INFECtIOUS

by Elizabeth Forkey

  "Yes sir," says Harmony.

  Her first words in the whole dispute and they do nothing but undermine me. I flush red with anger and stare the guards down—defiantly.

  "Come on, Ivy," Terry says, turning away to lead us towards home. He sounds tired and older than the nineteen-year-old that I know him to be. Only 3 years older than me. He was playing basketball and watching Disney movies with us last summer. His new job seems to have aged him 10 years.

  As we walk, I start to cool down, and I feel a little guilty. I know they were just trying to keep us safe. I really was just trying to help, and I didn't mean to get everyone all freaked out. The stress induced age lines on Terry's face give testament to the fact that the guards carry a heavy load watching over all of us.

  I wish I had handled that better. I cringe when I realize Aunty is going to hear about this, one way or another, and I can only imagine the lecture I have coming.

  Harmony and I walk quietly behind Terry without talking. He glances behind at us to see that we're keeping up and periodically responds to the static-filled conversation over his radio. I'm not mad at Harmony for not being more help. Really, she handled it all the right way. Respectful, humble, obedient—all the things I know I should be but just haven't been lately. It's in there somewhere though. I need to dig it out again. Terry suddenly takes a right turn two blocks before the Inn.

  "Where are we going?" I ask.

  "We are taking Harmony home first," he says as though it was obvious.

  "Oh. I figured you'd be taking us both to the Inn."

  "No, Harmony is going home. You are going to the U.R."

  My shoulders sag. I'm glad Terry continues to lead the way a few steps ahead of us as I wipe the tears of embarrassment and unfairness from my leaky eyes. I furrow my brows and let my heart run wild with frustrated prayers to the One who let all this happen to me.

  Thanks a lot God. Are you even paying attention? Have you noticed all the crap that's been happening to me? Now this? What did I do wrong? Why are you punishing me?

  I figured people were going to treat me differently since the attack. I shouldn't be surprised. Life really sucks lately.

  I hug Harmony at her front door. Might as well finish the day with a hug. She returns my embrace with her skinny, wispy arms and retreats behind her faded blue door. I hope I didn't get her into trouble too. I'd die if they didn't let us hang out together. She's the only person who helped me feel like myself this week.

  I walk the last two blocks behind Terry without my accomplice. The town feels gray and unfriendly again. But, instead of picturing enemies behind the glare of the windows, I imagine the faces of the people I call family. I imagine them watching me. Whispering to each other about the problem I've become. Judging me. Staring at me as I'm lead towards whatever punishment they think I deserve. I slump my shoulders and burry my face in the collar of my coat, despising the shame.

  When we arrive at the U.R., Terry escorts me to Rev. Depold's office; and, after seeing me through the door, leaves me there without a word. Terry used to be my friend. So much for that. I sit anxiously on the edge of one of the leather chairs that faces Rev. Depold's desk. The ornate cherry wood desk fills the small room and has the effect of making the owner of the desk seem powerful and important.

  The walls of the office are papered haphazardly with faces. Faces of children in Africa and faces of happy worshipers in Asia. Faces of people praying and singing and lifting their hands collectively in praise. Faces from every nationality and every race. The posters are full of the vibrant colors of the different costumes of each exultant convert. Rev. Depold has surrounded himself with a cloud of witnesses. Barely any paint shows through the sea of smiling, emotional believers. It's overwhelming in the small space, and I feel like they are all staring at me. All of them are wondering why I can't be more like them; joyful and content with their Maker. I look down at my feet and wait for the Reverend.

  I chew all of my nails down to nothing and move on to picking at the dry skin of my cuticles. Finally, Rev. Depold struts his large self in and sits down at his desk, the quilted wing-backed desk chair sighs under his weight. He's smiling, but he's always smiling so I don't allow myself any hope.

  "Hello Ivy."

  "Hi."

  "Soooooo, I think we need a better strategy."

  "Sir?"

  "How are you doing Ivy?"

  "Sir?"

  "How's your heart?"

  "Oh. Well, I have been a little scared since, uh, everything. And I was sad when Thomas left. I feel better today. Well, I felt better until we got yelled at. I really didn't do anything wrong! We were only walking. Is there a new rule about not walking in our own community?"

  "No, Ivy, no new rules. We are free here. We do want to be wise though, and we don't know yet what's going on with that picture you found. I would hate for us to not take it seriously enough and have something happen that could've been avoided with a little wisdom. I'd like you to stay at home until we figure some things out. In fact, I am specifically asking that you not leave the Inn, except to come to the Sunday morning meetings. Ok?"

  "Please Reverend!" I can't handle this level of punishment. "What about my job? My friends?" I'm pleading, but I manage to keep my tone respectful and sweet this time—even if it's fraudulent.

  "I'll arrange for someone to deliver the teachers' papers and work assignments to you at the Inn. Someone can set up a computer for you there. And your friends may visit you any time you'd like."

  The Reverend's face is pleasant but resolute. There is no point in arguing. I wish I could kill myself and be done with this awful life. I can't stand the thought of being on house arrest. I didn't do anything to deserve this. The Reverend can tell by the quivering, scrunched look on my face that I'm trying not to lose it.

  He tries to soothe me, "We just want to keep you safe, Ivy. We've never had a security problem like this before and we are all trying to figure out what to do. We don't fight our neighbors and we don't believe in defending ourselves by force. The fence and our wits and godly wisdom are all the defense we've ever needed. There may be a time coming soon that we'll need a new plan. I hate to consider it, but we may need to move the community somewhere safer." His pleasant smile slips away as he stares over my head at something farther away than the jubilant walls of his office, "This might be nothing—but it might be the start of the end of our freedom in Toccoa."

  Angry as I am, a chill of goose bumps runs up my arms from his ghostly wonderings.

  Then he brightens and finishes with the normal Pastor preachy pep-talk, "Whatever the case, the Lord will guide us." He says this with complete conviction and faith.

  I want to feel the same way. I know I have felt that way in the past. Why can't I pull it out of me now?

  Rev. Depold stands up from behind his desk and comes to sit by me in the other leather chair on my side of the desk. He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it kindly. "He has a perfect plan for us and for the salvation of as many as will receive him. May I pray for you Ivy?"

  "Yes sir." I say begrudgingly. I'd rather he didn't, but I would never dream of saying that out loud.

  "Father, thank You for Your goodness to us, Your sheep. Thank You for bringing Colleen and Ivy home safely to us. Give us wisdom in this new dilemma. I know, Lord, that You know the answer. Your plans for us are only good, plans to give us hope and a future. Watch over Ivy and protect her, please Father? Send your Spirit to encourage her and draw her ever nearer to You. Help her to find purpose in You. Thank You Father, Amen."

  His prayer felt like it was meant to chide me more than encourage me—reminding me that I'm falling short in my dedication and trust. I wonder if he meant it to be a hidden lecture or if I'm just paranoid.

  "So, I guess I'll be going home now." I say, more than ready to get out of this office.

  "Yes, your Aunt is waiting in the lobby to take you home."

  Great.

  That's
probably the only thing he could've said that would make me want to stay here for as long as possible. My face is as telltale as ever, shame and dread cloud over my proud demeanor. With an irritating chuckle, the Reverend catches that I am in no hurry to see Aunty. He gives me a consoling pat on the back and then gently shoves me out of his office door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I Get Rid Of That Cold Sore

  There is no lecture. Aunty doesn't speak to me at all on the short walk home. Somehow, this is worse. I'd rather a lecture. Even Aunty and I are damaged. My life is literally falling apart. We used to be close, telling each other everything. I never went through the "difficult teenager" phase. We've never even had a fight. Sometimes I'm emotional, and sometimes I'm irresponsible; but Aunty is always understanding, and I always apologize later. She's never been anything but patient with my moods and immature moments. I’ve had the hardest week of my life and she picks now to get fed up with me? I feel like she could be a little more understanding. I've been through a lot. She's the grown-up. She could bear with me. I'm sorry I haven't been perfect enough for her lately.

  Back at the Inn—otherwise known as my new prison—Aunty heads straight up the stairs to her room without a word.

  "Aunty?" I ask, despite my prideful plan to stay aloof.

  When she pauses on the fourth step, it seems like she’s considering continuing on up the stairs. She takes another step; and then, sighing, she turns towards me and stares at me with ice in her blue eyes. For the last four years, Aunty’s eyes have been the eyes of my adoptive mother. Her blue eyes have been soft pools of warmth that have refreshed my heart and liquid kindness that I could bathe my wounds in. Tonight there is only ice. This is the first time I've ever felt chilled by her gaze.

  With a sad, tired face that robs her of her youthful look and shows all the weight of her 62 years she says, "We're supposed to be a team Ivy. I've lost someone this week too." Her ice cold eyes stare me down and I realize that she means me.

  She thinks I haven’t been there for her? What the heck?

  She's breaking out the big guns now: guilt tripping. She turns away and slowly finishes the climb to her room. I hear the door lock click tight on her bedroom door. She's in for the night.

  Angry, lonely, depressed and hungry, I stomp to the kitchen for something to eat. There isn’t anything on the stove, and I realize that tonight was my night to cook dinner. We usually eat together around 5:00 and I'm always the chef on Saturday evening. It is now 6:00.

  Crap!

  Geez Louise I'm batting a thousand.

  I pour some of the peaches we canned last summer into a bowl and grab a Gov Bar. I balance my lousy dinner on a tray with a cup of chamomile tea and head for my room to eat and sulk. I eat alone in total silence. The winter evening is quiet with no wind. There aren't any sounds from birds or crickets, not even the hum of the furnace to keep me company. The cold hibernation of outside is too much like the cold I feel taking over my heart. The frost in my spirit snuck up on me. My heart is cold, and sins of omission have dulled me.

  I scarf my peaches and nibble my Gov Bar. Alone and lonely, I pace my room. I look out the window, lie on my bed, stare into my closet, and rub bacon grease on my dry hands. I am almost crazy with anxiety when I remember that Mrs. LaFakis sent me work to do. And chocolate!

  Chocolate sounds sooooo good.

  I find the little pile that Harmony set by my closet earlier. Eating two of the five precious pieces of chocolate, I start leafing through the pages Sherry sent. A letter is attached on top.

  Dear Ivy,

  I have a lot going on this coming week in preparation for the

  missionaries coming in. I handled this week's lesson without you.

  I know you had a lot going on. I'm glad you are safe, dear. You

  know that we all love you. I was hoping you'd help me prepare the

  Sunday School lesson for next Sunday morning. I'm sending you

  a few devotionals that I'd like you to read over and combine for me

  into a lesson format. They have minimal scripture attached and I'd

  like you to dig in and find some more scripture to go with them.

  Thanks Hun.

  P.S. Enjoy the chocolate

  Love,

  Sherry

  Sounds easy.

  I need something to fill my time and distract me anyway. With a notebook and pen in hand, already missing my computer at work, I start reading the first devotional. It's by Charles Spurgeon. I've read his work several times before in my secretarial duties to the teachers. He was a pastor in England in the 1800s. He was dead long before The Lord came to collect His own, and I'm sure he will be a fascinating person to meet when we're done here. It's a little hard to read his writings; they’re very old fashioned and very intellectual.

  A lot of the kids my age aren't intellectuals.

  Bible study aside, each family is responsible for the non-Bible schooling of their own kids. Some of the families care a lot and some don't care at all. Aunty teaches me some things, mostly things like cooking, cleaning, and of course proper speech and grammar. Her tutoring helped me to get my job at the U.R. where I've had to teach myself a lot about typing and filing and office work.

  Tim's dad, Dr. Markowitz, is one of the ones who cares a lot. He keeps Tim busy all day long, five days a week learning math, science, history, the whole shebang. Tim is a genius by today's standards.

  Most of the other guys our age are helping with hunting, fishing and building or repair work for the community. They learn a bit about the Bible on Sunday under Sherry's teaching, but they are pretty lost when it comes to anything more than basic math and reading. High speech and Old English might as well be Chinese.

  For most of the Living, it's hard to see the point of higher learning. We are nearing the end. There are different interpretations and opinions about how much time we have left here. Most people think we may only have a year or so of time left on earth. So calculus is kind of silly at this point. Most of the Living have a "let's just get through this" mentality.

  Sherry doesn't have to do much teaching with Harmony. That girl loves to learn. She reads constantly. Harmony does a pretty good job with her own education. I really hope she isn't mad at me. I don't want today's trouble to affect my relationship with Sherry either. If she felt like I was a danger to Harmony, I'm afraid she wouldn't let us hang out anymore.

  I'm getting distracted. Back to the Charles Spurgeon. When Sherry wants to quote him or use one of his devotionals, I have to go through it and make it easier to read for the kids who aren't as studious. I actually enjoy the challenge of studying his writings.

  The Spurgeon paper is based on Psalm 120:5. It reads: "I'm doomed to live in Meshech, cursed with a home in Kedar."

  Ok.

  I've never heard of either of those places. I look up the rest of the Psalm so I can try to figure out what the heck that means. Both names are completely unfamiliar to me and I've read my Bible front to back.

  Psalm 120

  The Message (MSG)

  A Pilgrim Song

  120: 1-2 I’m in trouble. I cry to God,

  desperate for an answer:

  “Deliver me from the liars, God!

  They smile so sweetly but lie through their teeth.”

  3-4 Do you know what’s next, can you see what’s coming,

  all you barefaced liars?

  Pointed arrows and burning coals

  will be your reward.

  5-7 I’m doomed to live in Meshech,

  cursed with a home in Kedar,

  My whole life lived camping

  among quarreling neighbors.

  I’m all for peace, but the minute

  I tell them so, they go to war!

  So it sounds like whoever—I mean whomever—wrote this Psalm hated where he lived too. He says he has lived his "whole life" in close proximity to his enemies. As I keep reading, I am hit
with how much it applies to me. Did Sherry know? Or is it just God? I don't know why I'm surprised, it's happened so many times before. Goose bumps run up my arms in anticipation of hearing His voice.

  Then I feel the fight begin.

  There is a part of me that says, Put this away and go to bed! I know it’s the zombie in me. With a deep breath, I turn my back on that degenerate girl and set my eyes on Spurgeon's words.

  Spurgeon writes about verse 5:

  As a Christian you have to live in the midst of an ungodly world, and it is of little use for you to cry "Woe is me."

  I've been doing a lot of that.

  Jesus did not pray O that you should be taken out of the world, and what He did not pray for you need not desire. Better far in the Lord's strength to meet the difficulty, and glorify Him in it. The enemy is ever on the watch to detect inconsistency in your conduct; be therefore very holy. Remember that the eyes of all are upon you, and that more is expected from you than from other men. Strive to give no occasion for blame.

  I can't help but think of the horrible example of Life I was to Matt. If he never wanted anything to do with being healed, finding Life, would it be totally my fault?

  Let your goodness be the only fault they can discover in you. Like Daniel, compel them to say of you, "We shall not find any occasion against this Daniel, except we find it against him concerning the law of his God." Seek to be useful as well as consistent.

  I have gotten really good at being useful, but for who? Am I doing it to give glory to the God who gave me these skills and abilities or to make me feel better about my sinful self? Have I been losing myself in doing good and hoping to find my worth there instead of the only place I can really find any worth? My only worth is in the love of God who made me and bought me with His own blood. He gave me healing and Life when all around there was death and that death was what I deserved! Then when it came time to put my money where my mouth was, to be like Jesus in the hard times, well, that didn't go well at all.