Devoted

by Jennifer Mathieu

  It’s so quiet and I’m so eager for a distraction from my racing brain that I turn on the television. It’s set to the channel that shows Law & Order episodes over and over again, but I click through until I find a program about the Sahara Desert. It’s on one of the channels that Lauren never watches because she says it’s boring, but the program isn’t boring to me. The narrator’s voice has a soft, foreign accent, and the glorious pictures are as soothing as her voice. After watching for a while, my eyelids start to feel heavy, but I’m alert as soon as I hear the sound of keys in the door.

  “Rachel?” Lauren’s voice is a loud whisper.

  “I’m here,” I whisper back in the dark, sitting up and popping my head over the back of the couch. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” she answers, tiptoeing over to me. “Sorry I smell. The bar we went to was smoky, but I don’t smoke or anything. But I’m going to have to take a shower again.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Did you have a nice time?”

  “Yeah, it was all right,” Lauren says, sounding less excited than she did a few hours ago. “He was a super nice guy and a real gentleman, so of course I found him too boring. I swear to God, if I could afford it I would get some therapy or something.” I don’t exactly understand what Lauren means, and I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. I would think a nice guy would be something good.

  “I don’t want to keep you up. We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Rachel,” she says, pausing, “you’re not mad at me, are you? For earlier?”

  “I was never really that mad,” I answer.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I was mostly just scared, like I said.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Thanks. For not being mad.” She suddenly reaches down to give me a hug.

  She does smell, but I don’t mind. It’s the first time she’s hugged me and it’s nice. It’s a strong hug like my mom’s, but she doesn’t let go right away.

  “Thanks for waiting up,” she says into my ear.

  “I wanted to,” I respond, relieved she doesn’t think I’m being too much of a snoop for staying awake until she got home. Finally, Lauren lets go and walks back to the bathroom, and soon I hear the shower running. Snuggling deep under my blanket, I feel cozy. Not exactly like how it feels to cuddle with Ruth, but close anyway.

  16

  Diane answers the door smelling likes cookies again, this time dressed in a plum-colored suit and matching plum heels, her makeup carefully applied. She must spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, but I doubt it makes her worry about being vain. Her skirts are shorter than any mother at Calvary Christian would ever think of wearing, but her shoulders-back, head-up, big-steps approach to walking suggests a confidence I know I’ve never felt.

  I think Diane likes being pretty.

  After giving me a few instructions on my tasks for the day, she gathers her briefcase and a few files full of papers. “Please make sure you get yourself something to eat!” she adds as she runs out the door.

  I stuff two hundred envelopes and get three paper cuts. I think it’s good progress, but how should I know for sure if it is or it isn’t? I just want Diane to be happy with my efforts. As I stuff another envelope, I hear a sound and jump out of my seat, half expecting Mark Treats to walk in the front door. But it’s just Boots the cat, who saunters in and promptly falls asleep at my feet. I shake my head, grateful no one but a cat witnessed my reaction. After another hour or so of steady work, I realize how hungry I am and wander down to the kitchen.

  Either side of the hallway is lined with built-in bookshelves. So far I’m only sure of three people who live in this house, and they have more books here than all of the books in my house combined. I stop and study some of the titles.

  Siddhartha by Herman Hesse

  How to Stop Worrying and Start Living by Dale Carnegie

  The Stranger by Albert Camus

  Ariel by Sylvia Plath

  The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success by Deepak Chopra

  I see one Bible, but of course there are none of the homeschooling books and Bible study guides that make up the stacks of books back home.

  And then I spot them. I gasp out loud when I do—A Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, Many Waters, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, An Acceptable Time.

  My eyes wide, I run my finger down the spines. I remember Lauren mentioning there were more books about Meg Murry and her family, and here are all five of them. Five. Five!

  I can’t help it. I slip A Wrinkle in Time off the shelf and thumb through it, smiling at the names of familiar characters as they pop off the page like they’re saying hello. I put it back and flip through A Wind in the Door, but I’m scared to open it to the first page. I can’t. If I start reading it, I’ll never stop.

  All right. Maybe the first few lines. Just to see.

  I stand there in the middle of the hallway reading, flipping through the pages. I walk toward the kitchen still reading, letting my eyes float outside the perimeters of the book just enough to make sure I don’t bump into anything. I spot a bowl of fresh fruit on the fancy granite countertop, and I sit on one of the kitchen stools and eat an apple and keep reading.

  I’ll give myself twenty minutes.

  I eat two apples and some saltines that I find in a cupboard and keep reading. Twenty minutes pass.

  All right, just five more minutes, I bargain with myself.

  “Rachel! Are you here?” I hear Diane’s heels as she makes her way down the hallway and I jump. Two apple cores and saltine crumbs are spread out before me on the counter, and I’m reading a book instead of working.

  I’m scarlet when she walks in, even though I manage a quick “Hi!” and quickly start sweeping the crumbs into my hand and taking the apple cores to the garbage can in the corner. “I’m really sorry. I was eating, and … I just…”

  “Rachel,” Diane says, plopping a stack of manila file folders on the kitchen table, “didn’t I tell you that you could get something to eat? Please don’t apologize.”

  “I know, but I was reading and I…”

  Diane raises an eyebrow slightly. “Sweetheart. Listen. It’s all right.”

  “Thank you. But I’ll just put this back,” I say, holding the book up. I scoot down the hall and slide it next to its friends on the bookshelf. Page thirty-two is where I stopped, but I probably shouldn’t try reading on my break again. Diane is just being nice.

  Should I go back to the kitchen where she’s waiting or go back to her office? I press a hand to my right cheek. Still warm from blushing. How stupid I am.

  “Come in here! Let me pay you for your work today,” Diane calls from the kitchen, so I go back to find Diane counting out several bills from her wallet. “Here’s thirty for today,” she says.

  “But I spent the last thirty minutes reading,” I tell her. Maybe it was even forty minutes.

  Diane tosses her head back and laughs. It’s more of a hoot, actually.

  “Can I hire you to teach my son how to be even half as conscientious as you are?” she says. “Honey, I meant what I said about you taking a break to eat. I’m not running a sweatshop here. I offer paid lunches, all right?” She takes a carefully manicured hand—even her fingernails are plum—and pushes her long, thick hair back behind her shoulder.

  I nod. I haven’t been caught. To Diane, I was just eating lunch and flipping through a novel. That’s all. Nothing more.

  I slip my money inside my skirt pocket, relaxing a little. Grateful. “I just want to say,” I start, trying to speak up, “that I truly appreciate you giving me this job, Mrs. Treats … Diane.”

  “Of course,” Diane says. “What about setting up a regular deal? Mondays through Thursdays from nine until noon? Maybe Fridays if I decide to be a real taskmaster? Does that sound good to you?”

  “Sure,” I say, thinking about page thirty-two and all the money I could earn. I’d be so independent, Lauren really wouldn�
��t mind keeping me around.

  “I’ll walk you out,” she says, and we head toward the front door.

  I grab my purse to leave, and Diane puts her hand on the doorknob as if she’s about to open it. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pauses and looks at me.

  “Rachel,” she starts, “I’m sure Lauren’s told you that we’ve sort of, well, looked out for her a bit. Made sure she had a job and could get started on her own here when she needed to. She’s such a sweet girl, and a hard worker, too. And I’m sure you know that Lauren has shared with us some of what’s going on with you. And with your family. I want you to know that I’m sorry for what you’re going through.” Her voice drops down to almost a whisper, no longer big and theatrical. As soft and lilting as she sounds, I bet she could put Isaac to sleep with just one reading of Goodnight, Moon. The thought of Isaac’s sweet baby face makes my throat tighten, and I try to focus on Diane’s words.

  “I admit there’s a little part of me that worries that you’re still technically a minor,” she continues.

  “I turn eighteen in a few weeks,” I say, my voice soft. I wonder if this means she wants to call my parents. I tense up at the idea.

  “You know, when I was eighteen I was putting myself through community college,” Diane says. “My father thought I was a little bit touched in the head for that,” she says, tapping at her temple.

  I must look confused because Diane smiles. “Did you know I was Miss Teen Lake O’ the Pines 1988? Of course you wouldn’t know, but that’s a beauty pageant, and I won it. And I was first runner up for Miss Texas Teen the very same year.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Congratulations.” I think that’s the right thing to say.

  Diane grins and shakes her head a little at the memory. “Congratulations for what? Standing around in a one-piece bathing suit with spray glue on my tush while I talked about how children are the future? Please.” She pauses and peeks over her right shoulder, then looks back at me with a frown. “Although I must confess, my tush certainly looked a lot better back then than it does now. But what can you do?”

  “Oh,” I say again because it’s all I can think to say.

  Diane and I stand in silence for a moment and then she starts up again, her words coming out in a rush, her voice still quiet. “My father once said to me, ‘Diane, sweetheart, with that face you won’t have to work a day in your life.’ My father was a bit of a peckerwood, to tell you the truth. But you know what, Rachel? My life was for me just like your life is for you, and you’ve got to live it like you want to, and that’s why God gave it to you. Now you may look like you wouldn’t bite a biscuit, but I know a girl who goes after what she wants. And you’re that kind of girl, I think. Remember that. All right, I’ve talked your ear off, so go on and I’ll see you next time.”

  And with that, she turns the doorknob and opens the door, a wave of summer heat hitting us both.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Bye, sweetie,” she answers, her voice back to its usual charged self.

  I slide into Lauren’s red Honda. A girl who goes after what she wants. I admit I like the sound of it, but the problem is, I’m still not sure what on Earth I should be wanting.

  * * *

  The next day is Friday, and Diane doesn’t need me to come in. I sleep in—it’s odd how I have so much less work and yet the week feels so long and exhausting somehow.

  Still, I almost wish I could go to work at Diane’s. Not just for the money but so I could have something to do to distract myself. There are only so many times I can tidy up Lauren’s apartment before my mind is tugged back to life at my parents’ house. I’m sure my mother and father expected me to come home by now, my lesson learned. But if I’m gone long enough, maybe they’ll take me more seriously. Maybe they’ll let me come back without making me go to Journey of Faith.

  I drag a paper towel slowly across Lauren’s bathroom mirror and stare intently at my reflection.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Rachel,” I reprimand myself. “You know you would still have to go.” I frown and scrub extra hard at some nonexistent stain on the mirror. Diane said I was a girl who could go after what she wants. But I look just as I did when I left home. Same long dark curls, same unremarkable face. Same girl.

  After work, Lauren comes home with a small paper bag. In it is a bottle. She serves herself some of whatever’s inside it in a little juice glass covered with flowers.

  “I need to take the edge off this day,” she says, collapsing into her pink chair.

  I tuck my knees under my chin and set aside the book I’m reading—Lauren doesn’t have the same selection the Treats have, but she has a nice set of Agatha Christie mysteries that I’m working through at a pretty quick pace. So far, I’ve been able to figure out the ending to each one before actually finishing the book—something that fills me with some small pride, one that I’m allowing myself to enjoy.

  “Red wine, I’ve missed you,” Lauren announces, taking a sip from her glass.

  Romans says it’s better not to drink wine in case it makes your brother stumble. No one at Calvary drinks. But the same verse says it’s better not to eat meat—something almost everyone at Calvary does anyway. Lauren doesn’t eat meat, but she does drink wine, apparently. So is she just as good—or just as wrong—as the people at church? Since moving out of my house, I’ve noticed how many contradictions there are to question, but I’m still not sure how a person goes about deciding which side of the contradiction is right.

  “Did you have a bad day?” I ask. Sometimes she has to help put an animal down. I know she hates those days the most.

  “Work was fine,” she says. “It’s just that … sometimes I have these days when I just. I don’t know.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” I say.

  Lauren smiles, nods, and takes another gulp of wine.

  “Do you want me to get you some supper? I made spaghetti. I already ate, though.”

  “Maybe later,” she answers. “Thanks, anyway.” She picks at a loose thread on the chair and scowls. “That guy Bryce texted me today and asked me if I want to go out again, but I said no. I don’t know why.”

  “You didn’t like him?” I ask. “You said he was nice.”

  “Too nice, I guess. I don’t know. I keep thinking about Jeremy.”

  “Is he the one you have in the picture in your bedroom?”

  The kissing picture. The boy with the black hair.

  “Yeah,” says Lauren, sighing. “He’s the one.”

  “What happened?” I ask. The way Lauren is bringing him up, I think it’s safe to ask.

  “He started off super nice, you know?” Lauren says. “Gentle. Funny. He loved animals like I did. He had this big pit bull named Johnny who would sleep in bed with us.”

  This is the closest Lauren’s ever come to telling me she’s had intercourse, and I’m shocked by it. I suppose I knew she had, but hearing her say it out loud makes her suddenly seem so worldly, sitting there with her glass of wine. So apart. So different. And she’s my friend, too. I mean, I think she is. My brain works that contradiction over a few times before I can manage to speak again.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “He smoked a lot of pot,” she says. “Pot’s a drug. An illegal drug. I mean, not like a crazy bad drug like cocaine or whatever, but it kind of made him broke all the time and sort of, like, not that motivated to do stuff. Which honestly didn’t bother me that much because he was sweet and fun to hang out with. But one night at a party I caught him messing around with another girl.” Lauren’s voice is matter-of-fact. Detached. “He was kissing this girl named Mary Beth who hung out in our group. She thought she was so punk rock or whatever because she was in a band that sometimes played in Austin. Whatever. Anyway, they were kissing, like, in the bathroom. Isn’t that gross? Who kisses someone in the bathroom?” Maybe she’s trying to joke again, but her voice is empty. She doesn’t smirk at her own humor like she normally does. She just stares out into space
and takes another sip of wine.

  I’m sad for Lauren, and I try to make sure my face registers that instead of stunned surprise. The entire time I’m listening to her speak, I’m also trying to keep a list in my head of things to look up or mull over later. Like punk rock. And kissing in bathrooms. But I also wonder how any boy would be so cruel. Sometimes Paul is as irritating as a leaky faucet in the middle of the night, but he would never do something like that to Faith, that’s for sure.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you, Lauren,” I tell her when she’s finished with her story.

  “Yeah, well,” Lauren answers with a shrug, like it’s nothing. “It turns out it wasn’t the first time. I don’t know. Maybe he and Mary Beth are together now. She smoked pot, too.”

  Lauren and I only ever hugged that one time, the night she got back from her date. Part of me wants to hug her now, but Ruth’s the only person I’ve ever really felt like I could hug without worrying if it was all right first.

  “You’re looking at me like I have cancer,” Lauren says. “Or leprosy.” This time she smirks for real.

  “No, I’m not,” I say, cracking a smile. “I’m just sorry that happened to you is all.” And I am sorry. But I’m also still marveling at Lauren’s story. She could have been telling me about hiking through the Amazon rain forest she sounded so exotic and strange.

  “Yeah, well, in the grand scheme of things that have happened to me, it’s just one more shitty thing,” she says.

  For the first time since I’ve come here, I feel like Lauren needs me. If only to listen. Somehow, even though Lauren’s story was strange to hear, I now feel sort of more relaxed around her.

  Lauren is relaxed, too, but I think it might be from the wine. She gulps down what she has and pours herself another glass, then peels off her uniform top and flings it in a corner. Her bra is blue, like her hair.