Devoted

by Jennifer Mathieu

I head up the steps to clean the mess and get Sarah into bed, placing a trash can next to her just in case. I whisper a silent prayer that her stomach is upset from something she ate and not anything contagious. Then I give her the little bell we always use when one of us is sick, so she can ring for me if she needs to.

  “Ray Ray, I love you,” Sarah says, using her nickname for me. Her eyes flutter just a bit, and I can tell she’s drifting off to sleep, but I stop to kneel down and kiss her toes.

  “I love you, too,” I tell her. She’s such a peanut, really. It’s hard to get upset even when she throws up. I take the clothes she’s vomited on to add to the ever-growing pile of laundry that I should have tackled yesterday.

  After I make it back downstairs, I peer through the cracked door into my parents’ room and watch my mother shift a bit under the covers, then settle into another round of sleep. She’s barely gotten out of bed since she lost Joshua—not for evening Bible study or supper or Wednesday night fellowship. What if Aunt Marjorie was right? Maybe a psychiatrist could help Mom get better faster. But Dad would never let us call one.

  Ruth and I have to alternate checking on Sarah, but we manage to get a slightly overcooked meatloaf on the table by the time my dad and brothers are home. Ruth brings a plate in to Mom’s room even though I know when I go to collect it, it will have only been picked at a little.

  Ruth and I get the little ones washed and ready for bed—Sarah is still asleep—but when we walk into the family room for Bible time, my stomach sinks. My older brothers and father are seated in their usual spots, but instead of holding his Bible in his hands like he usually does, my dad is holding something else.

  My copy of A Wrinkle in Time.

  How stupid I’ve been. How careless.

  I left it on the counter amid rolls of paper towels and school books and dirty dishes and a dozen other pieces of evidence that I’ve been struggling with my job of running the household as I should.

  But the book is the worst piece of evidence. The most damning thing. Because it proves not only that I am not a young woman of God, but that I’ve been distracted by something my father is sure to believe is sinister. And he’s sure to believe that my soul is in danger.

  “Come sit down, everyone,” my dad says. Dad never gets mad in an obvious way. He always keeps the same serious tone in his voice that manages to sound reassuring when things are moving smoothly and frightening when things are not.

  Ruth glances at me, her eyes nervous. She’s seen me reading the book before and knows it’s mine. I offer a quick forced smile then sit down on the couch next to my older brother Matthew. Isaac toddles over to climb in my lap, but Ruth takes him into hers at the last moment.

  “Rachel, Scripture tells us that the testing of faith produces steadfastness,” my father begins. “With that in mind, I want you to tell us what you’re doing with this book.”

  I swallow. Even the little ones aren’t squirming. They can tell from Dad’s tone, from the way my cheeks are flushing, that this is serious.

  “I asked Mom to get it for me at the resale shop a few months ago,” I say, my voice steady, like I’ve known this moment would come. Maybe I have. And I wish for a moment that Mom was here, though I know she wouldn’t defend me. She might try to take some of the blame, but she would defer to Dad. “It was a busy day, and we were buying so many things,” I continue, “and I think I—I know I took advantage of that and at the last moment I asked her to buy this book for me.” With Dad’s eyes on me, I can’t hold anything back. Every word I’m speaking is the truth.

  “Did you wonder if that was a godly decision?” Dad asks. He’s staring at me, his brow furrowed with concern.

  “Yes,” I manage, not able to look back at his eyes, just at the space between them. “I did wonder. But I’ve read about the author. And she was a Christian, Dad. I looked her up in the encyclopedia. I thought she sounded like a godly person.”

  My father nods like he expected this kind of answer from me. “There are many who call themselves Christian and don’t follow the word of the Lord,” he says. “I looked through this book, Rachel, and it troubles me. It involves magic and time travel, among other questionable things.” I feel Ruth’s eyes on me, and when I glance at her, I see her mouth has dropped into a perfect little O of surprise.

  “You know full well that Galatians warns us that those who are involved with sorcery and idolatry will not inherit the kingdom of God,” my father continues.

  “Yes, Dad, I know,” I say, my cheeks so hot they hurt. I can’t decide where to look, so I choose my feet and stare at my worn-out, black lace-up boots that once belonged to Faith. Perfect Faith who feels and thinks and does everything right. Shame courses through me, and I feel my eyes start to glaze over with tears. I can sense everyone’s eyes looking at me, and Lauren Sullivan’s resolute stare flashes through my mind. I wonder if this was how she felt when she was admonished in front of the entire congregation. That I even think of Lauren in this moment makes me feel more ashamed, and I drop my gaze even lower.

  But there’s another, deeper part of me that wants to jump up and cry out. To tell Dad that in the book, Mrs. Who quotes Scripture, telling the children that the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. And that Meg saves her brother because she loves him and light wins over darkness, and isn’t that something? Doesn’t love of family count as good? As godly? And doesn’t Proverbs say that the heart of the righteous studieth how to answer? Doesn’t that mean that pondering, wondering, questioning is all right? That books that make us think should be allowed?

  But Dad can’t read my thoughts, and there is no point in expressing them. We must honor and obey our father at all times. And anyway, expressing any other thoughts would only get me into more trouble.

  “Rachel, I don’t believe this book honors the Lord, and you must destroy it,” he says. “Now.” He motions to the kitchen.

  Numbly, I walk to the trash can as my father and siblings follow. Dad hands me the book, and as I rip the pages out and throw them into the garbage, I think about Meg and Charles Wallace and Aunt Beast and Calvin and how I’ll never get to be with them again. I think about how delicious it felt to read the book under my blanket with the flashlight I took from the garage, and how good it felt to absorb its words for the first time. How it didn’t feel evil at all. I think about how even after I’d read the book once, I could read it again and again and always find some new word or phrase or have some new understanding about it.

  I try not to cry as the pages slip into the garbage can like dead leaves.

  And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

  It runs through my mind on a loop.

  * * *

  After I destroy the book, Dad tells me I need to sit down at the kitchen table with the Bible and find five verses that speak about witchcraft and sorcery and copy them each down ten times. Several of us have had to do this before, like when Matthew was caught looking at swimsuit magazines in the grocery store. Dad even made him eat alone in the garage for three nights after that. The last time I had to copy Scriptures as punishment was a few years ago, when Dad found me watching television at an appliance store downtown. I feel trapped in the kitchen alone while the rest of my family hums along with its usual bedtime activities. Ruth has been left to tend to all the little ones, and I work as quickly as I can to find the verses because I don’t want her to be overwhelmed with so much to do. Sometimes being part of a big family feels suffocating, but when you’re purposely kept out of it, it feels terribly lonely.

  Finally, I find one more verse and scribble it down on the piece of paper Dad’s given me. I go back into the family room and hand it to him.

  “I’m so sorry, Dad, that I’ve disobeyed you and the word of God,” I say. I squeeze my fists tight as I say this. I want to believe it so very much. But I can’t ignore the other part of me that wonders just why my behavior is so disobedient.

  Dad takes the paper an
d gives me my nightly blessing, then looks at me and says, “Rachel, I love you so much, and it’s my duty to make sure you don’t stray from the word of the Lord. You understand, don’t you?” He frowns slightly, perhaps worried he hasn’t made his point.

  “Yes, Dad, I do understand,” I say. I know his attention to our protection and salvation is foremost in his mind at all times. I should be grateful.

  As I pass my parents’ bedroom on my way to my room, I see the light is off. I wonder if Dad will tell Mom what’s happened. I wonder if she’ll have the energy to care.

  The little ones are asleep, and I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face before slipping into my nightgown and crawling into bed. I think Ruth’s sleeping, but as soon as I curl up with my pillow, I hear her voice.

  “Rachel, can I come over?”

  “Sure,” I whisper.

  She tiptoes over and slides in next to me, and I realize it won’t be much longer before we’ll be just about the same height.

  “I thought you might be frustrated with me,” I say. “I’m sorry you had to put everyone to bed without my help.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Ruth says. “I’m just worried. For you.”

  I freeze. We’re laying so close, but I feel a silence growing between us.

  “You’re worried for me?” I ask.

  Ruth nods seriously. “Yes. For reading that book, Rachel. Shouldn’t … I mean, didn’t you think it wasn’t a godly book?”

  I can’t look at Ruth when I answer. “No,” I say. “I mean, I thought Dad would be upset, yes. I knew he wouldn’t think it was godly. But honestly, Ruth, it’s a really good book. I just don’t understand how it can be evil when it quotes the Bible and talks about Jesus and the characters aren’t bad at all. I don’t.”

  Ruth frowns. “Really? You mean you really don’t know how a book with magic and time travel can be bad?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean yes and no. I know that Dad doesn’t like it. I know the Bible speaks out against it. But the Bible also speaks about pondering things and loving your family and … fighting the darkness. And all of that is in the book, too. So which is right?”

  Ruth frowns. “Dad is right. I think we have to trust him.”

  Suddenly, little Sarah shifts in her bed and cries out. Ruth and I pause, holding our breaths, worried she might be getting sick again. But soon our little sister settles back down to sleep.

  “Rachel, you promise you won’t read something like that again, right?” Ruth asks, turning her attention back to me.

  I nod. I’ve been caught, and I know there’s no chance that I’ll ever be able to read about Meg and Charles Wallace or anyone like them again.

  “I promise I won’t,” I say.

  “Really promise?” Ruth asks. “Never again?”

  “Ruth,” I say, “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  Ruth smiles, reassured. “Good, Rachel. That makes me feel better.”

  “I’m glad,” I say. “Now go to sleep.”

  “Mmm hmmm,” Ruth manages, and soon she’s lightly snoring while I stare up at the ceiling, remembering how Meg Murry called herself the oddball of her family and wondering if I know just how she felt.

  * * *

  Mom is still frozen inside of her bedroom, hardly eating and barely talking. The shut bedroom door stares at me blankly each time I walk past it, as empty of expression as my mother’s face. And each time I creep inside her bedroom to check on her throughout the day, I half expect to find that she’s disappeared somehow, totally eaten up by sadness.

  She doesn’t go to church the Sunday after I have to destroy A Wrinkle in Time, which makes two Sundays in a row. I’m not sure what she says to Dad or what Dad says to her because this time their bedroom door is firmly closed before we leave for services.

  “Children,” my dad says as he walks into the family room where Ruth and I are struggling to get shoes on the little ones, “your mother needs to rest a little this morning. She still isn’t feeling well and won’t be coming with us.”

  “Does she have a fever?” Gabriel asks. A fever is the only kind of sick that keeps you home from Calvary Christian.

  “Not exactly,” Dad answers. “But we need to pray very hard for her to get well.”

  At services, Faith walks up to me and asks why Mom hasn’t come back to church.

  “Dad said she still wasn’t feeling well, and we need to pray for her,” I answer.

  Faith nods and says, “‘The prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.’”

  “Yes, I know,” I answer.

  “You mean, ‘amen,’” Faith responds.

  “Yes, amen,” I answer, turning my attention to baby Caleb.

  That night, after Ruth and I put the little ones to bed, I head toward my parents’ bedroom door to check on Mom again, if only to watch her breathing or to see if she’ll at least have a glass of milk. But Dad stops me and insists she needs her rest.

  “Better to leave her alone right now,” he says, and my heart breaks a bit because I so want to see my mother.

  Instead, I sit down at the computer to balance the books and do a little more work on the Walker Family Landscaping and Tree Trimming website. I frown as I work through this month’s latest expenses. Business has been slow, and even though Dad always reminds us we should owe no one anything but love, we still haven’t received all of Mom’s medical bills, and I have no idea how we’ll figure out how to pay them.

  Dad is in the bedroom with Mom—the two are talking in low tones, and I can’t make out what they’re saying. Ruth is in the kitchen writing out a list of groceries for the next week. One of my older brothers is showering upstairs, and I can hear the hot water chugging through the pipes like a train. My brothers don’t help with bedtime for the little ones, and their lack of evening chores affords them the luxury of a long shower at the end of the day.

  My fingers flutter over the keyboard like hummingbird wings, and as I work, I try to ignore the little itch that’s been building in the back of my brain for days now.

  An itch that began when I spoke to Lauren’s mother at church last Sunday. That intensified when I had to throw away my book.

  Suddenly I see the words Lauren Sullivan Texas Calvary Christian sitting in the search box, looking me right in the eye. My heart pounds so hard it aches.

  I hit Enter.

  Pressing that key feels like a release. Like when I water the plants in the front yard and push my thumb against the garden hose for a minute, letting the water pressure build up and tickle me before I move it just a little and let the water explode all around me, the spray kissing my bare feet.

  Maybe nothing will happen, I think, but in a millisecond my eyes focus on the very first link.

  BUTTERFLY GIRL—About Me—Links—My Very Favorite Things—The Great Escape

  Hi! Thanks for finding me on the Interwebs. My name’s Lauren, and when I was a teenager, I escaped from a scary situation that involved abuse and …

  That’s all I can read unless I click on the link. What are the Interwebs? I’m not even sure this is Lauren Sullivan, but the word abuse stands out. Lauren didn’t like what happened at Calvary Christian, I know that. But it wasn’t abuse. Abuse is hard smacks and kicks, not the kinds of swats my parents have given all of us since we were little. Abuse is someone touching you inappropriately in your private areas. Mom was careful to explain that to us when we were little, and I know she took it seriously from the way she almost always got tears in her eyes when she talked to us about others imposing their sexual immorality on innocent children. Touching in the wrong way is abuse. What happened to Lauren made her run away, but how can she call it abuse? Weren’t we just trying to bring her closer to Jesus?

  My eyes shift down and there are links to results from track meets and spelling bees at other schools and districts with names involving Lauren or Sullivan or Calvary or Christian, but none of the other links that pop up seem to be even close to belonging to the mysterio
us, redheaded Lauren Sullivan from years ago.

  I take a deep breath and listen some more. The shower upstairs has stopped running. If I strain, I can still hear Mom and Dad’s muffled voices. Even though I don’t know what they’re saying, something about the sound pricks at my heart.

  But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed, I think, remembering the book of James. I tug hard at the ends of my long hair in an effort to wake myself out of this daze I’ve sunk into. I pull so hard I wince, and the skin on my scalp fights my pulling. A sharp sting travels over my skull. I yank hard one more time for good measure. To make sure I don’t click on that first link.

  Quickly, I clear my history and double-check to make sure there’s no trace of my searches.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turn around wearing a face that has to give me away, I’m sure of it. It’s Ruth, the memory of A Wrinkle in Time and my promise to never read it again no doubt burned in her brain. She’s holding a piece of paper in her hand.

  “Nothing,” I answer. “I’m just finishing up work for Dad.”

  “Okay,” she answers, a long, wary pause sitting awkwardly between the word’s two syllables. Oh-kay.

  “I thought if you had a chance you could go over the grocery list with me, just to see if I’ve missed anything,” she continues.

  “Sure,” I say, burying the realization that despite all of my promises about how I won’t read certain things and how I will listen to our father, I’m now lying to Ruth for real.

  6

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and rub away the crust lining my red-rimmed eyes. A blemish is peeking out on my chin, a painful one that will soon erupt into an ugly face-volcano. I remind myself not to be vain—it’s not godly behavior—but in the same breath I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t look so worn out if I could sleep at least six hours a night. Either Isaac wakes up coughing or Sarah has a nightmare or my own guilty thoughts creep into my brain and won’t let me drift off. After I found the Butterfly Girl link last night, I shifted positions so many times in my twin bed Ruth finally muttered that I might want to try sleeping on the couch.