Soon it’s time for the service to begin. A full band in the corner with a piano player, a drummer, and several men playing guitars starts up with “Blessed Assurance.” Mark sings along, following the lyrics as they appear on the screen, but I know the words by heart.
“Welcome, all,” begins the pastor, a large, middle-aged man with a full belly and a well-trimmed gray beard. He doesn’t boom because he doesn’t need to—he’s wearing a small lapel microphone—and soon he’s preaching about that morning’s Scripture readings, the parable of the talents from Matthew, and about how we must use our God-given gifts to serve the Lord. I’ve heard it before, of course.
“We must ask ourselves,” the pastor says, stepping out from behind the pulpit and walking among the congregation, “what are we doing with our precious gifts, with the gifts that God has given us? Perhaps there’s a young woman here who wants to study medicine, or a young man with a talent for teaching. How much God wants us to honor Him by using our talents. Our gifts.”
My gifts—according to Pastor Garrett and Dad—are the gifts of the homemaker and nothing more. To raise up children for Christ and to be a good helpmeet. I try to picture Pastor Garrett preaching about girls becoming doctors, and it is so amusing to me, I have to watch that an inappropriate grin doesn’t slip out during the sermon.
Later, there’s communion with real wine, but Mark takes grape juice and so do I. And there’s a big, resounding version of a more contemporary song I don’t recognize, but I try to follow along. When the service ends, we file out into a room called the Parish Hall, where the excited chatter of so many people in such a small space hurts my ears and makes me want to leave. Mark and I get pushed along until we end up by a table with paper cups full of orange juice and boxes of glazed donuts.
“So what’d you think?” Mark asks, downing a tiny paper cup of orange juice in one gulp and starting on a donut.
“It was … nice. It was different.”
“Better?” Mark asks. “Than your old church, I mean?”
I shrug. “Calmer,” I say. “More … relaxed. But fancier, which felt strange. And I’m not sure if I liked that part or not.”
“Fancier. You mean like the flat-screen for the song lyrics and stuff?”
“Yes,” I say. “And the big band and the way the donation envelopes let you write down credit card information. At my church, everyone’s encouraged to live without debt, so that sort of eliminates the credit card option.”
“But what about the donuts?” Mark says, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t the donuts sort of tip things in Peace Lutheran’s favor?”
“Well, the donuts don’t hurt,” I say, grinning.
Mark smiles. “Yeah, the donuts aren’t bad. And coming here isn’t terrible. It’ll be harder when school starts, though. On the weekends during the school year, I just want to sleep in.”
“Until I moved in with Lauren, I’d never slept in,” I say, helping myself to a cup of juice. “Not in my entire life. Except for when I was sick.”
Mark’s eyebrows dart up. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” I tell him, taking a sip of juice. “I’d gladly get up early if I thought it would mean I could spend all day learning things.”
Mark grimaces ever so slightly. “Rachel, do you know there’s a chance I could have this dude named Mr. Taylor for U.S. Government class this year? The last time he gave an A to anyone, the U.S. government didn’t actually exist. We were still a British colony. That’s how ancient this guy is.”
“Ancient?” I say. “You mean elderly.”
“Vintage.”
“Seasoned.”
“Mature.”
“Geriatric,” I offer.
“Old,” Mark responds. “And that’s all I got.”
I blush a little and look down into the bottom of my cup at the solitary swallow of juice I have left.
“Sorry,” I say.
“For what?” Mark answers. “I think it’s kind of cool you know so many words. But honestly, I wish I could get you to understand how freaking boring U.S. Government is.”
I finish my juice and bite my bottom lip for a moment, trying to choose my words. “But you have … options,” I finally begin. “I don’t know that you totally understand that. Like what the pastor was saying in there. You can use your gifts any way you want to. It’s not just that you can read Madeleine L’Engle books if you feel like it. It’s more than that. It’s like … a lifetime of possibilities.”
Mark doesn’t have a rapid-fire retort this time. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.”
My cheeks are pinking up, but I look at Mark and ask, “Are you just saying that? Or do you really think I’m right?”
“No, I really think you’re right,” Mark insists. “I’m kind of an ungrateful pain in the ass sometimes, if you want me to be honest.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re nice. And funny.”
“Well,” Mark says, like he’s considering my words with care, “that is true. I am incredibly nice and funny.”
“I never said incredibly.”
Mark bursts out laughing, and then I’m laughing, too. It feels so easy to stand here and drink paper cups of juice and talk to Mark Treats. As if my brain has suddenly forgotten all the reasons why it was supposed to be difficult. Or wrong.
“Do you think you have options?” Mark says. “Like now? That you’ve left?”
Now that I’ve left. For good? Forever?
“Your mom says I’m a girl who knows what she wants and goes after it,” I say. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”
“I think my mom’s right,” Mark says, and his smile softens just a little and his brown eyes meet mine. “You’re kind of tough as nails.”
“Maybe,” I answer, my heart pounding hard, insisting I pay attention to it.
“No, not maybe tough as nails,” Mark says. “Definitely, absolutely, unequivocally tough as nails. I just listed antonyms for maybe. I thought I’d switch it up this time.”
“Indubitably,” I offer. “Decidedly.”
“You’re never going to let me win, are you?” Mark says, shaking his head.
“No,” I tell him, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
* * *
When I get home from church, Lauren is busy in the bathroom coloring her hair a new shade of the rainbow.
“How’d it go?” she asks, carefully massaging a reddishlooking dye into her scalp, oversized plastic gloves on her hands.
“It was okay,” I say, heading toward the couch. “It was nice in some ways.” When I tell her about the big screen, Lauren steps outside of the bathroom to make sure she’s heard me right.
“A flat-screen? Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “And you can make a donation to the church on a credit card!”
“But Psalms says the wicked borroweth and payeth not again,” Lauren admonishes, mimicking Pastor Garrett, even waggling a dye-covered, gloved finger at me.
“I know,” I answer. “But parts of the service I liked, actually. Like the sermon.”
“That’s nice,” Lauren answers, heading back into the bathroom. I hear the water turning on, like she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“Hey!” I shout. “Can I borrow your laptop?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
By the time Lauren has blow-dried her now burgundy hair and joined me on the couch, I have half a page of notes scribbled down. Phone numbers, addresses, a list of required documents.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“I’m doing this research.”
“Obviously. But for what?”
If I say it out loud to Lauren, it becomes real. It becomes something I’m doing instead of something I might do.
“I’m trying to figure out how to enroll. In school.”
For once, Lauren is speechless. Her mouth actually opens and no sound comes out. She ju
st peers at the computer screen, apparently looking for confirmation of my announcement.
“Clayton Independent School District Admissions and Withdrawals,” she finally reads out loud, her voice quieter than normal. Maybe even in awe. “Really? Seriously?”
“When I turn eighteen, I can enroll myself.”
Lauren opens her mouth and shuts it again. She looks carefully at the computer screen and then at me.
“You’re smart,” Lauren says. “You could probably enroll as a senior and graduate with a real high school diploma, not just a GED like I have.”
“Yeah. Maybe. It’s probably stupid.”
“No, it’s not stupid,” Lauren says slowly. Usually Lauren is ready with her opinions, but she seems to be carefully chewing over my idea. “I think it could be … really incredible for you. But…”
“But what?” I ask, frowning a little.
“It’s going to be very different,” Lauren says. “You’ll be with worldly kids who don’t know anything about your life and Calvary. It might feel a little overwhelming. Especially at first. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but I remember what it was like when I first started hanging out with real worldly kids. I tried to be all tough, but they could be intimidating.”
“Yeah, I know it would be strange at first,” I say, running my finger along the bottom of the laptop. Lauren’s words make me anxious, but they can’t completely extinguish the idea of school from my mind. I think back to Mark’s SAT prep and my curiosity over how I would do in such a class.
“If you go to high school, you can go to college, right?” I ask. Some of the boys from Calvary sometimes took a business class or two at the community college branch in Healy if it could help them get their own home-based businesses off the ground, but only with the permission of Pastor Garrett. Girls were never allowed. And I’d never known anyone who’d gone to an actual four-year university.
“Yeah, if you finish high school you could go to college,” says Lauren. “I bet Clayton High has full-time counselors and everything. They could help you figure out how to apply. And maybe get financial aid. College is really expensive, you know.”
“I know,” I say, and my cheeks pink up. “Lauren, I can’t believe I didn’t first say that I would still keep my job at the Treats. Or get another one. I mean, even if I went to school I would still be working. I wouldn’t want you to think that I…”
“Stop,” Lauren says, waving her hand at me. “We’ll figure that part out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I think school could be really good for you. I bet you spend hours just reading. And learning.”
Hours spent reading and learning. Every single day.
I keep staring at the Clayton Independent School District website. The adult student … may enroll without parental involvement. I’m still amazed the words exist.
“I think I’m going to call them,” I say, my stomach fluttering. “The school district, I mean.”
“When?” Lauren asks.
“I was thinking Tuesday,” I say.
“Why Tuesday?” Lauren questions. Then she claps her hands together. “I know! It’s your birthday. You turn eighteen.”
I nod. Eighteen. A legal adult.
“So you’re sure you’re ready for this?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say, not at all sure and just overwhelmed enough to want to change the topic. To my ears, it still sounds like I’m announcing that I’m going to swim the English Channel.
That night after Lauren heads to bed, I curl up on the couch and think of Ruth. Lately, I only let my mind venture to thoughts of her when I’m alone in the dark of the evening and there’s no one to see me crying. Only at night do I allow myself to remember our cuddles and late night whispers. What would she think if I told her I was thinking of enrolling in school? Would she say I was committing a terrible sin? Or would she want to try and understand me?
Is she thinking of me right now just a few miles away? Or is she so exhausted by the work she’s had to take on since I left that she’s been dead asleep for hours, my empty bed next to her a morning reminder of all the endless tasks she must try to accomplish that day?
Oh, baby sister, I’m sorry.
And I miss you so much.
I swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep breath. And then another.
God, help me to do what’s right. Help me figure out how to live this life. To be a good person. To honor you.
It feels like years since Lauren emailed me the Mary Oliver poem—the one that’s become a touchstone for my heart. My everyday prayer. My true north. Even if I haven’t always understood exactly what it means.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
Lauren once said that the speaker in the poem was me—that I was supposed to ask myself that question.
But now I wonder, what if the speaker is God?
What if God is saying, Rachel, what is it you plan on doing now that I’ve gifted you with this mind and this heart and this itch to know about the deepest parts of the ocean and the highest crests of the mountains and the darkest edges of space?
What is it you plan to do, Rachel Walker, with this one life I’ve given you?
I take a breath and feel my rib cage expanding, my heart pulsing, each beat moving me forward through time.
I have this one life that’s mine, stretching out before me like the smooth, dark water of the sea, and God is inviting me to hold my breath and slide through the waves, my arms outstretched, my feet kicking, my soul headed for points unknown.
Rachel, he tells me, dive in.
21
I think I’m working my way out of a job. When I get to Diane’s this morning, she tells me I’ve done so much in the past few weeks she only has a little filing for me to finish.
“Come September, you could still help me out once a week if you’d like,” she asks from the love seat where she sits examining her list of appointments for the day. “Until everything starts to fall apart again. Then you can come more often.”
“That sounds good,” I say, organizing the paper on the desk into small piles.
There’s a pause, and I sense Diane’s eyes on me. “You look so cute today,” she says.
I blush just a bit and touch the nape of my neck. “I put my hair up like you said.”
“Yes, you have your hair up, and I can see your lovely face,” Diane says, peering at me. “But there’s something else.” She purses her lips, thinking. “Wait. I know. I see your shoulders.”
Diane’s right. I’m wearing one of Lauren’s sleeveless tops—a light blue color—along with a knee-length denim skirt. The fit of the top is fairly loose, the straps are wide, and the scoop neck cuts just under my collarbone—it’s not exactly scandalous by Diane’s standards. But it’s like nothing I’ve ever worn before. When I walked up the steps to the Treatses’ house, it felt like the sun was kissing my skin.
“I borrowed this top from Lauren,” I say.
“I like it,” Diane tells me. “It’s very becoming.”
“Really?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
I grin so hard I’m afraid I look silly, and I refocus my gaze on the papers in front of me. Diane gathers her belongings and makes her way to the front door. Before she gets there, I stop her.
“Diane?”
“Yes, honey?”
I take a moment to collect the right words and put them in order.
“I just want to tell you that I really want to thank you,” I say. “For this job. For taking me to church. For everything.” I want to say more—I should say more. But if I do, I’m afraid I might lose the sureness in my voice.
I expect a rapid-fire response, a typical Diane pep talk. But she just nods and smiles at me. “You’re going to be just fine,” she says, blinking twice, her voice barely audible.
And she slips out the front door.
I get to work on the filing, and after a
bout an hour, the door opens again. For a moment I wonder why Diane is back early, but it’s Mark, wearing dark blue, knee-length swim trunks and a gray T-shirt. His hair is still wet, he has a towel slung over his shoulder, and he smells of chlorine.
“Hey,” I say. “How are you?” I’m nervous. Not awful, I’ve-been-caught-on-the-computer nervous, but what-did-I-get-for-Christmas nervous. Fluttery nervous.
“Hey,” he says as kicks off his flip-flops and sits down on the love seat. “What’s happening?”
“Just working,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. My bare shoulders.
“Dang, you’ve really made this place look better,” Mark says, surveying the room. “My mom was lucky to find you.”
“She might want me to come back in the fall,” I tell him. “Once a week, I think.”
“You mean when school starts?”
I nod. The word school makes me think about my birthday tomorrow and the number for the Clayton Independent School District’s main office printed carefully on a piece of paper in my purse.
“So what’s going to happen to you come fall?” Mark asks. He leans back on the love seat. He’s unusually still. For Mark, anyway. “Are you thinking about school?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I think so. But I’m going to wait until tomorrow to call about it because that’s when I turn eighteen. I’ll be a legal adult and allowed to enroll myself.”
“Hey,” Mark says, his face lighting up, “well, happy early birthday. I don’t turn eighteen until October, so you’ll have to give me the heads up on what to expect.”
“I promise to reveal all,” I say. “You have my word.”
“Excellent,” Mark replies. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and I expect Mark to get up and go upstairs, but he doesn’t. Finally, he looks at me and asks, “If you go to school, your family won’t be too happy about it, will they?”
I shake my head no. “It’s so … I mean … you’d think I of all people would be good at coming up with words to describe my situation, but all I can come up with is complicated, and I’m so tired of using that word. But no. They won’t be happy about it.”
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