by Robin Brande
And then I started crying, too. I knew my parents were never going to forgive me after what they'd just been through. This was really the end.
My mother snapped, “Get in the car.”
I got in with the two of them and sat there knowing the next words out of my mother's mouth were going to be about how I had brought this on all of us, I should never have defied the church, I had disgraced my parents, etc.
But instead my mother said, “Son of a bitch!”
Now, let me be clear—my mother NEVER cusses. Not even when it's justified, like when she drops something on her foot. Our household is strictly a “darn it” and “gosh” sort of place.
So hearing my mother use the SOB word was about as close to mutiny as I've ever known.
My father didn't even object. He looked as angry as I felt. But I was still sure they'd be taking it all out on me.
We drove in silence all the way home. My father pulled into the garage and shut off the ignition.
My mother turned around in her seat and fixed me with the most murderous glare.
“That was unforgivable,” she began, and I was just about to lay out some defense when she continued. “That man is a disgrace to the ministry and I hope he gets fired. I'm writing a letter to the board. They won't listen to me, but I'll keep writing. I'll do whatever it takes to have him removed.”
“Mom—”
“What you did,” she told me, “was wrong. You should never have sent a letter to that boy—it was stupid.”
“But I only wanted to—”
“You should have told us what you were doing. You should have asked us first. Do you understand, Mena? You don't write a letter like that. You don't send it to that boy. You don't put things like that in writing. They always come back to hurt you. It was a stupid thing to do.”
I felt a little light-headed. Was that what this was all about? Not that I'd turned against the church or taken Denny's side—was the whole war really just about me putting my feelings in writing?
But no, that was only the first part of my sin.
“And after all that, you go shoot off your mouth to that KC girl so she can put it in the paper? Do you understand what it was like to hear about that at church? We've been trying to maintain at least some semblance of civility there—”
“Mom—”
“I'm not finished.”
All this time my father just sat there, looking straight ahead at his tool bench in the garage. He always lets my mother do the dirty work. I think it's one of the foundations of their marriage.
“You seem to think you can do whatever you want, whenever you feel like it,” my mother continued. “You think all that matters is what you feel like doing, moment to moment. Queen Mena—is that it?”
“No! Mom—”
“We are a family of three, Mena. Not one, not two— three. Your father and I do not make decisions about our family without considering how they might affect you. But it seems you feel no need to return the favor.”
Which isn't exactly true—my parents have made lots of decisions about my life without ever consulting me, but I wasn't going to argue the point.
“But Mom—”
“What, Mena? What? Speak. What do you have to say for yourself?”
After all those times trying to butt in, now I was speechless. But I had to come up with something. This might be my last best chance to improve the situation.
I prayed for help. And for once in my life, the answer came right away. Maybe I already knew what I had to do— I mean, obviously I knew. But knowing isn't the same as accepting it. Until that exact second, I wasn't ready to do what I knew had to be done. It was just too ugly to consider.
But then I heard my answer, echoing in my brain in Ms. Shepherd's own voice: Lying is for the weak-minded. If you can't think of a truthful way to solve your problems, you're not thinking hard enough.
I slumped back against my seat. I really had no choice. I either had to go on lying, or stop it right then and deal with whatever the consequences might be. I'm not good at lying. It takes too much out of me. And the bottom line is, that isn't who I want to be. I'd rather know I have some integrity, even if it means never being allowed out of the house again.
I took what felt like might be my last breath on earth. And then I began. “I need to tell you some things.”
I started off slowly, trying to build a good case for myself. I told them how awful school has been. How vindictive Teresa and the rest of them are. How being friends with Casey and Kayla is the only decent thing that's happened to me in months.
“You brought that on yourself,” my mother said. “You're the one who wrote that letter.”
“Yeah, but I had to! Denny almost died. What was I supposed to do?”
“Pray,” my mother said. “Ask for forgiveness.”
“I did ask for forgiveness,” I said. “From Denny.”
“And look where it's got us,” my mother said.
I bit my tongue. I could have said that God wants us to reconcile with the people we've hurt. I could have said that I wasn't the one who tortured Denny. I could have said that I thought my parents—not to mention God— wanted me to be kind to people. I could have said a lot of things, but it was obvious that arguing with her about Denny was not going to help me. Especially since I still had to tell them the rest of it.
All my lies. From that first phone call, when I didn't tell my mother that Casey was a boy, to asking Kayla to pretend she was Casey, to going over to the Connors’ house every day, knowing my parents wouldn't have allowed it if they'd known.
“What were you thinking?” my mother demanded.
That I wanted to be happy, I thought, but I didn't say it. That I wanted to be liked again. That the silent treatment at home and the meanness at school were killing me. That I was beginning to understand how Denny felt, having to face those kids every day. That until Casey invited me to his house, I thought my life might never be happy again.
“How could you look us in the eye, day after day,” my mother asked, “knowing you were lying to us?”
I just shook my head. The lump in my throat was the size of the moon. I knew I still had to tell them more.
“Um … Stephanie? She isn't really my mentor. That was just so I could go over to Casey's house—so I could say goodbye to the puppies.”
The look on my mother's face was something I never care to see again. It was a mixture of rage and sadness and confusion. Her lips got small. Her eyes watered. I didn't want to keep talking, but I had to confess it all.
People say it feels good to tell the truth, to unburden yourself. It doesn't. It felt like I was boiling myself alive. Because with each word out of my mouth, I knew I was pushing myself further and further away from that day when I would ever regain my parents’ trust. Which meant I was that much further from ever having a normal life again.
My mother was absolutely speechless. She stared at me while my father stared at his tool set, and I just did what I had to without trying to think too much, like a tightrope walker focused on the platform at the end.
And I have to confess something: I did leave one thing out. I just couldn't bring myself to tell them about the kiss. Trust me, they're not ready for that. They might not ever be ready for that. And is it really their business? I mean, it was just a kiss—it's not like I sneaked out and got birth control or something.
If keeping that kiss to myself makes me a sinner, then I guess I'll just have to deal with it when I get to heaven. For now, I'm sticking with my decision.
When I was done, when I'd told them everything (except, you know), the three of us sat in silence for a while, exhausted. My father turned the car back on to roll down the windows. They'd gotten fogged up from our breath.
Finally my mother said in a sad voice, “I don't know what's happened to you, Mena. You used to be such a nice girl.”
“God, Mom! I'm still nice!”
“Don't take the Lord's name in vain.”
I almost started crying again.
“I don't know what we're going to do with you,” she said. “But I can guarantee you're never seeing those Connors again.”
Then I did cry. “Please, Mom! It's not their fault! I was just too afraid to tell you what was going on. It was all me—I swear. The Connors had nothing to do with it. They're really nice people. And Mrs. Connor is the greatest person. She's a widow. Casey's dad died when he was eleven. They're all still really sad.”
Maybe that softened her some—I couldn't tell.
Because for the next ten minutes, my mother went through this whole History of Mena, reminiscing about what a good girl I used to be and how I used to make them so proud. You think it doesn't hurt to hear yourself talked about in the past that way?
“We never had to worry about you,” she said. “We'd hear our friends complain about their kids, and we'd always think, ‘Thank goodness—not our Mena.’ And now.”
“I'm sorry.” I must have said that a hundred times since my father parked the car.
Finally my mother lost all her energy. It's like she'd given up—not just on the argument, but on me.
“So, Mena, tell me what we should do. If you were the mother, what would you do?”
What a terrible question. I hate to think how strict I'd be. I hate to think how furious I'd feel if someone had lied to me like that.
So I didn't think about it. It was too hard. Instead I took a chance.
“Can we start over?” I said. “Please?”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
I didn't plan what I'd say, I just said it. “I want to go to church—to another church. I miss it. I want to be good— I like being good. I'm not trying to suddenly turn bad. I want you—” I choked up. I had to wait a second to continue. “I want you to be proud of me again. That's all I ever wanted.”
My mother didn't seem so angry anymore. Her eyes had softened at the creases. And even though my father still hadn't turned around this whole time, I could see part of his face in the rearview mirror, and I could tell I was getting to him.
“But you guys, I also want to have friends. The church kids—they're never going to be my friends again. I don't want them. They're too mean. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. And Casey—he's just such a nice person. And Kayla and her friends—”
I stopped before my mother felt the need to point out that Kayla and her friends had been part of the deception. I'm trying to learn how to quit when I'm ahead—or at least when I'm not so far behind.
My mother sounded so tired. “Your father and I will talk about it.”
Which I know means my mother will talk, my father will agree, and my mother will issue the sentence. Which is fine, as long as it's something I can live with. Please, no more house arrest.
I let them get out of the car first, and waited a little while before I followed. When I went upstairs, their bedroom door was closed—I assume so they could talk about me behind my back. Good. I was happy for the distraction.
I hurried downstairs and turned on the computer.
And typed the question that had been burning in me since church.
Fifty
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: What were you doing there???
NUMENOR: I thought you might like some moral support.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: How did you know where to go?
NUMENOR: I read the Post.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: You nearly gave me a heart attack.
NUMENOR: Sorry. Quite a performance that guy gave. You okay?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Not sure yet.
NUMENOR: Anything I can do?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Smuggle me out of the country.
NUMENOR: What's the temperature at home?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Frozen. Still waiting. My parents are discussing me right now.
NUMENOR: Granted, I've only gone to church a few times, but I don't remember the preacher ever pointing out anyone in the audience and suggesting they go hang themselves. Seems kind of harsh.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Tell me about it.
NUMENOR: Seriously, are you okay?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: I think so. It was nice of you to come today. Sorry we couldn't talk.
NUMENOR: Hey, if you want, I could give you the name of that church-the non-hanging one. Maybe I'd even show up there again. You think if you met me there, your parents might actually let me see you? You know, see;) you?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Fat chance until I'm 16. Would you really ever go to church?
NUMENOR: If there's a girl in it for me, sure.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: That's not very pious.
NUMENOR: Josh took ballroom dancing with K. I'd say he had it far worse.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: What church is it?
NUMENOR: The one where we had my dad's funeral. Ms. Shepherd told us about it. It's where she goes.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: MS. SHEPHERD GOES TO CHURCH????
NUMENOR: Yep. Intriguing, no?
Fifty-one
I had to know.
The more I thought about it—not only what Casey had said, but what Ms. Shepherd said in class—I knew I had to ask.
It was when Teresa kept hounding her, pressing Ms. Shepherd to say what she believed.
The taxpayers of this community do not pay me to dis -cuss my personal views. I share personal views on my own time.
Well, Sunday night is her own time, right?
And her website—that's her personal thing, too, right?
I waited until my parents were asleep. From what I've read on her blog, I know Ms. Shepherd is a night owl.
The big problem with my e-mail address is there's never any way to disguise who I am. Someday when I get an account of my own, I'm going to be DogLvr or Christmas-pup or something cuter—and more anonymous—than just my name.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Hi, Ms. Shepherd. I hope you don't mind me bothering you. Are you busy right now?
It didn't take long to get an answer.
BIOHAZARDESS: Semi. What can I do for you, Ms. Reece?
I sat there and drummed my fingers lightly on top of the keys, stalling. I knew generally what I wanted to ask her, but I wasn't sure how to start.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: I was just wondering. You said in class that you share your personal views on your own time. I was wondering- does that include now?
BIOHAZARDESS: Now is fine.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Are you sure?
BIOHAZARDESS: I am now. I might not be in five seconds, so ask away.
With that kind of time pressure, I just blurted it out.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Do you believe in God?
BIOHAZARDESS: Yes.
My heart did a little jig.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: And you also believe in evolution.
BIOHAZARDESS: You've been paying attention.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Then why don't you just say so in class? Then nobody would be upset.
BIOHAZARDESS: Except me. I would be gravely upset. I take the separation of church and state very seriously.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: But if you just told them you're one of them, they wouldn't bother you anymore.
BIOHAZARDESS: Yes, they would. I'm not one of them. I believe in science. They want me to teach something that isn't science. I will never agree to that. That would be lying.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Then can you explain it to me? What do you believe?
BIOHAZARDESS: I believe that God created the universe and everything in it, and that evolution is the best explanation of what systems He used to effect it. Does that make sense?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Yes, I think so.
BIOHAZARDESS: Good. So let's start with some basics. As I hope I've conveyed in class, there is a natural order to the universe. It's beautiful in its simplicity and logic. Evolution is part of that natural order. Evolution is simply true. There's nothing evil about it. With me so far?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: Yes.
BIOHAZARDESS: Good. Now, quantum phy
sics tells us that at the same time there's this beautiful, perfect order to all things in a very large sense, there is also a part of our universe-down at the smallest level-that will never EVER be predictable. There are just some things we cannot control. Still with me?
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: I think so. It's like all that weird stuff you were saying to Josh.
BIOHAZARDESS: Correct. What it means, in a nutshell, is this: The future is not set. Which tells me there will always be room for the miraculous. God left Himself some slack in the rope. As a scientist, I may try to know everything about this universe there is to know, but even then I will never be able to touch that part-that mystery-that lies at the heart of all things.
To me, that's where God is. And it's also proof that I have free will. If the future isn't set, I can affect my course. My prayers can matter. How I live my life matters. I'm not just some computer living out my program.
That is the God I believe in. It's the God who created a universe so vast and wonderful for me to explore and test and observe, and yet I have the pleasure of knowing some mysteries will have to wait until I can ask Him face to face.
Does that answer your question?
I sat back and looked at the screen and tried to let her words settle in my brain. To be honest, I'm not sure I got it all. But the part about there being something unpredictable about the universe—that I can believe. And the idea that that's where God is—I think I understand that, too.
I wanted to take more time to let it sink in, but I also didn't want to leave Ms. Shepherd hanging.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: I think I understand, but can I ask you one more question?
BIOHAZARDESS: Yes.
MENA@REECEINSURANCE: I still don't get why you don't just tell them you're on their side. I mean, just to make peace?
BIOHAZARDESS: Because I'm not on their side and they're not on mine. Their side wants me to pretend the facts are not what they are. Intelligent design is not science. In fact, it's hostile to science-it tells people not to believe what science has proven to be true. And at a time like this, we need more young people like you to pursue science as a career so you can tell us all the things we don't know yet. I can't allow anyone to discourage that.
