Devoted

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “They still want you to go to that church camp?”

  “I think so, but I haven’t spoken to them since I left.”

  “That still kind of, like, blows my mind that they want you to go there,” Mark says.

  I offer a rueful smile. “The longer I’m here and not there, the more it amazes me, too, but I still miss them,” I say. “Especially my little sister Ruth. But at the same time, if I was with them, I couldn’t be here. I couldn’t be thinking about enrolling in classes and earning my own money and visiting a new church and all of these things that are pretty exciting for me, even if they make me nervous, you know? So I go back and forth. My whole life is this mix of … mournfulness and euphoria.” Wow. I think that’s the most I’ve ever said to Mark in one sitting.

  “Mournphia,” Mark says, nodding.

  “Yes, mournphia. I’m in a constant state of mournphia.”

  It’s quiet again. Mark’s dark eyes focus on me, his gaze is steady. My cheeks feel warm, but I don’t want to look away. I don’t want him to look away either.

  “I meant to bring those Madeleine L’Engle books, but I can’t stop rereading them,” I say, when the silence becomes too much. But Mark shakes his head.

  “You keep them. Consider them a birthday gift.”

  “Really?” I ask. My own copy of A Wrinkle in Time for all time.

  “Really. I’ve got too much to read right now anyway.”

  “Like what? SAT prep stuff?”

  “God, no.” Mark shudders. “No, I’m reading these comics by this guy named Harvey Pekar and the third book in the Game of Thrones series and this other book called Slaughterhouse-Five.”

  “Wait, but which one are you reading right now?” I ask, confused.

  “Well,” Mark says, “I do this thing where I, like, read three or four books at once. Like switch on and off? My mom thinks it shows lack of focus. But I finish most of them.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Wow.”

  “You could do it, too,” he says. “You’re smarter than me, and I can do it.”

  “I need more books first,” I tell him, my heart picking up speed just a bit. “I’ve read almost every book Lauren owns, but she doesn’t own that many.”

  “You can borrow some of mine whenever,” he says, and finally he stands up and wiggles his back a bit, cracking his spine. Then he looks at me again.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he say, frowning slightly, “but you look different or something. You look nice.” He groans, flustered. “Not that you didn’t look nice before. Oh, hell, that sounded awful. Forget it, you must think I sound like a jerk.”

  “I put my hair up,” I manage, despite the fact that my mouth suddenly seems to have gone dry. “And you don’t sound like a jerk.”

  “No, I kind of do,” he says, dragging a hand through his own hair so I can see all of his face. His forehead is lighter than the rest of him, evidence of his hours in the sun. His eyes seem darker than ever. More beautiful than ever, if you can call a boy’s eyes beautiful.

  “You really didn’t sound like a jerk, I promise,” I insist.

  “Okay, fine,” he says. “But just so we’re clear and everything, you always looked nice, okay? Just today you look, like, extra nice. All right, I’m going to stop now.”

  “Okay,” I say, failing to suppress a giggle.

  “I’m glad my idiocy humors you,” he responds, one eyebrow jumping. “Listen, do you want something to eat?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That would be nice.”

  “Cool,” he says, scooting off to the kitchen. A few moments later I hear his voice. “Hey, why don’t you come in here and keep me company?” he offers. “I can continue to amuse you while I make nachos.”

  I look at the work Diane has left me. I’ve managed to get most of it done. There wasn’t that much to begin with today, anyway. And I’m sure I’ll have a little more time before she gets back.

  “I’ll be right there!” I shout. And I get up and head for the kitchen.

  * * *

  I feel a gentle push on my shoulders.

  “Wake up, legal adult.”

  I struggle to open my eyes. Sometimes I think I’m still making up for the years of sleep deprivation back home. When I finally sit up, I find Lauren perching on the back of the couch holding a small package wrapped in yellow paper.

  “Happy birthday!” she says, tossing me my present.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything, Lauren,” I say, surprised.

  “Well, I did, so open it,” she says, jumping over the couch and sitting at my feet. She wiggles in excitement.

  I unwrap the paper. Lauren’s given me a small, black cell phone. Not one of those fancy ones with the touch screen like she has, but a phone just the same.

  “It doesn’t have the Internet or anything,” she says, “but you can call and text. I put you on my plan and we can share the bill.”

  “Wow,” I say, turning it over in my hand. “I have my own number?”

  “Yes!” she says. “It’s all yours.”

  I lean over and hug Lauren hard, and she kisses me on the top of my head.

  “Thanks, Lauren,” I say. “This is so nice.”

  “I was happy to do it,” she says, sliding over the back of the couch and heading for the door. “I’m going to work, so don’t call Europe or anything. Domestic calls only.”

  I roll my eyes at her and fall back onto the couch where I spend a good twenty minutes fiddling around with my present, trying to make sure I understand how it works.

  Eventually, I shower and get dressed, stopping to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, checking for any sign I seem older. As a little girl, eighteen sounded hopelessly far away, as foreign as thirty or forty. Eighteen meant adult. When I was younger, I thought I might be married by now, or even pregnant.

  On my birthdays back home, my mom would always make me silver dollar pancakes for breakfast, and Faith or Ruth would bake me a chocolate cake for after supper. There wasn’t enough money for big gifts, but sometimes my mother would sew me a new blouse or my siblings would give me the gift of taking on my chores for a full week. There was only one birthday when I’d received a present of any financial importance.

  I glance at the Titus 2 bracelet my father gave me the year I turned twelve. To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed. Those are the words inscribed on this piece of jewelry I’ve worn for so long. One evening not long after I arrived at Lauren’s, I took it off and looked at my empty wrist, and it looked so thin and strange without it, I put the bracelet back on again.

  I touch it gently now, sliding the cool metal around and around on my wrist. I let my thumb skate over the inscription on the inside.

  No matter how much love may have been behind this bracelet, I know I can’t wear it anymore.

  I make my way to the dresser and open the drawer where I’ve been keeping my clothes. I slide off the bracelet and place it toward the back, tucking it under my nightgown. My eyes sting a bit, and I blink back some tears, but I don’t cry.

  And then, as quickly as I can, so I don’t lose my nerve, I find my purse and fish out the number for the Clayton Independent School District, which is silly since I know the number by heart.

  I take my new phone and sit down on the couch. But I’m too nervous to sit, so I stand. Finally, I walk outside to the top of the metal stairs leading into the apartment courtyard and shut the front door behind me.

  I’ll count to ten and then I’ll call.

  I take a breath.

  One, two, three.

  God, I know I can do this.

  Four, five, six.

  By seven I decide I’m ready. I dial the number and hold the phone up to my ear. I listen to the tinny ring, picturing some phone on some desk in some office, waiting for someone to pick it up. Finally, a woman’s voice answers.

  “Clayton Independent School District, may I help you?”

>   “Yes,” I answer. “I’m calling about enrolling in school.” I look out past the courtyard at the bright blue August sky. The morning sun is shining hard, so hard that as I keep talking, I have to shield my eyes from the brightness.

  * * *

  Clutching a bag of groceries and a very full purse, I barely make it to the front door of the apartment building without dropping everything. I’ve spent the better part of the morning at the school district’s offices with two middle-aged women named Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Sweeney, sitting with them at their desks as I filled out countless forms and scheduled something called a placement test, so the high school would be able to put me in the right classes. When I parked Lauren’s Honda at the two-story brick building next door to Clayton Primary School and gazed at the main doors, I heard my father’s voice in my head for the first time in months, stern and clipped in its delivery.

  Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s.

  We had always been told we were children of God and not of the government, so the government should have no business raising us.

  But still I opened the car door, got out, and headed inside, my father’s words leaving me as quickly as they’d come, slipping through my mind like water through my fingers.

  “I’m trying to remember the last time we had a student enroll herself,” Mrs. Murphy said to Mrs. Sweeney after I explained my situation.

  “It’s been ages,” Mrs. Sweeney said to Mrs. Murphy, popping open a can of Diet Dr Pepper. “Mostly they’re trying to figure out how to get out of school, not get into it.” She winks at me.

  “I’m impressed with you,” Mrs. Murphy added, pointing at me for emphasis, her neon-pink fingernails impossible to miss.

  “So am I,” said Mrs. Sweeney.

  “Thank you,” I said. I waited to feel myself blush, but I didn’t. I was impressed with me, too, but the complicated process of simply enrolling reminded me once more how big and unknowable and strange this school experiment was going to be for me.

  But by the time I’ve gone to the grocery store and made it back home, I’m also tired. I fish through my purse and find my keys, finally pushing open the front door with my hip and setting everything down before my arms fall off. The mail’s here by now, but I’ll have to make a second trip for that.

  When I do, I briefly imagine a soft, pastel-colored envelope waiting for me—a birthday card from my parents or maybe from Ruth. But I know that’s impossible, and I know that no matter how impossible it is, I still wish the impossibility of it didn’t sting so much. I fight off the feelings of sadness, and when I make it to the mailboxes at the bottom of the stairs, I see ours is so full the mailman couldn’t close it. Struggling, I pull out a stack of envelopes that look like bills or junk, and then I see what’s been taking up the space. A thick, worn paperback novel with a white envelope slipped inside.

  The book is called The Hobbit, and on the outside of the white envelope it says Rachel in a tiny, barely readable print. Next to my name are scribbled the words Hey, I tried to stop by but you weren’t here so here you go—Mark

  I immediately dump all the junk mail and the bills on the grass by my feet and rip open the envelope—but carefully, so I don’t destroy the note on the outside.

  The card inside the envelope has a picture of a dog on it wearing a funny hat and sunglasses. It says Hope You Have a Doggone Happy Birthday!

  Inside Mark has printed—more neatly this time, in black ballpoint pen.

  Rachel,

  Hey, just wanted to give you a book I thought you might like. There’s books by the same guy that come after too so if you like it tell me and I’ll loan you the other ones. And if you end up at school let me know and I can give you some tips. Like don’t take Taylor for U.S. Government. I’m serious. Okay, hope this is a happy birthday for you. And by happy I mean stupendous, amazing, ecstatic, thrilling, epic, and dynamic.

  Later,

  Mark

  PS I win this round.

  I read the card over and over, and I keep rereading it as I gather the mail on the ground and head up the stairs and bump a shoulder hard into the doorframe as I head into the apartment. But it doesn’t hurt.

  When I’ve read the card at least twenty times, I tuck it into my purse. I’ll show it to Lauren eventually, but for right now, I want to keep it just for me. I examine The Hobbit—its cover has been taped back on more than once—and I run my fingers down the creased spine. It feels like a really good book.

  By the time Lauren gets home for lunch, I’m thirty pages in and I already know I’ll be asking Mark for whatever comes after.

  “Hey, birthday lady,” Lauren says, heading for the kitchen. “Man, I’m starving.”

  “So,” I mention, trying to keep my voice casual, “I enrolled in school today.”

  “You did?” Lauren responds, stepping out from the kitchen.

  “I really did,” I say.

  “Wow,” Lauren answers, and she pulls me in for a hug. When she lets go, she puts her hands on her hips and grins. “Look at you,” she says. “I’m making us lunch and we can talk about it.”

  When we sit down at the table to eat, Lauren starts asking me questions like how will I know what courses to take and when is the first day, each one coming on the heels of the next. I know she’s curious as well as worried about me taking on such a big change, but her questions start to feel suffocating somehow. Suddenly, without any notice, all the excitement from the morning—my own phone, school, Mark’s card and gift—collides with what I’ve been trying to ignore all day. I push my sandwich away.

  “What’s wrong?” Lauren asks.

  I remember Mark’s word. Mournphia. My life is full of mournphia.

  “It’s just that…” I start, my voice soft. I remember my last birthday. How Ruth used strips of bacon to make a smiley face on one of the pancakes my mother made for me. How Sarah scribbled me a picture of flowers for my present. “It’s my first birthday without my family.”

  “Oh, Rachel,” she says. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Do you think they’re thinking of me?” I ask, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “I’m sure they are,” Lauren answers, and she reaches out her hand for mine and squeezes it. Her hand is small, soft, but her grip is tight and reassuring. “I know they are.”

  I shut my eyes and hot tears spill out.

  “But Lauren, they never came to look for me.”

  I’m crying hard now, and Lauren’s eyes are reddening. She scoots her chair over and wraps her arms around me, letting me fold myself into her. Letting me cry and cry. Finally, I’m all cried out, and I dry my eyes with one of the paper towels Lauren set out on the table for lunch.

  Then Lauren asks me, “Do you wish they’d come to find you?”

  I sniffle a little and shrug. “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess … I guess the answer is yes. I mean, if my dad came here right now and demanded I go home and live under his rules, I wouldn’t go. I couldn’t. But that they never came to look for me? That they never wanted to see if I was all right? How could they not even try?” I feel the ache in my throat building up again.

  Lauren nods at my answer, and I prepare myself for a long speech about the ridiculousness of the church and its rules. But she doesn’t deliver one. She just rubs my back and keeps nodding.

  “Everything feels good and then sometimes it feels so sad,” I continue, choking my way through the words. “When is it just going to be okay?”

  “I wish I knew,” Lauren answers. “But I think you need to just let them go, Rachel. I know it hurts, but I think you need to just focus on what’s in front of you, you know?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I take a few deep breaths, and we sit in silence for a while, Lauren’s hand still resting on my back. An idea begins to burrow even deeper into my mind.

  “I think there’s something I need to do before I start school,” I say. And I’m pretty sure Lauren’s
not going to agree with me about it.

  “What?” Lauren asks, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.

  “I think I want to go back,” I tell her. “I want to see them, even if it’s for the last time. I owe it to Ruth at the very least. I need to say goodbye to my family. I don’t think I can just cut them off or let them go. I think I need to at least say goodbye.” The thought of driving back there makes my stomach knot up. But the idea that Ruth may be waiting for me to show up back home at any moment, repentant, makes my heart hurt.

  “Rachel, are you sure that’s what you should do?” Lauren asks. She frowns, and the creases in her brow deepen. “I mean, if you think it’s what you need to do then I guess you should. I just don’t want…” It’s clear she’s holding back, fighting the urge to talk me out of it. “No, it’s your decision. You have to do what you think is right.”

  I nod firmly. “Yes, I think it’s what I have to do. I’ll go tomorrow. And get it over with.”

  Lauren gives my back a final pat and pushes a small smile onto her face.

  “You can borrow the car if you want,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, and we sit there together not speaking, our lunch left uneaten on the table in front of us.

  22

  I pull into the yard in front of my house just before suppertime.

  I stare at the house for a moment. Up until I moved to Lauren’s apartment, it’s the only home I’ve ever lived in. Honestly, it was the only place I really knew in the world outside of Calvary Christian Church. And I know it as well as I know my own reflection.

  The small plaque with John 3:16 inscribed on it hanging over the open entryway into the family room.

  The hall closet downstairs where Mom always hides the Christmas presents even though she knows we’ll peek.

  The wall of Sheetrock in the garage where Sarah and Isaac like to color with crayons, and Ruth and I always let them because it’s just the garage.

  The rich scent of fresh mud coming from the work boots lined up by the back door after my dad and brothers come home from a job.

  The sounds of Sunday mornings, when Mom wakes us up by singing “To God Be the Glory” or some other favorite hymn.