card over and press the edge back and forth.
“Just focus on one thing: your life without any of these frustrations. How would it feel? Kneel on the floor and close your eyes, and then hold your card in your hand.”
I follow her instructions.
Heather moves around as she talks. “Think about your life free of every single item on this card as you rip it up.”
I tear it slowly. It’s a satisfying sound. I stack the halves and tear through them again. And then I rip it into over and over. I look down at the shredded mess.
Heather goes to my window and yanks it as far as it will open. The traffic noise drifts inside as the wind gusts into the room. I inhale the cool breeze as she looks at me expectantly. “Now pick up those pieces and let them go.”
Gathering the paper fragments, I approach my window. In the distance, the surface of the river reflects a glittery patch of buildings. Down below, people stroll in every direction. I fling the pieces out the window, where they disappear into the night like secret confetti. As the fragments of words fall toward the sidewalk, I imagine one falling into an unsuspecting passerby’s bag filled with mundane necessities, carried too far away to ever be recovered. It feels like the words on that list don’t even belong to me anymore.
Heather slams the window shut. “All gone,” she says with a wide smile. “See how easy?”
I stare out the window into the blinking night. A sense of peace overcomes me. I can’t remember ever feeling this free. For years I’ve been carrying burdens that no one ever noticed or bothered to care about—until now. People I’ve only known for a few weeks have shown me more kindness and care than people I’ve known for my entire life. I look to Heather, a comforting and supportive smile on her face, and I can’t help but believe that maybe this really is the way.
love bombing: the use of attention and affection to influence an individual; induces a social high and instills a deep trust; can lead to physical attraction
A Place You Miss the Most
The first one is delicately perched on my Art Appreciation desk.
I haven’t seen an origami animal since elementary school when a classmate’s mother showed my class how to make them. We were given squares of thin, bright paper and a list of instructions for folding it in specific directions. I still remember the mess I made of my attempt that day, but this one is a perfect swan with an elongated neck made of notebook paper. It sits on my desk like an elaborate question mark.
I slide into my seat and glance at the guy beside me. His face is buried into his arm. I turn around. The girl behind me is scanning her notes.
“Excuse me. Do you know who left this?” I hold up the swan.
“No,” she says, glancing at me for a mere second before looking back at her textbook. She tugs at the French braid draped over her shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut as she mouths answers to the possible questions Dr. Cranston may throw at us.
I probably should be cramming too, but now I’m way too distracted. I’ve been sitting in the same spot since the first week of class—this had to be for me, right? I pick up the swan and see the red ink on the undersides of the folded paper, my name written in a tiny masculine scrawl along the other side of its neck. Open me, it says.
I carefully pull its tail until Dr. Cranston’s voice interrupts.
“Put your books and notes away, everyone. Time for your exam.”
I slip the swan into my backpack and try to focus on what I memorized the night before.
* * *
The moment the test is over, I rush out of the classroom. Students stream around me as they crown themselves with headphones, their Walkmans hissing a cacophony of lo-fi music from wherever they clicked stop before class. I pull the swan out of my backpack and lean against the wall to tug at its folds, struggling to get to the message inside:
The next one lies
in a pond
on the back of a swan.
Today at one.
I try to imagine Josh writing these lines or even folding this piece of paper. It just doesn’t seem like him based on the little I know. But who else would it be? I wander through the glass doors and into the sunlight. As I’m crossing Commonwealth, a bus glides by a little too closely. It honks a warning just as I figure it out. The Swan Boats.
By the time I get to the Common, there’s a line of tourists. The Swan Boats always seemed like the equivalent of a carousel ride at the mall, yet today I’m eager to board. I scan the benches on the boat. Nothing. The back row is empty, so I slide across just as the young boat driver settles into a metal tractorlike seat behind a large carved rendering of a swan.
As we take off, I try to relax. A sense of freedom hits me as the boat disconnects from land, but I can’t stop searching the grassy banks for Josh. The breeze makes me smile. Trees hover politely along the curved bank, the wall of buildings creating a solid fortress behind them. And, for a moment, I forget why I’m here.
“Are you Emily?” a voice behind me asks.
I spin around to see the boat driver pulling something out of his shirt pocket. He’s smiling when he hands me an origami fish.
“Do you know who left this?” I ask.
“A tall guy,” he says. “Like maybe a student or something.” I realize by his constant movement that he’s actually pedaling our boat. He looks over me as if focusing on our route. I turn around to open the fish:
Come find me in
A place you miss the most
Near countless boats
Glass walls inside
Where fish can hide but there’s no tide.
My mind spins. Glass walls inside. Where fish can hide.
The moment the Swan Boat docks, I rush to the T and check the wall map to find the aquarium stop. When I get there, I push through the metal doors and maneuver around the crush of people. The smell of saltwater fills the air. A bold sense of adventure consumes me as I hold the origami fish. I’m almost positive I’m looking for Josh. A tinge of insecurity seeps in as I imagine him going to all of this trouble. I never received this much attention before; even my high school boyfriend wasn’t this thoughtful. It’s enough to make me giddy.
I look around again to see thick crowds of families with kids, tourists with maps, guides corralling people onto a ferry. Just as I begin to doubt my understanding of the riddle, someone taps my shoulder. Josh’s smile is mischievous.
I swat his arm reflexively. “Seriously?” I hold up the origami.
“What? Did you make that for me?” He smirks.
I swat his arm again, my adrenaline high still strong.
“Hey now.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder as we walk together. “Just come with me.” He hands me a ticket as we walk past the line snakin
g around the corded guides. I steady myself against him, fighting the light-headed effects of our surprise first … Wait. Is this a date?
My nerves begin to calm as Josh leads me up the spiral landing surrounding the cylindrical tank that runs all the way up to the ceiling. The eerie glow of the room adds a sense of intrigue, like we’re on some kind of mission. I laugh at this thought, and he gives me a mock-offended look.
“Why are we here?” I ask him.
“Isn’t this what you said you miss?” he asks.
“Fish tanks?” I joke.
“No, silly. The water.”
“I know,” I say with a side glance. I can’t believe he planned all this for me. My smile won’t leave my face. We keep walking along the glass walls spiraling upward, as if mesmerized, swept up in the same momentum as the fish. “It’s amazing to me how they crammed the entire ocean into this tiny place,” he says.
A bright yellow fish darts along the window as we circle upward. I try to follow it, but it swims into the middle, out of view. I turn to him. “Are your friends here?”
“Nope.”
“Wow. So we’re actually alone?” I mock gasp. “What would Ben and Heather say?”
Josh doesn’t answer. He suddenly seems uncomfortable, looking down at his feet instead of the fish. “Sorry, I was just joking …,” I say, kicking myself for bringing it up and ruining the moment.
He looks at me. “I know you must think this is all kind of strange. And I guess it is.” He turns his back to lean against the glass wall. When he looks at me again, I focus on a giant mountain of coral to avoid eye contact so he won’t see that yes, I think it’s a little strange that the Kingdom is having such a positive impact on my life, but the random stipulations are becoming extremely frustrating. “I just wanted to find a way to see you again, without anyone else around,” he continues.
Those Who Prey Page 5
