Intended for Harm

by C. S. Lakin

  She felt funny standing in their bedroom with her brothers, wondering if that’s why she hadn’t heard Simon’s screeching guitar the last few hours, that he’d been snooping around in here, where he shouldn’t.

  “Simon, you shouldn’t be in there—”

  “Dinah, it’s okay,” Levi said, waving his hand at her, telling her to be patient. She knew her parents would be home soon, although if they were off at some party and having a good time, maybe they wouldn’t be back until after midnight. Reuben was supposed to be babysitting them—as if they needed babysitting, but he was in his room looking at his climbing magazines. Even Joey at six could practically take care of himself—apart from being unable to reach the high shelves in the kitchen, to get down cereal or crackers if he wanted a snack. Sometimes her parents let her sit Joey, and she always took good care of her little brother. He was so easy, so adorable and loving, never fussed or gave her a hard time ever. Dinah hated that her brothers picked on him, teased him and made fun of him. Ever since Joey had shared his dreams, they’d called him the dreamer. Now, it seemed, that was all they ever called him. So, what was wrong with having dreams? Dinah didn’t talk to her brothers about her own dreams, where she leapt onstage as the prima ballerina of the American Ballet Company, spinning under the bright lights and taking bows, with people throwing red roses at her feet from the darkened audience, cheering and shouting “brava, brava.”

  Maybe God didn’t give her those dreams, the way he did with Joey, but they were still just as important—at least to her. When she danced across the floor, the music tingling her arms and legs and filling her to overflowing, she felt like the little girl in the fairy tale, with the red slippers. For when she put on her ballet shoes, it was almost as if the shoes had their own deep urge to dance, to leap across the floor and sweep her away in their power and magic. There was no easy way to explain it—when she danced, she was the dance; it was in her and consumed her until she disappeared and there was only music and movement, her body just a vessel carried along, an expression of water flowing over rocks, ever moving, her body’s song.

  She shook off her wandering thoughts and watched Simon take a suitcase down from the high shelf that stretched the length of the closet. She noted how tall he was, that he could just reach way back and grab a cardboard box standing on his tiptoes; he had grown a lot the last year, maybe was even taller than Reuben for all she knew. Both of them had shot up practically overnight, and their appetites had skyrocketed as well. She couldn’t believe the amount of food her brothers ate for breakfast and dinner, like they had just been rescued from some deserted island and were starving. Their dad complained he’d have to take on a second job just to afford all the groceries they plowed through.

  Simon brought the ratty cardboard box over to the bed, some large shoebox maybe. Dinah stood beside Levi as Simon untied the string, pulled off the top, and dumped out the contents onto the bed. An avalanche of old photographs spilled across the bedspread, confetti of a past she had never seen before. Her brothers’ small bodies and chubby faces stared up at her, along with another face she knew was her real mother. She’d only seen one picture of her, one that Reuben kept in a drawer. It was an unspoken rule, always had been, that she and her brothers not talk about their mother—their first mother. It was hard for Dinah to think in those terms. Rachel was the only mother she’d ever truly had; Leah—it felt strange to think of her by her first name, but she was truly a stranger to her—had left Dinah when she was just a baby. Although Leah’s name would be mentioned on occasion, mostly Simon talking about her, Dinah could never conjure up any memory at all, except for the picture Reuben had of her, with Leah standing between baby Simon and Reuben—maybe two years old—on some beach, with a hazy sun making her squint. It wasn’t all that great a photo, and never gave Dinah a clear view of Leah’s face.

  But these photos that looked up at her brought her mother’s face into focus, various emotions displayed, some smiles, some frowns. Dinah gazed at them in wonder, searching her memory, hoping for a glint of recognition.

  It struck her how her dad didn’t have any photos in the photos albums from before he married Rachel. She’d figured they hadn’t taken any. Now she realized the obvious—it was too painful for Dad to have pictures of Leah around the house. She had left him, left them all. She knew her brothers felt hurt over her leaving; they had been old enough to understand, to suffer from that loss. But Dinah felt nothing, even as she looked into a face that so much resembled her own, except for that unsettling fact—that she shared her mother’s eyes and cheeks, even her lips and the way she smiled. Like looking at a grown-up version of herself. Is this what she would look like in ten years?

  Simon began moving the pictures around, putting them in rows, in some sort of order. Dinah realized he was putting the earliest first, near her side of the bed, and she watched, saw the intensity on his face, a storm roll in over his features, clouding his mood. Maybe he was angry their father hid these away. Or maybe the pictures were triggering memories, memories that maybe were best left unremembered.

  “Simon, maybe this isn’t a good idea . . .”

  “He shouldn’t have hid them away,” Simon mumbled, mostly to himself. “Like brushing away that part of our lives, as if we never existed before Rachel.”

  Dinah heard the tone in his voice when he said the name Rachel. Like it tasted bad, dirt in his mouth, or something sour. She didn’t understand why Simon disliked their mom so much. She was their mom, after all—their true mom. She’s the one who loved them and cared for them and watched over them, all of them. Sometimes Dinah heard him talk about Leah, and she’d see his eyes brighten recalling fun times they had, trips to the beach, stories Leah read to him. He made it sound like everything had been just great, but Dinah knew better. Reuben had told her one day, when they were at the park and Simon was grumbling about Rachel, about how he wished she’d leave so Leah could come back, like Leah was just waiting in the shadows for the perfect opportunity to return. Reuben had sat there with her, on the bench, and told her everything he could remember, from his earliest memory to the day Leah had waltzed out the front door, climbed into a van, and driven away, not even a hug good-bye, just told him to be a big boy and keep Simon in the house, restrain him from trying to run after her.

  Dinah remembered Reuben’s sad face, and that’s why she understood why her dad never spoke about Leah, why he’d hidden the photos, maybe couldn’t bear to toss them out, thinking maybe when all the kids were grown up they’d want them, just because. She looked over at Simon, laying out the last few photos, saw the pain streaked across his face. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bring the memories out of hiding. Maybe what once looked wonderful now only brought up the hurt. Like picking open a sore where the scab has almost healed over, then making it bleed again.

  Levi shook his head. “I don’t remember any of this.” He pointed at a picture of himself as an infant. “Man, I really was small.”

  Simon chuckled, but his laugh held no joy, a bitter laugh. “Yeah, you were a shrimp. Still are.”

  Levi punched Simon in the arm but meant nothing by it, really. Simon didn’t even turn his head, punch him back. He just stared at the pictures, touched their edges. “So,” he said to her, “what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About Mom. She’s really beautiful, isn’t she? You really look a lot like her.”

  Dinah nodded. “Well, you look like her too, especially her eyes. That’s you, isn’t it?” She pointed to one of Leah cuddling a baby, holding him close to her face, the photo where she looked the happiest. “Are any of those baby pictures of me?”

  Simon looked at the rows, pointed at one, then another. “Those are the only two. I think they stopped taking pictures when you were born. Too busy fighting. Dad was gone all the time, and then Mom went out a lot, left us with this big, mean babysitter.” He looked at the wall, remembering. “Between our parents arguing and you and Levi wailing all the time,
the house was a crazy place full of noise. Sometimes Rube and I would hide in our room, play under the covers, trying to block it all out. Not that it worked.”

  Dinah heard his throat choke up. Simon shut his mouth, got up, went back over to the closet and pulled out something small and flat. Dinah saw it was a notebook.

  He handed it to her. “Here. It’s time you got to know your real mother.”

  “What’s in it?” Dinah asked, feeling a little afraid. Did she want to know? Somehow she felt disloyal, like she’d be hurting her mom by looking at Leah’s things. It was unsettling enough to see Leah’s photos, the sharp reminder that she did have another mother, out there somewhere, maybe not even alive anymore for all she knew.

  “Her poetry. Some random writings, her thoughts. You should read this, Di. Then you’ll understand more who you are, how you’re so much like her. You even talk like her sometimes, you know? Talk like . . . you’re speaking poems, where ideas and words come into your head and you spill them out. She used to do that, even made up songs she’d sing to me, songs about the ocean and stuff like that. Maybe once you read this you’ll see more clearly.”

  “See what more clearly? I don’t understand.”

  Simon’s face shut down, turned dark and smoky. With a brisk wave of his arm, he swept all the photos in a pile, stuffed them back in the box. Dinah had wanted to take a few out, so she could look at them, study them, but Simon gave her no chance. They were back in the box, lid on top, up in the closet before a word of protest left her mouth. He headed toward the hall, then turned around. Levi sat beside her on the bed, so quiet.

  Simon’s voice now seemed chock full of anger; it surprised her with its heat, waves of it crashing out to her and Levi, filling the room.

  “Read her poems, Dinah. Mom did love us. But Dad drove her away. He didn’t love her enough, give her enough room to be who she needed to be. Just the way he does to all of us. It’s his fault she left, and then he went and married Rachel, didn’t even try to get Mom to come back.”

  “Reuben said he tried to find her. He looked for months. If she cared, she would have come back.”

  “No, Dinah. If Dad had cared, she would have come back. He wouldn’t have married Rachel, and once he did, there was no way she could come back to us. Rachel took over as our mother, filled the space so Mom could never return. Just barged her way into our lives, chased after Dad and made him fall in love with her—at a time when he was vulnerable and weak. So they could have their perfect little son Joey.”

  Simon spit out Joey’s name and it hurt Dinah to hear it. She knew Simon resented Joey, but she didn’t realize how much he hated him, maybe even hated their dad. It was no secret he hated Rachel, and that hurt her heart even more. She loved Rachel as much as any daughter could love a mother. Her mom, the only mom she had ever known.

  Dinah wanted to scream at Simon—for his mean, stabbing words. For being so ungrateful and stuck up. For the way he felt about their dad, who Dinah knew loved them, all of them, not just Joey. Simon was wrong, so wrong. But she couldn’t think of anything to say. She just sat there on the bed with the notebook in her hand, her mouth dropped open, and pain oozing out of every pore. Maybe she should burn all those pictures, burn the notebook. But she knew they were already burned like a brand on Simon’s heart; it wouldn’t change how he felt.

  Levi turned to her, looked about to say something. But, instead, he got up and left the room too. She grunted. Simon had probably brainwashed Levi to see things the same way. It upset her to see how Levi trailed after him, tried to act like him, wanting to be exactly like him. But Dinah knew better. Levi had a good heart, underneath all that phony posturing. She knew him better than anyone in the family. She only hoped someday he would stand up to Simon, break free from his grip. Stop pretending to be tough when Simon was around, when she saw how gentle and sweet he really was, had always been.

  For a while, Levi had been her best friend. When he shared her room, they’d often talked late into the night. Sometimes he even made up stories about his cartoon superheroes, the ones he drew in his sketchbook. She had loved listening to him go on about their missions to save the world, fighting their archenemies and winning a victory for good over evil. She missed those stories and their quiet times in the dark. Now, she felt she wandered through the house alone, invisible, like a whiff of wind that no one barely noticed.

  Even her mom barely paid attention to her—she had to admit. She seemed to spend more and more time with Joey, and less time with her. But could she blame her? Joey was adorable; he brightened everyone around him, as if he were made of warm, glowing light. And he warmed her heart when no one else in the family seemed to care, like he knew just when she needed a smile or a hug, and he’d come running and throw his arms around her, give her a big sloppy kiss. How could Simon hate Joey? She knew he was just jealous—but Dinah knew if Simon behaved better and changed his attitude, he’d get a lot more attention too. He pushed everyone away. Well, that was his choice, and he could complain all he wanted.

  She looked at the notebook, the bare cover, with its pages calling her to them, tantalizing her with curiosity. She knew why Simon gave this to her—he hoped it would make her turn against Rachel, turn against her dad, so he’d have another person on his side. Simon didn’t care a hoot about her getting to know her real mother. He just wanted to be right, wanted supporters to his cause.

  Well, she would read Leah’s poems, learn about her, try to see what Simon saw, understand how she felt and why she left. But in the end, it didn’t matter, didn’t matter one bit. Nothing in there could change the way she felt about her parents, about Joey. Nothing in there could make her turn bitter and angry and hurtful. Her parents loved her. She knew they weren’t perfect, but love covered a multitude of sins, the Bible said. She learned that in Sunday school. “Love bears all things, endures all things, believes all things, hopes all things. Love never fails.”

  She went back into her room and shut the door, then stuck the notebook under her mattress. Headlights from her parents’ car stretched across her wall, stopped in the corner, then shut off. She heard the engine go quiet, then the car doors open and shut. She slipped under her covers and pulled her blankets up to her chin as the front door opened, as her parents’ soft voices drifted to her ears, a soothing sound that lulled her, set her heart at rest, as she closed her eyes and let sleep carry her away.

  Rachel sat in her garden, her face turned to the warm October sun, but the warmth only touched her skin. Inside, a chilling fear lingered, sending out icy tentacles that clutched her heart. Why, God, why? They had been so careful, and she had hoped, prayed, that she was wrong, that she was only late, but when she rose this morning and barely made it to the toilet before heaving, she knew. She wanted to pray for God to make her miscarry, for she knew she could never abort, never kill a life growing inside her, but felt guilty even considering that wish. Children were a gift from God. If he wanted her to have another child, who was she to argue? But it frightened her, regardless. Her doctor had been adamant. Lectured her and Jake many times, even after Joey had been born. How the danger was too great; she’d almost died last time, even under strict care, taking every precaution. Another pregnancy would be the death of her. Or so he believed.

  But maybe this time would be different. Maybe she’d been meant to go through such a fearful experience with Joey’s birth, something that had brought Jake closer to her, bound them together, knitted their love, the way a near tragedy often did. God had used that, in a big way, and Rachel didn’t regret one moment of discomfort, for it served a greater purpose. And through it all produced Joey, her son such a special gift from God. Yes, it had been worth all the anguish, and she just needed to trust God now, as well.

  Even so, she would hold off telling Jake. It was possible she could lose this baby. One in four pregnancies ended in miscarriage. And if not, well, she had many months before she would show. She hadn’t been too sick with Joey, so maybe she could keep this to
herself, at least for a while, until she adjusted, saw her doctor, made sure she took her supplements and could convince Jake that everything was fine and she’d be all right. That he needn’t worry. Surely, she thought, she would do enough worrying for the both of them, but she could hide that as well.

  She sat there, willing her knees to stop shaking, redirected her thoughts into prayer, asking God for health and strength, for discernment and a way to mollify Jake. For she knew what he would say and how he would react. Still . . . she allowed the sweet desire for a baby wiggle through her resolute determination to stay detached, unemotional, unswayed. How could she help it? Already she noticed the shift, her body awakened to this new life within her, secreting hormones and honing every cell, every nerve, to alter course, make room for this child. Oh, how her heart cried out for this baby, longed to once more hold an infant in her arms. Her other children were so big, independent. Even Dinah had drifted from her side, untied the tight tether that kept them close, now dancing on the edge of her life, scanning new horizons. And that was a good thing, Rachel told herself. Wasn’t that what she’d hoped, in all these years nurturing Jake’s children? That they’d find their way through the hurt of abandonment and with confidence face their future?

  It saddened her that none of them, yet, had given their life over to God. She still dutifully took them to church—all but Simon, who still refused. And though they participated in the church events, Vacation Bible School, the Christmas pageant, not one of them had surrendered their heart to their Savior. Would they ever? She couldn’t bear thinking they might not come to faith. But that was God’s work. Jesus said no one came to him unless the Father drew them. And that had been her prayer, continued to be her prayer, each and every day, sometimes repeatedly throughout the day, that God would lead them, open their eyes so they could see him.