Afterward

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “Are you okay?” Faith asks.

  “It’s just so awful,” I say.

  “This happened one time before,” Faith tells me. “When you were tiny. Before Ruth was born. That’s why there’s that big gap between the two of you.”

  I put down my fork and look at Faith, my eyes wide. Four years is a pretty big gap between kids in my family, it’s true. We believe that it’s up to God to decide how large our family will be, and with babies coming every year or two, that space between Ruth and me stands out. But I thought that was just how God worked things out. I never knew about a miscarriage.

  “She was further along that time,” Faith says, not looking at me as she continues to make supper, her movements quick and precise. “And she stayed in bed for almost a month after. All the women from church helped, but it was so bad Dad even had to call Aunt Marjorie to come help us out.”

  I stare at Faith. “Aunt Marjorie? Dad’s sister who lives in Dallas? I’ve never even met her.” Dad rarely communicates with his family because they aren’t believers.

  “Yes,” Faith answers. “She came down for a few days, but it was a disaster. She showed up and started insisting that Dad take Mom to a mental doctor or something. I don’t remember all of it. I was really little at the time.”

  “Why did she want Dad to take Mom to a…,” I search for the word, “psychiatrist?”

  “Because Aunt Marjorie doesn’t know the healing power of the Lord,” Faith responds, stacking the finished sandwiches on a plate and heading for the table. “She said Mom had depression.” Faith rolls her eyes just slightly. “Of course she was sad. Of course she was depressed. Her baby went to Heaven before she’d even had a chance to hold him. But he went to Heaven.” Faith pauses and looks at me before continuing. “And that’s what helped Mom, eventually. I think that’s what helped her get up out of bed. She realized by living her own life in a manner that glorifies God, she knew that one day she’d see her baby again. And then she had Ruth, and eventually she got pregnant with twins. I believe it was God’s gift to her for enduring so much.”

  Faith nods definitively and puts down the plate, then crosses the kitchen to peek out the window.

  “Dad’s late at Pastor Garrett’s house,” she says. “I would stay, but I have to get home with Caleb before Paul makes it back. He’s up in Huntsville with his father ministering to prisoners this afternoon.”

  “I can handle things,” I say. But my stomach knots up at the idea of having to handle supper and bedtime with just Ruth helping me.

  “Well, call me if you need me, all right?” Faith untucks the blue-and-white-checked dishtowel she’s been using as an apron and folds it neatly into thirds before laying it on the kitchen counter. She gives it a quick double pat like she’s reminding it to stay put.

  “I’ll call you if I really have to, but I’m sure we’ll be okay,” I answer. “Thanks for coming over.”

  I really want her to stay. To reassure me that Mom will be all right. That everything will go back to normal. But I’m too ashamed to talk to Faith like that. Faith doesn’t doubt God’s will. Faith is a living embodiment of her name. Steadfast and resolute, unlike me who flounders.

  In the Bible, Rachel was always jealous of her older sister. I wonder if I’d have been different if my parents had chosen to call me something else.

  After Faith collects Caleb in her arms and we exchange a quick hug, she walks out the back door, and I slip into my parents’ bedroom to check on my mother. She’s asleep, huddled in a ball under the covers. I watch her quietly for a moment, my heart hurting for her. And then I turn around and head back into the kitchen, so I can make sure the little ones are washed up and ready to eat.

  4

  “Rachel, are you asleep?” Ruth’s voice whispers to me from across the room.

  I sit up on my elbows and shake my head no, then hold my finger up to my mouth. Ruth throws her covers back and waits for me to nod, giving her permission to tiptoe across the room and crawl into my twin bed with me.

  “Don’t wake Sarah,” I whisper. Our little sister is passed out on her tummy, her arm dangling off the edge of her bed and her sad, little stuffed sheep named Sheepie wedged under her face.

  Ruth slips into the bed next to me and we both turn on our sides to face each other. Ruth and me, we’re the snugglers and the cuddlers in my family. My dad gives us pats on the head, and my mom doles out brief hugs and fast kisses in quick succession—after all, there are so many of us to hug and kiss. But when Ruth was around two or three and I was six or seven, she’d have a bad dream or couldn’t drift off and I’d roll over in the middle of the night to find her sweet face peering up at me from the side of my bed, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress in hopes that I’d invite her in. I always did, and I didn’t even mind when her ice-cold toddler feet bumped into my shins as she slid under the covers in the middle of winter.

  But tonight, Ruth doesn’t slide under the covers; she kicks them off. It’s hot. The air conditioner in our house doesn’t work too well, but the borrower is slave to the lender, Pastor Garrett likes to remind us. Money has been extra tight lately, and my mind has already jumped ahead to worry about what I’m sure will be Mom’s expensive medical bills. Until we can save up for a new air conditioner, we need to be grateful for what we have, but Texas summers are so brutal it’s hard not to feel at least a little miserable. And frustrated.

  “It’s so sad about the baby, isn’t it?” Ruth whispers. Her mouth smells of mint toothpaste and Chapstick.

  “So sad,” I whisper back. I give her a hug and we press our foreheads together for a moment.

  “Mom looks terrible,” she continues. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like that. It scared me.”

  “I know,” I answer. “It scared me, too. You know what Faith said?” In a hushed voice, I tell Ruth about Mom’s first miscarriage. I want to share it with someone, to get it off my chest, but I leave out the part about Aunt Marjorie coming to help because I’m not sure Dad would like it if I told Ruth about that. I don’t think Ruth even knows Aunt Marjorie exists.

  “So we have another brother or sister waiting for us in Heaven,” Ruth says, her forehead wrinkling in curiosity. “But Mom never told us that. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  “Kind of,” I say. “Maybe it was too sad for Mom to talk about. But we know we’ll see him again. Or her. I just hope that Mom doesn’t need a whole month to recover this time.” That’s selfish, I realize. Whatever the Lord needs us to do as Mom gets better, we’ll do it. And we’ll do it with grace, I promise myself.

  “Rachel, will Mom be okay?” Ruth whispers, her eyes worried.

  “Yes, Ruth,” I answer, even though I’m not entirely sure. “Mom will be okay. Everything will be okay.”

  “Do you think we should pray?” Ruth asks.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” I tell her. Ruth squeezes her eyes tight and says, “‘And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.’” She opens her eyes and I smile at her, grateful for a little sister whose righteousness is an example to me.

  * * *

  It’s the Sunday after my mother’s miscarriage, and she’s spent all week in bed. After she had a dream the baby was a boy, Mom and Dad decided on the name Joshua, but she still didn’t get up. As my own duties around the house mount in her absence, I check on her regularly, and she’s always the same; a lump on the bed, sometimes weeping a little, but more often than not staring out into space. One morning after Sarah spilled her orange juice twice and the twins fussed about starting their schoolwork, I found myself questioning why my mother would even want to be in charge of so many of us all the time, day after day. Then I found myself holding my breath out of anxiety again as I thought about my future children. I gave my forearm a firm smack to snap myself out of it.

  As my brothers and sisters finish getting ready for church, I find myself standing by the kitchen counter, dish towel in hand, staring at the peeling gr
een and white linoleum of the kitchen floor. Mom and Dad are talking to each other in their bedroom, and I know I shouldn’t be listening but I’m not able to stop. What if Mom doesn’t get better? What if this is worse than the time Faith told me about? My parents’ voices slip from behind the cracked-open bedroom door into the kitchen where I’m cleaning up after breakfast.

  “It’s time to go now, Elizabeth,” Dad says. Quiet but urgent. Soft but insistent. “We have to leave now.”

  “Jacob, I can’t,” Mom answers in a sharp, still voice I’ve never heard her use before. “I honestly cannot go.”

  “Yes, you can. You will.”

  “Please don’t make me go.” I can’t see her, but I can hear her. She can barely get the words out.

  “‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: For the Lord they God is with thee whethersoever thou goest.’”

  “Jacob, talk to me,” my mother begs, her voice on the verge of breaking. “Please talk to me. Please don’t preach to me. Not now. Just talk to me. Talk to me, please.”

  I’m holding my breath, shocked at what I’m hearing. Mom’s always taught us that a woman’s role is to submit to her husband because the husband is the head of the family just like Christ is the head of the church. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her ask my father for something she didn’t already know he wanted to give.

  And Dad doesn’t want to give her the chance to stay home from Sunday services at Calvary Christian.

  The bedroom door shuts, and my parents’ voices are too muffled to make out. I finish up in the kitchen and a few moments later Dad walks out, his face more stern than normal.

  “Your mother is still recovering,” he says, “and she’ll be staying behind today. We need to make sure we really pray for her and for Joshua today at church. They need us to lift them up to the Lord.”

  “Of course,” I respond, unable to remember the last time my mother didn’t come to services at Calvary Christian.

  In our ancient, fifteen-person van on the way to church, Dad asks us what the Bible tells us about Joshua.

  “God let Joshua approach Mount Sinai when all the other Israelites weren’t allowed,” Ruth answers. “Joshua was special.”

  “And that’s why we chose that name for such a special soul as our baby,” Dad tells us. “So special God called him home early.”

  “So special,” Ruth repeats, nodding.

  “Special!” Sarah mimics, clapping her hands.

  I scan the faces of my siblings, but everyone wears the same neutral expression. The same soft half smiles we always wear to show a cheerful countenance. Besides Dad, I’m the only one who really knows how much Mom resisted coming to church. Dad just explained to the rest of my brothers and sisters that God needed her to heal at home today, so they don’t seem worried. But I picture Mom all alone, crying in bed with no one to sit with her. I swallow hard and try to ignore the image. Am I the only one who’s thinking of Mom? The only one who’s really worried?

  At church, the service goes on as it normally does until Pastor Garrett asks Dad to come stand with him, at the same place James Fulton stood the week before. Pastor Garrett lays his hands on Dad’s head, just like Dad does to us when he blesses us before bedtime.

  The pastor’s voice booms from the front of the church. It’s a loud, sure voice that doesn’t seem to match the reed-thin body that carries it, but when Pastor Garrett preaches, he doesn’t even have to use a microphone. The first time he preached a Sunday sermon I was ten years old and jumped half an inch in my seat when he opened his mouth. Dad says Pastor Garrett was born knowing how to proclaim Christ.

  “Proverbs reminds us to trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding!” he bellows. “And how we must lean now, Lord. How hard it is to understand the loss of a child, Father God. But by faith we receive the unending peace of your presence, Lord, knowing that while Joshua’s life on Earth was brief, he dwells forever in your light as you once promised Abraham. Let us pray for this father and for Joshua’s mother, your servant Elizabeth, who is still recovering at home and who by the power of your command can have strength restored to her body and joy to her spirit.”

  The pastor and Dad are a little huddle at the front of the church. Pastor Garrett’s hands press into Dad’s skull as he faces the congregation. Dad is stoic, firmly planted into the floor, nodding along with everything Pastor Garrett says.

  I hear Faith’s muffled crying from the row behind me. “Father God, give us your peace,” she whispers, loudly enough that I can hear it. I want to turn around to comfort her, but I’m not sure what to say. I shift in my seat, waiting for my tears to fall, but they don’t.

  All around me women are wiping away tears and pressing napkins dug out of their purses to the corners of their eyes. I should be crying, too, and I worry that people won’t think I’ve been moved by the pastor’s message. I am touched by his words, of course, but I just want to go home and check on Mom and make sure she’s all right.

  Lord, let my mother be all right, I pray, but I’m frustrated that I can’t come up with better words to reach out to God. Long, elaborate phrases full of just-right Scripture that sound like something Faith or Pastor Garrett might say. But since it’s all I have, I repeat my prayer in my mind over and over again, letting the words flow along with my breathing.

  Lord, let my mother be all right.

  Finally Pastor Garrett is finished, and Dad moves back down the aisle to a chorus of “Amens” and “Yes, Lords.” We sing “How Great Thou Art” to close the service. Clutching Sarah’s hand in mine, I exit the church, but in the gaggle of people, we get separated from my dad and the rest of my brothers and sisters. All the women who were crying before now smile brightly at Sarah and me. A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance, Proverbs tells us, and our hearts should be merry all the time because we’ve been saved and born again. But how I wish people wouldn’t smile right now. I know they’re all smiling because Joshua is with the Lord, but I wish my family could have a few minutes to feel sad about it, at least. Would that have been too selfish?

  As I gaze out over the crowd searching for Ruth and the other little ones, I lose my footing and run smack into the person in front of me.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I manage, gripping Sarah’s hand to make sure she doesn’t trip.

  “It’s all right,” says a woman’s voice. The figure turns, and it’s Mrs. Sullivan, standing there with her husband.

  Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. The parents of Lauren Sullivan. The girl we’re not supposed to talk about.

  I quickly glance behind them, almost expecting to see Lauren’s dyed red hair and the firm, set expression she always wore to church. Lauren Sullivan never smiled unless she really wanted to. And toward the end of her days with us, she never seemed to want to.

  But of course Lauren isn’t with them. She’s moved back to town, but not to Calvary. It’s ridiculous to expect her to be here, absurd to even be looking.

  “Rachel, that was a beautiful laying on of hands for your father and a wonderful way to give thanks for the homecoming of your baby brother’s soul,” Mr. Sullivan says.

  “Thank you, yes, it was,” I answer.

  Mrs. Sullivan is older than Mom and looks it, her long, waist-length hair gone totally gray, the space between her light eyes etched with deep lines. “We have several babies we never got the chance to hold who are waiting for us in Heaven, too,” she adds, her smile fixed, and I remember that Lauren was an only child.

  “Well,” I say, searching my brain for the right response, “the Lord’s steadfast love always endures.” Like the rest of us, the Sullivans don’t mention Lauren. It’s as if she’s been erased.

  “Yes, the Lord’s steadfast love always endures,” Mr. Sullivan repeats, his voice flat, the skin covering his long face turned into a thick leather from hours of working outside in the torturous Texas sun. The Sullivans make a motion to go, promising to pray for us.


  As I follow the flow of the crowd outside, I remember how we prayed for Lauren Sullivan years before. Pastor Garrett laid hands on her and proclaimed, “Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Be vigilant! Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour! Be vigilant!”

  Although I was eleven and knew better, I expected a lion to stalk up the aisle, baring bloodstained teeth. Some of the little children started crying at Pastor Garrett’s repetitive, forceful shouts of Scripture, but the moms didn’t make a move to leave like they sometimes did when babies started fussing. No, we all stayed and watched as Mr. Sullivan, Pastor Garrett, and some of the other men of the church, including my dad, circled Lauren as she sat in a folding chair at the front of the church, her hands folded in the middle of her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead. We all watched as Pastor Garrett and her father laid hands. We all watched as Lauren kept staring at us like she could see through us, unmoved.

  The devil already has her, I thought to myself. It’s too late.

  “Rachel? Rachel, are you listening?” I feel an arm touch me. It’s Faith, standing with the other girls her age, Caleb drifting to sleep in her arms. “Are you all right? You look like you can’t catch your breath.”

  “I’m okay,” I answer. “It’s nothing.” Little Sarah spots Ruth and the twins and drops my hand, running off to join them.

  Faith nods, continuing eagerly. “The girls and I were just saying that Mrs. Garrett wants to help us with that modesty workshop we talked about last Sunday. Focusing on biblical femininity? We set the date for next Wednesday.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” I say. “I’m looking forward to it.” It’s what Faith wants to hear.

  Faith smiles, the tears she cried during the service all gone now. Her trust in the Lord must be so strong. She glides easily from correct emotion to correct emotion, where I always have the wrong ones.