Matters of Faith

by Kristy Kiernan

  Two days before their arrival, I put fresh sheets on Marshall’s bed, smoothing his pillows, running my hands down the spread, tugging at wrinkles that weren’t there. I missed him. His fresh-man year at college he’d come home as often as he could, called every other day, made me feel needed and missed. But this year I was lucky to get an e-mail once a week, and questions about his friends and classes that he used to answer readily had been met with silence.

  All natural, of course. All the way it was supposed to be. And, in fact, Marshall’s pulling away had probably come later than might have been considered normal. But then Marshall had never been a typical kid.

  I dusted his dresser, picked up the large wood cross he’d hung all his necklaces on, and wiped under that as the pendants swung and clinked against each other—crosses, crucifixes, ankhs, and spirals and stars—mixing happily, without rancor, the way their representative religions seemed unable to manage in the real world. I fingered the gold Star of David that Ira’s parents had given him after their son’s funeral.

  Poor Ira. At least his end had come rather quickly. There’s not much time for suffering when you are, literally, hit by a train. It was Ira’s parents who suffered, and Marshall, of course. Cal would say that was where all of Marshall’s issues started, but Marshall and I had been having theological discussions for years before that.

  True, it had escalated, more rapidly than I’d been aware of at the time. But he’d also been on the cusp of puberty, a natural time to start exploring the larger questions in life.

  Marshall’s first cross, small and silver, on a thin leather cord, hung between Ira’s star and a red, knotted kabbalah string. I clicked it with my fingernail and looked around Marshall’s room one last time, wondering what Ada would think of the lack of decoration—no posters, no sports equipment in the corners. Aside from the necklaces on the dresser and the religion books on the shelf above his bed, it was practically monklike.

  I gave the room one last glance as I backed out the door. The sun winked off a crystal pendant, throwing prisms across the otherwise bare walls, dagger-shaped rainbows as beautiful as any painting.

  CAL had watched our preparations throughout the week with a bemused smile, but the day before they were due he came home with a fresh haircut and offered to make whole grain bread, something he hadn’t done in years. The three of us worked in the kitchen together, music floating in from the living room, the windows open and the smell of the Gulf of Mexico and the bay filling the house, as soft as hope.

  A rush of affection for Cal, something I hadn’t felt in a long time, hit me when I saw him bent over the counter, kneading dough. He and Meghan were talking about fishing, and I studied him, seeing the young man I’d met when I was younger than Marshall was now.

  He’d come out of the backwoods of middle Florida, land weary and religion exhausted, running from his mother, the reputation of his brother, the memory of his father. We’d met when my boyfriend, a fellow art major, took me on an airboat tour of the Everglades. Cal had been our boat captain, silent while our guide yelled over the engine, staring at me while everyone else stared at ospreys on their massive nests and alligators slipping into the grassy water.

  I’d felt his eyes on me the whole time, and when I finally got off the boat, my knees weak, ears ringing, shaking wind-flattened bugs out of my clothes and hair, I was flush with more than sunburn. He handed me a phone number along with a warm can of Coke, and I’d slipped it into my pocket with a breathless glance at my boyfriend.

  I called him that night and he picked me up at my dorm. We’d only spent a handful of nights apart since. He got me through college, he got me through the disappearance of my parents—on sabbatical in the Galápagos the year after we married when their boat went down—and he got me through the births of Marshall and Meghan.

  And then somewhere along the line, he—the determined man who wouldn’t take his eyes off me—had slowly disappeared, into work, into his workshop to tinker with engines and fishing gear, into the Gulf and the Everglades. Or perhaps I’d simply lost sight of him. Who knows how a marriage disintegrates, by what degrees, what its half-life is?

  Now, as he shaped the dough into a ball and gently slipped it into an oiled bowl, I thought I saw him again. He looked up, and I didn’t look away but smiled at him, feeling a laugh bubble up in my throat when he did a double take. He grinned and winked at me while our daughter’s sweet voice splashed through the kitchen in bright, happy colors. And for a moment we were back, and I couldn’t wait for Marshall and his first girlfriend to walk through that door and remind us of ourselves.

  MARSHALL

  He was letting Ada drive the last half. He was exhausted with the telling of Ira’s story. He’d never told anyone at college about it before; he’d never wanted to take the chance that he would break down, maybe cry in front of people who had not known Ira, could not understand how close they had been.

  But Ada was different. She was so very different. And she had been rapt as he’d told the story, gasping when he told her about the train, how massive it had seemed, how close, how fast. She placed her hand on his leg, rubbing his thigh sympathetically. To his surprise, he hadn’t cried. Just her presence, just her listening to the most pivotal moment of his life, was enough to comfort him, and when they’d stopped to gas up the car and change places, she’d held him and kissed him right there in front of truckers and everyone.

  And he’d let her drive, not just because he was tired, but because she’d asked so—there was no other word for it—she’d asked so damn cutely, he could not resist, and because now he could look at her rather than the road. Every time he looked at her he found something new, something more delicate, something more astonishing than the last thing he’d noticed.

  Like right then, she downshifted into fourth gear, and when she flexed her foot on the gas pedal he noticed the line of muscle running down her thigh. His mouth suddenly got dry, and he wanted more than anything to lean over the console and run his tongue over that line of muscle.

  He swallowed and looked out the window. Jesus. He swallowed again, reforming the unconscious epithet into a short prayer. She made him think in ways he’d never thought before, never knew he could think before.

  They’d been weak. He’d tasted the skin over that muscle before, the night she’d teased him into inviting her home for spring break. He’d professed as much regret as she had. But it was all he could think about.

  She shifted up to fifth and tossed her head, trying to get a lock of dark hair blown by the wind out of the side of her mouth. He reached for it at the same time as she did, but she got there first, hooking her index finger over it and drawing it out, and had she drawn her shirt over her head it couldn’t have left him more breathless. He shifted in his seat and nearly groaned aloud.

  His hands curled of their own accord, his fingers grasping the air beside his thighs the way they wanted to grab hold of her hair.

  “So what else did your mom say?” she asked. “What should I call her?”

  He shrugged, irritated to have the image of his mother sliding over Ada’s, but relieved too. “Chloe, I guess,” he said. His mother had always told his friends to call her Chloe. He didn’t figure it would be any different for Ada.

  “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.

  Two

  “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 f
aucet, 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 c
ool 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?”