by L. G. McCary
“Liana is one of the worst ones! She’s Hannah’s minion.” I’m furious. I slice the green onions with quick but deliberate strokes so I won’t cut myself. “Diana doesn’t do anything about it either, and she should.”
“Diana…” David looks puzzled for a moment. “Oh, wait. Short blonde hair?”
“Rylie’s Sunday school teacher, yes. She lets Hannah and Liana do whatever they want. I saw it at the sixth-grade pool party.”
“Girl drama. I do not get it.” David drops some ice cubes into his glass and fills it with water from the refrigerator. “And Hannah started it all?”
“Yes!” I am spitting mad. I dump the onions into a bowl and set the knife in the sink. “And whatever happened today, it was deliberate, David. I know it was.”
“Are you sure they didn’t tell Rylie about this party or whatever it is? Maybe she was invited and forgot about it.”
I set the onions on the counter. It’s true Rylie has forgotten to tell me about events before, but not for church. I can’t deny that’s a possibility, even if it’s an unlikely one.
“It’s possible, but I think it’s more likely that Hannah’s a brat.” I’ve thought it a hundred times but never said it out loud. David snorts and smirks over his water glass.
“You mean the kid who has the entire book of 2 Timothy memorized?” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “How could she be a brat?”
I pull out the plates for lunch and put a finger to my lips when I hear Rylie emerging from her room. She slumps into the kitchen and grates the cheese with a vengeance. She’s a bundle of anger and hurt, writhing and struggling beneath the surface. Why are girls so cruel?
In the doorway to the living room, She materializes like light on fog. Her blue blouse is stained with tears. She watches me and clasps Her hands in front of Her like She is pleading with me. I look at Rylie and back to Her. She nods and pantomimes hugging.
She’s trying to help. I slowly inhale with my eyes closed, and when I open them, she’s gone.
“Honey, come here,” I say to Rylie.
“What.” Her voice is flat. I fold her into a hug and squeeze her tight. She puts her head on my shoulder and sags against me. We stand in the kitchen that way for a long moment. David sets down his water and comes over to wrap us both in a hug. He plants kisses on Rylie’s forehead and my cheek.
“What happened, Rylie?” I say as gently as possible.
“I don’t want to go to church tonight,” she says into my shoulder.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” Rylie says.
David watches her turn away to grate the rest of the cheese and frowns.
“I was thinking we could go walk by the lake this afternoon,” David says.
Rylie whirls around to face him. “And feed the ducks?”
“Naturally,” he says. “What do you think, Mom?”
“Fine by me,” I say. “Unless Rylie has changed her mind about going shopping with Ellie.”
Rylie opens her mouth to say something and stops herself.
“How about we eat while you decide?” I ask her.
Eating first is a good plan. Rylie globs her potato with butter and cheese. She finally decides on doing both: first the lake to feed the ducks, then on to the mall to shop with Ellie. After lots of texting back and forth, we arrange to meet Ellie in one of the department stores. David and I will walk around on our own while the girls shop.
We finish lunch and change into comfortable clothes for the lake.
“I have to show you how I skip rocks!” Rylie says to David as we climb in the car.
“You can skip rocks?” I say.
“I learned at dance camp last summer,” Rylie says. “Sofia showed me how. I’m really good at it!”
I bite back tears. She grabs hold of life with both hands and expects everyone else to do the same. And Hannah...I shouldn’t hate a child, but I do. I hate that girl right now. And I hate Yvonne for creating that brat.
Rylie spends the ride to the lake talking about a new worship dance she wants to choreograph with Ellie.
“You know what’s not fair?” she says after a dramatic sigh. “Hannah texts in class all the time, but Mrs. Black never takes her phone. She takes everybody else’s phone.”
“Maybe Hannah is better at hiding it,” I say.
“No.” She squints at her fingernails. “I think Mrs. Black doesn’t want to get in trouble with Hannah’s mom. Ellie says everyone is afraid of Mrs. Bailey.”
I don’t dare respond to her because that’s exactly what I think. It’s ridiculous, but even I have to admit I’m afraid to cross Yvonne.
David pulls the car into the parking lot at the lake. The sun is hot, but the wind from the lake is cool and gentle this afternoon. Rylie skips from the car to the trail. I close my eyes and let the sun warm my cheeks. Rylie sings and dances her way toward the lake while we follow.
“Mom, look! A rabbit!” The tiny gray bunny hops away under a cedar tree. The grass has turned brown from the hot summer, but a few patches of green have managed to hold on under the trees.
Rylie grabs the bag of birdseed and runs full tilt toward the rocky outcrop where the ducks like to gather. A few fly away, squawking in protest, but one large goose honks at her and stands his ground.
“Here, fatty!” she says, tossing a handful of seeds at the goose’s head.
It squawks again and picks at the seeds on the ground while glaring at us. I sit on a bench and watch her toss seeds up into the sky to challenge the seagulls. Her jumps are elegant and fluid. They morph into arabesques and plies as she spins around the flock of birds. Then she adds in chicken arms and quacking.
“Hey Mom, I’m the Duck Princess!” she shouts and leaps to music I imagine must be playing in her head. She is beautiful and ridiculous all at the same time.
“Rylie, watch out! You’re almost in the water!” She skips a few steps back onto the beach and laughs, then quacks and flaps at a nearby mallard who is giving her the side-eye.
“M’lady, I am in awe of your superior dancing skills.” David bows low.
Rylie giggles and races toward the beach. “Watch, Dad!”
She is so much younger today than she has been in years. I miss this little girl. I follow her down to the water and try to skip rocks. Mine thump into the water and disappear without the slightest bounce, but she and David get into a competition. David sets the record with ten skips.
I wonder how anyone could want to hurt someone so full of life. These girls must be jealous. I wish I could shake them out of it. Or give their mothers a good shaking. They are crushing my girl’s spirit.
“Glad to see you smile, Rylie-Girl,” I say as she comes back up from the sand to get a drink of water. “You looked pretty mad this morning.”
The storm clouds instantly return to her face.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” I ask as gently as possible.
Rylie bites her lip and folds her arms, trying her very hardest not to cry. “They all went to Hannah’s house after church.”
“Who did?”
“Liana and everybody.” She sits down on the bench at the edge of the beach and pulls her knees up to her chest. “But not me.”
“Oh, honey.” I sit beside her and wrap my arm around her shoulders. David stands next to us without saying anything.
“They were going to tie-dye T-shirts,” she says, sniffing but stubbornly refusing to cry. “I wanted to go, but Hannah said I had to bring a T-shirt. She said I was supposed to bring one, and if I didn’t bring one, I couldn’t go. She said everyone knew last week, but I didn’t! Nobody told me!”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” David says. He swallows and turns away to look at the lake. I recognize that face. He’s fighting tears, too.
“Hannah is so stupid. Everybody says she’s nice, but she’s not.”
“Not everybody,” I say and hug my daughter like I’m shielding her from the world.
Th
irty
Yvonne and Renee have been talking from the moment they sat down at the table at Bible study. Morgan is distracted with her phone. I thought we were sharing prayer requests, but only Tori is listening. It’s me, Tori, and Morgan on one side of the round table and Renee and Yvonne on the other.
“David’s mom has been sick all week,” I say. “She always gets bronchitis in the winter.” Morgan nods without looking up, but the other two are flat-out ignoring me. I decide not to finish my thought and give Tori a shrug.
“You okay, Charlotte?” Yvonne says.
I purse my lips, then try to smile. “Yep, just fine,” I tell her. “Anyone else have a prayer request?”
“Pray for my friend’s daughter, Danielle,” Yvonne says. “She was diagnosed with leukemia.”
I shamelessly bury my head in my phone. I can’t listen to medical details and treatments I should never type into a search engine if I want to sleep soundly. It’s a constant temptation to compare my own headaches, nausea, and whatever else shows up to whatever diagnosis Yvonne brings up every week. If she could turn off the nurse-speak for ten minutes, prayer time would be a lot shorter at our table. Maybe I should skip Bible study next year.
“I have one,” Tori says. Yvonne is still talking about leukemia, so I clear my throat.
“What, Tori?” I prod. The table falls silent, and Morgan looks up from her phone for the first time.
“It’s been a rough few months for me. For us both,” she says, her voice uneven. “And I’d appreciate some prayer. I need wisdom.”
“Anything specific, honey?” Yvonne asks.
Tori picks at the edge of her Bible. “I have to make some decisions this year that I’m not sure about. Greg, too.”
I wonder what prompted this. Tori has been distant for months now. She hasn’t mentioned her mom recently, so I doubt that’s the problem. I search her face for a hint. Why don’t I know what’s going on? I should know. She always seems to know what is bothering me even though I stopped requesting prayer months ago. I shouldn’t care what Yvonne thinks, but I do. I care what she says about me and about Rylie when I’m not there.
Renee gives me a look and nods ever so slightly toward Tori. I shake my head slightly. I don’t know what’s wrong, but Renee would be the last person I would tell if I did.
Tori and Greg have been married for eleven years now. I wonder if they’re looking into adopting. I write a smiley face and praying hands on my notepaper and gently get Tori’s attention. She smiles, but she looks tired.
Would it be prying to ask what was wrong? Tori is my best friend, but sometimes I feel like there are questions I’m not allowed to ask. This might be one of them.
As we pack up at the end of Bible study, I decide I should take her to lunch sometime. We haven’t been anywhere for a girl’s date in months. I mention it as we walk out to the parking lot, and she nods reluctantly.
“Not this week,” she says. “Let me get home and check Greg’s school schedule.”
“Well, we’re going to go sometime,” I say. “We haven’t gotten to talk in a long time.”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry, Charlotte. I will make the time.”
“You know I’ll be praying for you,” I say, my voice tentative. “Can you tell me what I’m praying for?”
“Of course I can tell you,” she says with a sad smile. “I’m thinking about quitting my job.”
I realize my mouth has dropped open and snap it shut again. “I thought you liked consulting. What happened?”
“Nothing happened at work. Greg and I have been talking a lot about priorities, and I don’t know if working at the firm fits with...” She hesitates, fumbling for words. “I may need to do something with more flexibility.”
“Are you...” I don’t even know how to ask if she’s pregnant, but I can’t contain my excitement.
“No.” The word is cold, and my smile wilts. She won’t look at me.
“I’m sorry, Tori. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not pregnant.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.
“I’d better go. I need to get back home to finish some things.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be,” she says, brushing the apology away. “I appreciate you praying for me. And for Greg.”
“Always.”
The drive home feels longer than usual. I’m dreading walking in the door, but maybe She won’t be there today. I haven’t seen Her all week. I want to work on my painting again.
The house is still and quiet. Rylie will be home from school later, so I tidy the kitchen and head out to the studio.
The familiar pungent smell of oil paints wraps around me like a sweater. I’ve found the right shade of blue. Deep blue hollow eyes glare at me from behind chin-length face-framing layers of brown hair. The blue shirt hangs about Her shoulders like a death shroud, but I’ve been careful to make Her fingers grip the arms with the white knuckles I’ve memorized. She is holding onto her death shroud for dear life. Seeing Her frozen on a canvas seems to make the fear fade. She’s harmless there. She can’t follow me or scream at me soundlessly or try to touch me and send shivers down my back. The painting pleads with me, tears of agony etching canyons into Her face.
She looks so familiar, like a younger version of my mother. I only catch Her face in snatches and side glances, but I know I’ve captured it. And that blue shirt makes me shudder.
“I didn’t know you were painting a self-portrait.”
The words are an electric shock. Every hair on my neck stands on end. I whirl to face David, home early.
“What did you say?”
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
I look back at the painting, and my breath catches in my throat.
“No...” I try to choke out. But the words die in my throat. She’s standing next to me with tears in her eyes, screaming something at me. I refuse to look at Her. I fix my eyes on the painting and swallow.
“No, that’s not me.” She jumps in front of the painting, now reaching toward my face, making me flinch. The words on Her lips are unmistakable: Yes, I am!
“Oh, sorry, honey. It looks a lot like you.”
“I don’t even know Her.” The words are flat, but they seem to stab Her to the heart. She crumples to the floor and melts into mist.
“I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“You look mad, Charlie.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a portrait study. Nothing important.”
David raises an eyebrow at me.
“You’ve been in here working on it every day.”
“Just practice. I’m working on eyes and hands.”
“It’s beautiful, Charlie.” He rubs my shoulder and pulls me to him in a tight hug. “She looks sad, though.”
“I’m trying to capture hard emotions.”
He peers at the canvas with a curious eye and frowns in thought. “Well, she’s making me depressed to look at her. She looks so sad.”
“Why are you home early?” I interrupt him.
“Client meeting was canceled. I decided not to stick around doing paperwork.”
“Oh.” I need him to leave. I turn back to the painting and try to pretend I don’t see it.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti.” Why won’t he leave?
“With meatballs?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“Yum. Love you.” He finally walks away to the bedroom, leaving me alone with the painting.
That’s not me. That’s impossible. I peer around the edge of the doorway into the living room, looking for Her. I don’t really look like Her.
Do I?
The hair, the eyes, the jawline…it’s all identical. But I don’t wear blue, and the haircut isn’t the same.
The ghost appears in the living room, lying on the couch in the blue silk shirt, mascara running down Her cheeks. She is solid and cl
ear, and Her face is unmistakable.
For a moment, it’s as if I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. When I get my breath back, I start to hyperventilate. I pant and grab the frame of the doorway as the room spins.
She’s me.
My stomach churns, and I run to the hall bathroom to throw up.
Thirty-One
I don’t know how this discussion got started, but it wasn’t what I was expecting in Sunday school this morning.
“I said I’m surprised you’re still allowing her to dance,” Greg says, his voice thick with disgust.
“I’m sorry?” I have no idea how to respond or why he’s saying this in the first place.
“After all, dance is so sensual, and she’s getting to the age that it’s going to become a problem.”
David and I look at each other. I’m sure Yvonne’s eyes are drilling holes in the back of my head.
“Greg, you do know Rylie does ballet?” David says. “Not pole-dancing or whatever you’re thinking.”
“I don’t see that the type of dance makes a difference. I would never allow a child of mine to participate,” he says. “There are plenty of creative outlets that are more modest, like music.”
“Or stamp collecting,” David says, rolling his eyes. “Or baking. Or sitting quietly in a corner like a mindless drone.”
“David,” I whisper and nudge him. I don’t want a fight in the middle of church.
“I think you should consider that she’s getting older, and certain things are no longer—”
“I think you should keep your opinions about raising kids to yourself,” David interrupts him. “Especially since you don’t have any, Greg,”
The whole Sunday school room has gone silent. Larry leans his head on his hand, covering his eyes. Grace stares at the floor next to him. Renee, Yvonne, and their husbands are studying their coffee cups. Morgan looks at me and then eyes the door like she wants to run out of the room.
“Rylie is my daughter,” David says. His voice sounds as if he is building a brick wall with each word, locking Greg behind it. “She is one of the best dancers in her class, and I would be the proudest father in the world if she went on to dance professionally.”
