Devoted

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “Scoot over,” she says, and I do.

  “I’m so tired,” Ruth says, like it’s nothing that she’s changed her mind and decided to cuddle up with me.

  “We’re always so tired,” I whisper. “If we had a nickel for every time one of us told the other we were tired, we would be rich.”

  “The first thing I would do with the money is buy a bigger bed, so we could snuggle up without you kicking me,” Ruth says, but I can see she’s grinning.

  “Very funny.”

  “Good night, Rachel.”

  “Good night, Ruth.”

  She drifts off, her warm little body curling in on itself as sleep overtakes her. I gaze at her sweet face.

  Oh, little sister, what is it we’ll do with our wild and precious lives?

  * * *

  I sleep hard through the night, and by the time I wake up it’s too late to check my email before anyone else gets up. But by the time we’re settled in for morning lessons, I can’t fight the compulsion. I give the old excuse about checking the business website, but I open an extra window and find a new message from Lauren.

  FROM: butterflygirl@mailservice.com

  TO: rachelwalker123@freemail.com

  Rachel,

  I never read A Wrinkle in Time, but I’m sorry you lost it. People love that book. The writer wrote a whole bunch more about the same family, did you know?

  I totally appreciate the risk you’re taking writing me. I really, really do. And I’m really glad you want to keep writing to me.

  Maybe paying attention is prayer. Maybe being idle is prayer. Who said it can’t be?

  It’s too bad we can’t meet, probably. Even if you could get away, it’s Clayton. Someone might see us. It’s so weird to be back here sometimes. It’s so different in the city. Anonymous, you know? And exciting. Sometimes I miss it. And sometimes I don’t.

  But things are good here, too. I love working at the animal hospital. I used to visit it all the time when I was younger and still at home. I would find these stray animals (or they seemed to find me) and then I’d try to nurse them back to health. It drove my father nuts. Then I’d bring them to Dr. Treats when I could. Isn’t that the best name ever for a vet? Dr. Treats. It’s his real last name, too, and it’s like the dogs know that he has Milk-Bone biscuits in his pockets all the time. When I called him asking for a job, he was nice enough to give me one, and I’m so grateful. Do you have any pets? I have two cats again, Mitzi and Frankie. Right now as I type this they’re attacking my shoelaces like the shoelaces are alive.

  Okay, I need to eat and relax in front of the television. Rachel, there is this WHOLE AMAZING PLANET called television. I could tell you about it sometime. There’s this show called Law & Order and apparently it’s been on for over 20 years, so I think I have enough episodes to last me the rest of my life.

  xoxo Lauren

  “What are you reading, Rachel?”

  I spin around in my seat and find my mother standing behind me, staring into the screen, her face full of concern. Lauren’s email is still up on the screen. My heart drumming away, I quickly minimize it. What has she seen?

  “Nothing, Mom, just work stuff for Dad,” I say. Turning around so fast has only made me seem more guilty.

  My mother tucks some stray strands into her otherwise neatly styled hair.

  “Could you please turn off the computer and come join us at the kitchen table for lessons? I’m sure what you’re working on can wait.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, and I exit out of email.

  Numbly, I sit down next to the twins so I can correct their latest assignment. My mother strokes Sarah’s head and smiles, so totally at peace. And I’m so angry. For weeks she locked herself up in her room while I tried to keep the house running, and just when I find Lauren she decides it’s time to come out.

  No, Rachel, you’re selfish. She’s your mother and she loves you. You shouldn’t be angry at your own mother. No. I ball up my fists and squeeze.

  “Rachel, are you all right?” my mother asks. I look up. My mother’s eyes search mine.

  My throat locks up, and I want to cry. Because I’ve been caught. Because something is wrong with me and it’s not getting better. Because of everything.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and I force myself to smile. The same tight, forced smile mom used all those weeks she wasn’t well. If my mother notices the smile isn’t real, she doesn’t say anything.

  That night toward the end of supper, my father looks at me and says, “Rachel, I appreciate everything you’re doing on the computer for the family business, but I’ve prayed on it, and I think you need to stop for a little while. I think it’s taking far too much time away from your duties around the house.”

  The chicken sandwich in my mouth turns tasteless. I keep chewing so no one will think I mind. I tell myself I can still sneak downstairs at night to get on the computer and email Lauren.

  “Also,” my father continues, “I’ve changed the password so you won’t be tempted.”

  Stay calm. Don’t give yourself away.

  But I can’t. I swallow and open my mouth. “Dad, no, please. Let me explain. I really think that—”

  “Rachel Walker, are you questioning my authority?” my father snaps.

  Everything stops. My mother stares at me, her eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them. My older brothers put down their forks. Even baby Isaac looks around, wondering what the exchange means.

  My father has never raised his voice like that before. Maybe because neither my siblings nor I have ever talked back to him before.

  “Remember Colossians,” he says, his voice quieter now but his face still stern. “‘Children, obey your parents in all things, for this is well pleasing to the Lord.’” He briefly looks down at his meal and then back at me. He’s not used to reprimanding us like this, I know.

  “Yes, Father,” I answer.

  “We take computer time and usage very seriously, Rachel. Time on the computer should not be spent lightly.”

  My mind pictures James Fulton again, forced to show repentance in front of all of us. A reminder of what happens to children who disobey.

  I try to take another bite of my supper, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I want to cry—hard—but I can’t in front of everyone. Maybe this is God’s way of telling me I’m wrong, a sinner. Maybe this is God’s way of stopping me from losing control.

  But what about what Lauren said in one of her emails? Why would God give me my mind if he didn’t want me to think these things, notice what I notice, question what I question?

  And now I’ll never be able to write Lauren back. I’ll never be able to find out why she left the city and came back to Clayton, and I’ll never be able to find out what happens to her, and I’ll never have the space or time to share my mixed-up feelings with someone who won’t think I’m sinful or sick for having them.

  I force myself to keep moving and keep breathing. Somehow, I make it through supper and through Bible study. After the little ones are in bed and my father sits with his Bible in the family room, I approach him for my routine blessing, but his words float over me like the directionless moths that hover outside the light on our front porch. They go nowhere, least of all my mind or my heart.

  11

  It’s been over a week since Dad changed the password on the computer, but I keep thinking about Lauren Sullivan. I’m alone in the upstairs bathroom trying to get ready for another day, but instead I’m thinking of things I want to ask Lauren or the things I want to tell her.

  Like … what other poetry does she know that’s like Mary Oliver’s?

  And … what does she eat if she doesn’t eat meat or eggs or cheese?

  Or … didn’t it hurt when she got those tattoos?

  All these little comments and wonderings are piling up in my head until they feel like they might tip over and crash. But I have to accept that Lauren Sullivan isn’t part of my life anymore. I should probably be glad it’s all over, and I don�
��t have to worry about getting caught or hurting my family or maybe even risking God’s love … if I ever really risked it at all.

  On that I’m not sure.

  I frown at my own reflection in the mirror. “What’s wrong with you?” I whisper as I brush my long, dark hair. My reflection stares back at me, looking as confused as I feel.

  And it’s not just Lauren. I still have my outdated encyclopedias and textbooks, but since Dad took away the computer, I miss the ease of being able to quickly look things up that aren’t even related to her at all. Like why do lunar eclipses happen and how do airplanes actually work and where is Mount Everest located?

  I even miss how I got the chance to stretch my brain when I worked on the Walker Family Landscaping and Tree Trimming website.

  Everything feels foggy and dull edged and gray since I stopped using the computer, even though I’m getting more sleep than ever before since I’m not sneaking out of my room at night anymore.

  “Rachel, could you please come back down to the kitchen?” my mother’s voice calls.

  I clomp down the stairs, forcing myself to smile.

  “It sounds like a team of horses making its way down here,” my mother says, but her eyes are kind.

  “I didn’t mean to be so loud,” I tell her.

  “It’s all right, dear,” she says.

  Mom’s recovery seems like it’s lasting, but she also can’t stop talking about Faith’s new baby. Of course she must understand this new baby is Faith and Paul’s and not hers. Still, she keeps talking about this child almost as a replacement for Joshua. Piles of baby clothes are stacked up in the family room, and the other morning I found a list titled Baby Names on a notepad on the kitchen counter. The carefully printed words—Luke, Martha, Josiah—made me pity her.

  The phone rings, and Mom answers it. I make my way over to the breakfast table where Ruth is working on her math lesson. Her cheeks are ripe red apples.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I ask her, pressing my hand to her forehead.

  “I feel like everything inside of me hurts,” Ruth says softly, and she lays her head on the table.

  “You’re hot,” I say. “Burning up.”

  Mom walks in from the kitchen. “Rachel and Ruth, you have to run by Faith’s house,” she says. “Little Caleb has a terrible cold, and she wants to borrow the humidifier for his nap.”

  “Caleb isn’t the only one who’s sick,” I say. “Ruth has a fever.”

  Mom walks over and feels Ruth’s forehead. “To your room, Ruth.”

  I watch them head toward the stairs as I make my way to the family room floor where Isaac and Sarah are playing with a worn deck of alphabet flash cards. If I distract myself, the idea just born in my mind will go away. I take a sticky card and show it to Sarah.

  “This is B for banana,” I say. “Banana.”

  Oh, idea, leave me alone.

  “B-B-B banana,” Sarah says, blowing me a raspberry.

  The idea is burrowing into my brain like a worm. It isn’t listening to me. At all.

  “This is D for dog,” I tell Sarah, holding up another card. “Dog.”

  Dogs that go to animal hospitals like Clayton Animal Hospital on the corner of Pickett and Claremont.

  Oh, stop it, brain.

  When my mother comes back downstairs from getting Ruth into bed, I hand Sarah the H is for hat card and stand up like something just occurred to me. Like what I’m about to say just flew into my mind as I sat here playing with my little sister.

  “Mom, I could take the humidifier to Faith’s if you want me to,” I say.

  Mom glances at the twins working at the table.

  “Well, you could take one of the boys with you,” she says.

  We never go anywhere alone. That’s not allowed unless it’s an emergency. Proverbs says that iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another. When we travel in pairs, we keep each other accountable to the Lord. At least that’s what Dad has always told us.

  Jeremiah looks up from where he and Gabriel have been practicing long division.

  “Well,” he asks, “can I take a snack with me in the van at least if I have to go? I’m starving.”

  “You just ate breakfast,” my mother says.

  “Mom,” I say, “don’t make the boys go. It’s just a half hour to Faith’s house. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  Mom looks out the window at our beat-up family van with the cardboard taped into the space where one of the back windows broke. She runs a finger along her bottom lip.

  “I can always send one of your older brothers tonight,” she says.

  “But doesn’t she need it for Caleb’s nap?”

  Mom takes a breath. She looks out the window.

  “I want you to call the second you get to Faith’s,” she tells me. “It shouldn’t take you more than thirty minutes. And then call right before you leave. All right?”

  I nod and go find the humidifier. I’m tingling all over with excitement and fear and the sense that I’ve reached some point of no return.

  The inside of the van smells like everything I know. The earthy smell of my dad’s work boots and the faint, queer odor of the Fels-Naptha soap we buy in bulk to save money and the strange, unnamable scent that belongs to me, to us, to the Walker family.

  I turn the key and start driving, and soon the spaces between houses get smaller, and eventually I’m driving through the streets of downtown, far, far away from Faith’s house. When I pull up to Clayton Animal Hospital, my heart is hammering away. What are the odds she’ll even be here? I didn’t stop to think about that when I was coming up with this grand, secret, crazy idea.

  But I know it’s Lauren the second I dart inside. Even as the door is closing behind me, I know I’ve spotted her standing at the counter, her hair the color of the sky. She’s wearing matching cotton pants and a tunic like doctors and nurses wear. Hers are covered with cartoon cats.

  “Can I help you?” she says, looking up at me, and the minute she smiles at me I want to cry, but I don’t.

  “Lauren, I’m…” I stop myself. My eyes dart around the waiting room. People from Calvary Christian own pets, of course. They could be here. But there’s only an old man I don’t recognize sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, scratching the ears of an ancient mutt.

  “Are you all right?” she asks. Her eyes scan me up and down, and her smile collapses a bit. Do I look odd, yet familiar? Does she remember wearing long skirts in the middle of May? Loose-fitting blouses when worldly girls and women cooled off in strapless shirts and swimsuits? Does seeing me make her sad? Or angry?

  But then she smiles again, a smile so contagious her eyes catch it, and they smile too, crinkling at the edges.

  “Are you…” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Rachel Walker?”

  I nod. She knows me. “Yes,” I answer. “I’m sorry I came by your work. I can’t really stay. I just needed to explain something.”

  Lauren nods, her eyes wide. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says. “When I last saw you, you were a kid. But I recognize your face.” She peers behind me.

  “I came alone,” I say, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is still pumping. “But I have to get back before they notice I’m missing.”

  Lauren nods, understanding.

  “Mark,” she calls behind her, “can you come up here for a second and just watch the front desk?”

  From a back hallway appears a boy about my age wearing a red T-shirt dotted with holes. It reads CLAYTON TRACK AND FIELD in faded black letters.

  “Hey,” he says, “who are you?”

  I blush and glance at my feet.

  “Mark, we need a minute,” Lauren says, rolling her eyes slightly. She darts around the counter and takes my hand, pulling me into an empty exam room. The lights are off, and it smells like cleanser and wet dog.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  My want-to-cry feeling becomes a must-cry feeling, and suddenly I’m wi
ping tears away and I can’t speak.

  “Rachel, it’s okay,” Lauren says, lightly touching my shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asks, uncertain.

  I nod, still not able to talk and only crying harder. Lauren keeps her hand on my shoulder and her face looks into mine. Her eyes are knowing and sad.

  “It’s just that I wanted to tell you why I stopped emailing you back,” I say. “I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be your friend anymore.” I blush at the word friend. Did Lauren even think I was her friend? Or just some strange little kid from her former life? But Lauren smiles at the mention.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “My dad thought I was spending too much time on the computer. He didn’t know I was talking to you, of course.” I think about Pastor Garrett’s special blessing. I think about what my mother might have seen that last day I was allowed online. “But I think he might have been … suspicious. So he changed the password and now I can’t ever get on it again. At least, not for a really long time.”

  Lauren nods like she expected as much. “I’m so sorry, Rachel.”

  “I am, too,” I say. “I really liked talking to you. I mean, writing to you. It was just … really nice.”

  Lauren nods. “Yeah,” she says. “It was.”

  I hear the sound of the front door opening and voices in the waiting area. How much time have I spent here? Five minutes? Ten? Faith will be calling Mom any second, asking where I am.

  “I have to go,” I say, panicked. “Now.”

  “I know,” Lauren says, nodding. “But wait. Here.” She grabs a note pad and pen from the counter and scribbles something down, then hands me a slip of paper.

  “This is the number for my cell phone. I always have it with me. Memorize it, okay? And call if you need anything at all.”

  I glance at the note pad, which has the name of some sort of flea and tick medicine at the top. Scrawled underneath is a phone number. Lauren left her name off, for which I’m glad. It’s safer that way until I can memorize it.