“Embalming. Gross,” Mark says, standing up and wiping his hands on the back of his shorts. “Okay, what did you get?”
I pull up a Wikipedia article that explains how the Chinese invented paper. Mark comes over behind me, leans over my shoulder, and peers at the screen. The distance between us could only be measured in centimeters. I do a quick modesty check, peering down to make sure Mark can’t be tempted by the cut of my loose-fitting, three-quarter-sleeved blouse. But Mark only seems interested in reading about nineteenth century advances in papermaking. He’s not even looking at me.
“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Fact for the day learned. The Chinese invented paper. Way to go, China.” He stands up and stretches, his spine cracking with a couple of pops. “I’m going upstairs, but let me know if you need anything. Like, more incorrect facts about history or another incredible ham sandwich or whatever.”
It’s impossible not to smile. “Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know.”
He heads up the stairs two at a time.
“Thank you for the sandwich!” I yell.
“Welcome!” he yells back, and soon I hear what sounds like a shower running.
I get back to work, listening carefully to the noises coming from the second floor. It sounds like Mark is talking to himself, but maybe he’s just on the phone. He stomps around like a herd of wild animals. Later, I hear music, something definitely not classical, with strains of guitars and a chorus of voices yelling.
I worry I haven’t finished enough. I haven’t even started stuffing the flyers yet. I want Diane to be pleased with my work, but my mind keeps reminding me that there’s a boy upstairs. A boy my age. And he could come back downstairs at any moment.
The thought makes my skin flush.
I squeeze my eyes shut, overwhelmed, and open them again. I set my mouth in a firm line and work as quickly as I can, careful not to make a mistake. Mark doesn’t come back downstairs, and when Diane gets home, she sees I’ve stuffed at least fifty envelopes and made headway on uploading an entire stack of listings on to the computer.
“Sweetheart, you are a gift from God, I tell you what,” she says, sweeping in for another embrace. After hugging me, her cell phone rings and she fishes it out of her purse before scowling at it and tapping her finger.
“Yes? Yes, the house on Morningside. Yes, they’re very motivated sellers.”
Diane is just like Mark. Neither one seems able to sit still.
By the time she gets off the phone she’s found her wallet and she counts out forty dollars for me.
“Can you come back Thursday?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, slipping the bills into my pocket. I’ve never had so much money before that was all mine. Once, Aunt Marjorie sent me five dollars for Christmas, but Dad made me put it into the collection plate at church.
“Oh, your son came home,” I say as casually as I can as I walk toward the door. “He’s upstairs.”
“Well, maybe he’ll stay up there until he can learn to make his bed,” Diane says. I’m not sure how to respond, so I just nod and offer Diane a small wave before heading back to the car, where I start up the engine and head down the street. At the end of the block I take a peek at my reflection in the rearview mirror, trying to see if going to a job and talking to a strange boy has made me look any different. I don’t think my appearance has changed, but my reflection stares back at me warily, as if to ask what comes next.
15
With the money Diane pays me, I buy a few simple things at the grocery store on my way home. I scout each aisle before heading down with my cart, wondering if I’ll run into someone from my family or from Calvary Christian, even though it’s unlikely. Mom likes to do her grocery shopping early in the morning when the store isn’t so crowded, and since we do most of our shopping at the discount warehouse, it would be odd to find them here on a Tuesday afternoon.
It’s so weird to buy food for just two people. Everything I’ve picked up barely covers the bottom of the cart—and that includes the treats I buy for Mitzi and Frankie. But it feels good to hand the money over to the cashier. My money. The cashier is the same older woman who told me the song I was listening to was by the Beatles. The same day Pastor Garrett turned my life inside out by saying I had to go to Journey of Faith.
No, that’s not right. Pastor Garrett told my parents I should go to Journey of Faith. But my parents agreed with him. And they set the consequences for me if I didn’t go. They made me leave, not Pastor Garrett.
The truth makes me wince, but it’s the truth as sure as anything.
I get home and put away the groceries, then put the eight dollars I have left in change on Lauren’s bed. It doesn’t feel like enough given everything she’s shared with me, but at least it’s a start. I wish Diane would have me back tomorrow. There was something enjoyable about figuring out how to make her business run smoothly, plus I want to prove to Lauren that I’m worth the trouble of keeping me here.
In an effort to show her as much, I do a load of laundry in the tiny room downstairs. It has two washers and two dryers that everyone in the complex is supposed to share, and I realize—not for the first time—how much easier laundry would be at home if we could afford two of each machine. How many hours did Ruth and I spend willing the machines to spin and dry faster so we could get another basket of clothes in before suppertime? But there’s so little clothing between Lauren and me it only takes a short time to do one load. As I’m sorting the pieces, I pull out several black bras and underpants with a leopard print on them, and I stare at them for a full minute. I can’t fathom that any woman would ever wear something so revealing, and then I try to fathom that I’m living with a woman who actually does. I stare at them, wondering where anyone would even buy such things in Clayton. Then again, Lauren probably bought them when she lived in the city. I wonder if the black-haired boy from the kissing picture ever got to see them. The thought makes my cheeks flush again, and a delicious shiver runs up my back.
For to be carnally minded is death, but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.
Quickly and with urgency, I shove Lauren’s underwear into the laundry basket under some blouses.
It’s not right to think of such things. I don’t want to go to Journey of Faith, but I also don’t think God would approve of me forgetting to guard my heart against lustful thoughts. That doesn’t seem all right.
Suddenly, I’m filled with panic. Was I lusting after Mark this afternoon? Is that why I thought about him so much that it was hard to get work done? And is God angry with me for it?
I take the deepest breath I can and exhale.
“God,” I whisper, “guide me. Help me to honor you in my words and actions.” At home, the words didn’t come to me so easily. Not like Ruth with her secret messages from God. But just now, here, in the middle of the laundry room, the words appeared to me. I didn’t even think them, really. They were just there. I repeat the words over in my mind. God, guide me. Help me to honor you in my words and actions. I take one more deep breath for good measure. I feel better. Less anxious at least.
When Lauren gets home around six, she drops her purse on the floor and smiles at the pasta salad I’ve set out on the table for supper.
“Oh, Rachel, this is so nice, and I want to hear all about your first day at work, but I have to figure out an outfit for tonight because I have”—she pauses dramatically—“a hot date.” She leans back against the door and sighs.
A hot date. I think about the underwear and the kissing boy picture and am suddenly gripped with the fear that I’ve taken on too much by living with Lauren. She’s been nothing but good to me, but what if she wants me to be as worldly as she is to stay here? What if I can’t be? I don’t know if I even want to be.
“Who are you going on a date with?” I ask, trying to manage conversation. I look at the dinner I’ve made. At least the salad will keep until tomorrow. At least I hope it will. It took a while to make, too.
“Don’t
be mad,” she says. “You don’t have to eat alone. Just bring your plate into my room and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I pick up my plate and join Lauren in her tiny bedroom. The only place to sit is her unmade bed, so I curl up in the corner and balance my pasta salad in my lap.
“How could you tell I was upset?” I ask. “About you not joining me for supper?”
Lauren opens her closet door—on it is a poster of a serious-looking woman with dark lipstick and blue eye shadow, and it says BLONDIE in black and white letters over her bright yellow hair. Her gaze is so intense it’s like she’s staring right into my brain and reading my thoughts.
“I could tell you were upset because you, like, did a little frowny face when I told you I couldn’t eat,” Lauren answers from inside the closet as she throws pieces of clothing on the floor, searching for something to try on before taking a shower. “I know you’re not used to, you know, sharing negative emotions.” She exits the closet and wags a finger at me, speaking in a singsong voice that reminds me of Faith’s. “‘Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give, not grudgingly or of necessity, for God loveth a cheerful giver.’” Then she rolls her eyes—very un-Faith-like.
“That’s 2 Corinthians,” I say.
“Trust me, I remember,” Lauren answers. “I’ll probably never forget even though I try.”
“It’s strange to hear you quote the Bible,” I say.
“Remember, Rachel, that I was also part of a repressive religious cult that hates women and thinking for yourself and gay people.” Lauren takes off her vet tech scrub top and slips on a tight black T-shirt before stepping back to examine herself in her full-length mirror.
I take a bite of pasta salad so I won’t be able to agree or disagree. I’m not sure what to say.
“I mean, you were afraid to tell me how you really felt just a few seconds ago, right? Over something like supper?” She turns and stares at me, hands on hips. She looks at me as intently as the girl on the BLONDIE poster.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Yes.”
“But why? Because a bunch of men who chose to interpret the Bible in a super specific, super ridiculous way decide that to love God and Jesus you can never be sad or mad or angry? I mean, give me a fucking break. Human beings get sad. We get mad. We get angry! If God didn’t want us to feel this way, why did he create these emotions in the first place?”
I take another bite of pasta, but it tastes like cold rubber in my mouth. Lauren’s face is reddening. She frowns at her reflection in the mirror.
“Sometimes I wish I could go right back and look at my dad’s face and say, ‘Fuck you, Dad, I hate you so much,’” she spits. “And you know what? That would be my right.”
My eyes widen. I know Lauren’s curse is maybe the worst curse a person can use short of taking the Lord’s name in vain. She is clearly not trying to protect my ears right now.
Lauren slips off her bottoms and slides into dark denim jeans that hug every curve of her body, each one of her movements filled with a rage that sits just below the surface, about to pop. “Sometimes I wish I could go back to my parents’ house dressed like this just to piss them off. They would be so royally pissed.” She takes a brush off her dresser and flips her head upside down and whips her brush through her blue hair so hard I’m sure it must hurt. When she swings herself back up she flings the brush across the room until it hits the baseboard with a thud. The redness of her cheeks has spread south, filling her neck with strawberry hives. There’s a scowl on her face, but she’s not looking at me. She’s just staring off at her bedroom wall.
I sit for a moment in silence, my heart thumping. I’m frightened. Maybe I remind Lauren of everything she hated about Calvary. Maybe she won’t want me around anymore because of that, but I’m not sure I know how to act around someone who gets so angry so easily. Actually, I’m not sure I know how to act around someone who gets angry at all. I’m just not used to it.
I carefully put my plate of pasta down on the bed. I stare at my sad little supper. And then I remember Lauren’s words about telling people what you feel when you feel something. I take a breath. “I…” I start.
Lauren looks at me as if she’s suddenly remembering I’m there.
“Yeah?” she says, not unkindly, only curious.
“I just…”
“Rachel, you can say it. It’s okay.” Her voice is soft all of a sudden.
“I’m a little bit scared right now,” I hear myself saying, my voice like it’s about to crack. “Because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do when you get so angry.”
There. I said it.
I hear a long exhale, and when I meet Lauren’s eyes, they’re a little wet, like she might cry, too, but she isn’t crying. She’s just wearing a tiny, forlorn smile.
“Oh, Rachel,” she says, her shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you. I’m—I just … I get…”
“You get mad,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “About what happened to you.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding, her voice calm again. “I get really mad about everything. A lot. But you know what? My anger saved me. I really do believe that. If I hadn’t gotten angry I would be married with three kids right now, and I would be out of my damn mind. For sure.”
I nod, but I’m not sure I feel the same way. I don’t feel like I left my house in anger. In sadness, yes. In confusion and frustration and fear, definitely. But in anger? I don’t know.
“Hey,” Lauren says, crawling onto the bed next to me, carefully, so she doesn’t spill the pasta salad. She looks me right in the eyes. “Look, sometimes I blow off steam. And if it gets to be too much, you can tell me to shut the hell up. Or just tell me to shut up, you know.” She’s trying to make me laugh again, and it’s working. “Promise you’ll tell me? If I get to be too much?”
“Promise,” I say, appreciating Lauren’s directness even though it still feels so foreign.
“Okay,” she says. She reaches out and touches me on the forehead, like she’s checking to see if I have a temperature, but the gesture comes out feeling nicer than that, somehow.
“What’s this?” she asks, looking down to find the eight dollars I left for her.
“The money left over from my work today, after I did the groceries. It’s for you.”
“No, it’s for you,” Lauren says, firmly putting it in my hand. “You pay for your groceries and gas with that, okay? It’s your money.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Lauren tells me.
Grateful, I slip the money into my skirt pocket, and Lauren slides back off the bed.
“How’d it go today, anyway?” she asks.
“Okay,” I answer. “The work isn’t too hard, but Diane’s office is kind of a mess.” I pause. “I met her son. Mark. I’d seen him before, though. That one time I saw you at your work.”
“Oh my God, Mark Treats,” Lauren says, examining her face in the mirror carefully. “He’s such a goofball.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Just, you know, goofy. He never stops moving around, and he’s kind of loud,” Lauren explains. “When he hangs out at the office he’s always asking everyone questions and just trying to crack everyone up or whatever. And Greg—that’s Dr. Treats—is always after him to do better in school, like he’s not working up to his full potential or something. You know, if I had parents like Greg and Diane, I would be so thrilled I would earn straight As every day just to make them happy. I mean, I know Diane is a little bit of a control freak perfectionist, but still, they’re really sweet people.” She finds her bathrobe and heads to the bathroom to take a shower.
Later, as she dresses, she tells me her date’s name is Bryce and that she met him just that afternoon, when he brought his dog in all the way from Dove Lake because he’d heard good things about Dr. Treats.
“What are you going to do?” I ask as she checks her makeup for the tenth time.
<
br /> “Who knows. I guess get a bite to eat. Maybe a drink. You don’t have to wait up, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, although I’m sure I will because I want to make sure Lauren gets home all right.
“This is a little weird,” she continues. “My first date since moving back from the city. I don’t know if these country boys are ready for me.” She puts her hands on her hips and shoots me a saucy look, then rolls her eyes and smiles. I can only smile back uncertainly, unsure about what it means to be ready for a boy.
When Bryce shows up he looks more normal than I expected. I guess he is a country boy. His hair is short and brown, and he’s wearing a dark-blue collared shirt and jeans that even my older brothers would find acceptable. Part of me thought he would have green hair and a T-shirt with strange words on it.
“This is my roommate, Rachel,” Lauren says as she grabs her purse. Her voice sounds lighter, dreamier somehow, when Bryce arrives. “Rachel, this is Bryce.”
“Hey,” says Bryce, nodding his chin at me.
“Hi,” I say back from my spot curled up on the couch.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Lauren announces, and as she waves goodbye to me, I watch as Bryce puts his arm around the small of her back and they shut the door behind them.
Dating is practice for divorce. That’s what Pastor Garrett and Dad always say. You have to guard your heart because if you give pieces of your heart away to every boy who comes along, when your future husband arrives, you won’t have a whole heart to give him. That’s why Faith courted Paul only after she had Dad’s approval. That’s why she never spent any time alone with him until they were married. So she didn’t give her heart away by accident.
Mitzi the cat jumps up on the couch and starts kneading my stomach with her snow-white paws.
“But if a mother is supposed to have enough love for more than one child, how can a heart have to save up love for a future husband?” I ask Mitzi. “Isn’t there an unending supply of love? How much love does one person contain, anyway?” Mitzi yawns and starts carefully licking her paws.
“Fine, ignore my questions,” I say. But I’m still thinking about them. It does seem odd to me that Faith and Paul went from never being alone together to becoming husband and wife, but going on dates with boys you met that day like Lauren is doing doesn’t make any more sense to me. I wonder where Lauren and Bryce are, and I hope she’s all right.
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