Now Pastor John begins speaking to me, but his words are coming out backward too—it sounds a bit like when you play a tape in reverse. I wonder if he knows how ridiculous he sounds. And that’s when I start laughing. I can tell he’s getting quite irritated at me now, especially when I can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t look like a turkey now so much as a scolding parent.
Suddenly I know he is the Queen of Hearts—they look quite similar with their big, puffy red faces. I remember how the queen cornered Alice and shrieked, “Off with your head!” And I honestly believe this is what the “good” pastor is saying to me right now. And although I should probably be frightened, for some reason this strikes me as totally hilarious. I know I am embarrassing my mom, but I can’t help it. Everything just seems so funny right now. Am I hysterical? Or maybe I’m simply experiencing some sort of reverse reaction from having shed so many tears earlier. How am I supposed to know? It’s too hard to think about.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to say, gasping slightly. I am really trying to make myself sober up. I can tell by their faces that this is a very serious situation. Indeed.
Pastor John clears his throat. “That’s better. Now, tell me what’s going on with you, Alice.”
I shrug, a little surprised that I can actually understand him now, but then it occurs to me that it must be God interpreting for me.
“Come on, now, Alice. What seems to be the trouble?”
“I’d tell you, but you wouldn’t get it.”
He smiles, but I suspect that it’s a fake smile. Although I’m not certain, since I’m not certain of much of anything at the moment. “Oh, you’d be surprised what an old guy like me can understand.”
For one moment I actually feel myself starting to trust him. It’s as if I want to trust someone and have someone understand my mission. Why not him? My mother certainly seems to think he’s God’s gift to her church.
“Well.” I take a deep breath. “God has been telling me things … important things … and I’ve been writing them all down.”
“What does God tell you, Alice?” Pastor John leans back in his chair and folds his hands as if he’s really listening. But suddenly his superior smile makes everything crystal clear to me. I know that this man cannot be trusted. He is clearly the enemy. Then suddenly the words all come to me, like an inspiration.
“You are like King Zedekiah,” I say with the authority of the one given the golden key.
“Who?” He sits forward now, adjusting his thick glasses.
“The prophet Jeremiah warned King Zedekiah that God was going to use his own weapons against him and his kingdom—to destroy them. And that’s what God is going to do to you, Pastor John.”
My mother gasps, but I keep my gaze directly forward and continue to speak. “God is going to demolish both you and your church … by fire.”
Pastor John scoots back his chair with a loud screech, then rises to his feet. “If you will both excuse me for a few minutes.” He moves toward the door, glancing toward me. “Stay right here, both of you. I will be back in a just a few minutes.”
He is barely out the door when my mother turns to me and grabs me by the arm. “What on earth are you saying?” Her eyes are wide and filled with real fear.
“The truth.”
“The truth? You actually believe that God is going to burn this place down, Alice? And everybody in it? Including Pastor John?”
“Especially Pastor John.”
She sighs and shakes her head. Her shoulders crumple forward as if her muscles have all gone slack. “Oh, Alice.”
Pastor John returns just then with his reinforcements in tow. Before I know what is happening, I am surrounded by four men and one woman, and they’re all putting their hands on me—even my mother—and they are praying, loudly and with vigor. Their words and their breath come down on me like the heated stench of a garbage pit. I try desperately not to breathe. I am certain the air in this tiny room will poison me.
“We cast you out, O demon spirits,” cries Pastor John in his low, theatrical voice that he usually reserves for sermons. “In the powerful name of Jesus, we bind you and cast you out into the fiery pit of hell.”
“That’s right, you false prophet spirits,” chimes in Deacon Bolder. “You have no right to inhabit this child. In the name of Jesus we rebuke you and send you crawling back to wherever it is that you slithered from. Satan, Prince of Lies, you are not welcome here. Depart from her!”
I hear other voices praying too, but it’s not long until they all blur together in a mind-splitting cacophony. Everyone presses in so close that I can recognize them by their smells. The mothballs from Pastor John’s wool jacket mix with the body odor from Deacon Bolder’s work shirt, and even the familiar almond aroma of my mother’s Jergens hand lotion makes me want to gag. I cannot breathe, and my head is going to burst, or perhaps I am simply having a heart attack. Then everything just goes hazy, smoky, then dark, like the screen fading at the end of the movie.
When I awake I am at home, stretched out on the old tweed couch in the living room with the harvest colored afghan spread over me. I can tell it’s dark outside, and I have no idea how long I’ve slept. But it’s clear that I haven’t escaped the praying fanatics yet, because sitting directly across from me, in my dad’s old leatherette recliner, is Mary Cates. Her plump arms remind me of pink water balloons as they rise and fall to her soft snoring.
“How are you feeling, Alice?”
I slowly rise to a seated position and turn to see Mrs. Knoll looking at me with her arms folded neatly across her front. She’s sitting in the old wooden rocker that’s been passed down on my dad’s side of the family for three generations. She’s partially hidden by the shadows, which makes her angular face look even more menacing than usual. Mrs. Knoll is a childless widow who’s in charge of the women’s ministry at Salvation Center, a formidable woman who supposedly served as an army nurse long, long ago. As a child I used to imagine that she’d murdered her husband since there seemed to be some sort of mystery attached to his untimely death. But tonight she is the one who looks like a ghost.
I hear my mom calling from the kitchen. “Is Alice awake?”
“Yes,” answers Mrs. Knoll, and Mary Cates suddenly snorts loudly, then sits up straighter in her chair.
“Time to pray again?” asks Mary with bleary eyes.
“She needs to eat first.” My mom emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of something that’s steaming, and I desperately hope that it’s not chicken noodle soup, her regular standby for whatever ails you. The mere thought of eating a chicken’s flesh makes me want to hurl.
Mom sits down next to me and tries to give me the bowl, but I can’t force my hands to take it. With some relief, I see that it’s only oatmeal, but even so, I am afraid. I know there is milk on it, and the idea of ingesting milk is grotesque. I do not want to put that cow secretion into my mouth.
“Come on, Alice.” My mom holds the spoon to my lips. “Just a bite or two, please?”
I shake my head.
“It’s them demons,” mutters Mary. “They’re trying to starve her—want to drive her right out of her own malnourished body.”
I sigh and look down at the familiar white bowl trimmed in blue cornflowers. Suddenly I wish that I could take at least one bite, if only to show them. Either that or spin my head around a few times, but that doesn’t seem likely.
“Demons are trying to destroy you, Alice,” says Mrs. Knoll in a voice that sounds as if it’s coming at me in surround sound straight from the depths of hell. “They don’t want you to eat. They want you to suffer and die.”
I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper. I look at my mother and notice her eyes, once again, are filled with tears. I know I must take a bite … for her. Even if it kills me, and it probably will.
“Okay, Mom, just one bite.” I close my eyes and open my mouth and wait. I taste the metal of the spoon on my tongue, and I feel the warm lumpy texture of the oat
meal in my mouth. But it’s the smelly taste of cow’s milk that gets to me, and I begin to gag. I can’t help it. The stuff just shoots out of me like an explosion—all over my mother’s face and plaid woolen dress.
“It’s them demons,” says Mary in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
She dabs at her face and dress with a paper napkin. “It’s okay, Alice; it’s not your fault.”
“You’re right, dear,” agrees Mary. “It’s them demons making her act this way. They’ve taken over her body and soul. She’s helpless to fight them.”
“Not entirely,” says Mrs. Knoll. “Alice has something to do with this.”
Then Mrs. Knoll slowly stands and walks over to me. She peers down at me with her dark, narrowed eyes. “What did you do to invite this evil into your heart, Alice? What sin have you partaken in that’s opened you up to this wickedness?”
I don’t answer her but simply look down at the orange and yellow stripes of the afghan, sticking my fingers through the holes like I did when I was little. I don’t want to talk to these women. More than anything I wish these churchwomen would vanish and just leave me alone.
“You must’ve done something,” continues Mrs. Knoll. “Satan doesn’t come into our hearts uninvited, you know. You got to give him some kind of leeway. You open the door and say ‘come on in.’ Is there some hidden sin in your life, Alice? Something you need to confess to us?”
I still don’t look up, but I can sense her face close to mine, and I can smell her breath just as sour as a nasty old dishrag. She peers down at me now, looking as if she can actually see into my soul. Suddenly I am not entirely sure that she can’t. And why shouldn’t she? After all, she is part of the church leadership, the church that God is going to destroy.
It becomes perfectly clear to me. Mrs. Knoll is in cahoots with Pastor John. They’re the ones behind this whole thing. The real enemies. I am absolutely certain that they are the ones who hired my neighbor to spy on me, told her to poison me. They want my journals. They’re jealous that God didn’t choose them to receive the golden key.
“Where’s my backpack, Mom?” I ask suddenly.
“In your room.”
“You hiding something sinful in your backpack?” continues Mrs. Knoll. “Some drugs maybe? Or pornography? Tools of witchcraft?”
“Oh, Mrs. Knoll!” My mother looks scandalized. “Alice is a good girl.”
“No one is good, Susan!” snaps Mrs. Knoll. “Don’t be deceived by sin’s folly. We are all evil by nature. It’s only when we repent of our evil that we can be saved by the blood. But I can sense that Alice has fallen from grace. She’s not under God’s protection anymore. She has made herself an enemy of God. That’s why she’s demonized now. Plagued with demons. Why, I can feel it in my very spirit.”
“We can’t help you, Alice,” Mary agrees. “Not unless you’re willing to be helped.”
I suspect they’re playing good cop–bad cop now. I simply sit and watch, like a first offender in the squad interrogation room.
“That’s right, honey.” My mother nods. “We can pray for you, but you have to cooperate with us if we’re going to get the demons out.”
I just look at her without speaking. I am confused, and I wonder where I am and who these women really are. I long for Amelia to come and explain what is going on—she’s the only real friend I have left—but she seems to have vanished completely. I don’t understand what’s happening.
My mother reaches out and takes my hand. “Trust me, Alice. We only want to help you.”
I look into her eyes and realize she is not really a stranger. She’s my mother, and I’m thinking maybe she’s right. Maybe they are all right. Perhaps I am demonized. It’s obvious that something is terribly wrong. I certainly feel like I’m stuck in some sort of hell. I finally shrug. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You just need to agree with us when we pray for you, honey.” My mom places her other hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“I guess so.”
“You’ve got to want them to be gone, Alice.” Mrs. Knoll’s voice is stern and fierce.
All I can think is that I want her to be gone and how maybe she’ll leave sooner if I play along.
They’ve barely begun to pray when I feel myself growing blurry and sleepy again. Maybe it’s due to lack of food, but Mrs. Knoll insists it’s those demons at work in me.
After what seems like hours, the two churchwomen grow weary and finally leave. I remain on the couch with my mom sitting in the recliner across from me, as though keeping some sort of a vigil. There is a small comfort in her presence. I sleep off and on, and each time I wake up, she is still there, and so I think it is safe to sleep some more. Sometimes I wake to hear her praying again. But not like the church ladies, none of that “binding and loosing” talk. This time she’s praying simply, as if she’s really talking to God. I am a bit stunned by this kind of prayer. She sounds earnest and childlike.
“I don’t understand what’s going on with Alice,” she says quietly. “But I believe you have her in your hands, O Lord. I believe you will take care of her. Please show me what to do. Help us through this thing.”
I sit up then and tell her that I’d like to try to eat again. “Maybe some juice,” I suggest.
“There’s some apple juice.”
I nod. “Yes, that might be good.”
I drink most of the apple juice, and by morning I am able to eat a small bowl of thin cream of wheat, with milk. That is something.
“I’ve called Dr. Thornton,” my mother announces as she clears the breakfast dishes.
The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. “Who’s that?”
“He used to treat your grandmother—”
“A psychiatrist?”
“He’s an experienced doctor, Alice—”
“He must be about a hundred and two by now.”
“He’s probably close to retirement age.”
“So you really think I’m crazy? I thought demons were my problem.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. But I’ve been praying about this, and it seems the right thing to do.”
I sigh and slump down into the straight-backed kitchen chair. I’m not sure which is worse, having people thinking I’m demonized or crazy. Maybe I am both.
“The appointment’s at ten.” She frowns at me now. “Do you think you could clean up a little? Take a shower? Wash your hair maybe?”
I nod, then slowly trudge up to my old room. I am eager to check on my backpack and make sure that my journals haven’t been removed or tampered with. However, I can tell that someone has gone through my things. I suspect it’s Mrs. Knoll, probably searching for drugs. But fortunately my journals are still there. Of course, it occurs to me, they could’ve been copied or photographed by now.
When my mother comes up to get me, I am still sitting on the floor. I haven’t showered, but I have layered on several items of clothing from my backpack.
“Are you ready?”
“I guess.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
I looked down and shrug. “Why not?”
She shakes her head. “You look like some sort of refugee.”
I slowly stand and look at her. “Yeah? Well, maybe that’s what I am.”
My mother speaks in a forced calm voice as she drives her Taurus down a country road. It’s as if she’s afraid to say anything that might upset or disturb me. I realize that this is the exact same tone she used to use around her mother. But I am getting seriously aggravated by it, and even more and more nervous and agitated. It’s as if all my nerve endings are exposed on the surface of my skin now, raw and sensitive. Most of all I feel really frightened. And when my mother turns into the same gated road that we always took when we went to visit my grandma, I seriously begin to freak. The sign above the gate reads Forest Hills.
“You’re taking me to the nut house!” I scream and grab for th
e door handle. “The same place you brought Grandma. Why are you bringing me here?”
“It’s just for an evaluation, Alice.”
“No!” I shriek, trying to open the door only to find that it’s locked. “You’re going to leave me here!”
She stops the car now and turns to look at me. “I promise you, Alice, I am not going to leave you here. Not unless you decide you want to stay, that is. I swear to you, this is just an evaluation. Dr. Thornton’s office is here. Have I ever lied to you about anything?”
I shake my head, but I am not completely certain. “You can trust me, Alice. I’m your mother. I would never do anything to hurt you. I love you.”
I want to believe her. I want to believe somebody. But somehow I know this is all just a trick. Part of the big plan to get my journals, to silence and ultimately destroy me. As she drives down the blacktop road toward the big beige building, I hear Amelia whispering from the backseat. It’s the first time she’s made an appearance since my mom showed up and whisked me away.
I glance over my shoulder and see Amelia sitting there with one leg crossed over her knee, swinging a cowboy boot in a cocky sort of way. She’s not wearing her seat belt, and this amuses me.
Amelia leans forward and points through her palm at my mother. “She slipped something into your cream of wheat, Alice,” she whispers into my ear. “Some sort of mind-controlling substance. I think Pastor John must’ve given it to her yesterday. Or perhaps Mrs. Knoll.”
I slump down into my seat and clutch my backpack to my chest. How do you fight something like this? Where do you turn when it seems even your own mother has betrayed you? How do you resist this sort of thing? Why not just give up and give in to it? Well, I try to console myself, at least Amelia is back.
Finding Alice Page 4
