Watch How We Walk

by Jennifer LoveGrove

  — Good. Me too.

  The bell rings and Emily lifts her bag up again. Will her dad, who hardly ever says anything, keep talking and make her late for school? It’s not fair. Everyone is doing everything wrong. She feels hot and cold at the same time.

  — There’s one person in particular I want to see when Jehovah brings him back to life.

  Emily knows she is supposed to ask who, but can’t say anything. She knows he must be talking about his dead brother. The little brother he murdered. May have murdered. By accident.

  He turns toward her and smiles but it makes him look the saddest she’s ever seen anyone look instead.

  — I’m talking about my younger brother.

  Emily sucks in her breath and doesn’t want to let it back out.

  — I used to have a little brother. But there was a terrible accident.

  Emily whispers her response, staring at her ragged nails and scabby cuticles.

  — The same accident when your fingers got cut off?

  — Yes. It was a terrible car crash.

  Emily nods.

  He starts the car again.

  — His name was Christopher. I’m waiting to apologize to him.

  He sighs and slumps his head against the steering wheel. She doesn’t ask him what he’s sorry for.

  — It was all my fault, the accident was all my fault.

  Emily gets out of the car and runs into the school and doesn’t look back.

  32

  AFTER SCHOOL, EMILY’S DAD PICKS her up and she can tell by his face that Lenora did not come out the front doors of the high school at 3:30. They drive back there and sit out front for forty-five minutes as dozens of teenagers thrust open the doors and lurch out. None of them is Lenora.

  At home, her dad makes them spaghetti and when it’s ready, the sky is completely dark and Lenora still isn’t home. It begins to snow, the kind of tiny, icy flakes that look like they could cut you. Her mom walks from room to room peering out the windows into the night.

  — I called Marla’s and her mother said she isn’t there, but she doesn’t know about last night. She was at work.

  — Okay. You should eat something, Vivian. I’m sure she’ll be home any minute now.

  Their father says a long prayer before they eat, and Emily starts when the wall creaks. It’s not Lenora opening the door. Wind rattles the sharp branches as though tapping out a message, and Emily listens to it instead of her father’s prayer.

  — In Jesus’ name, Amen. Their father sighs loudly and they begin to eat, without Lenora.

  Her mom bangs her fork on her plate, over and over, harder than she needs to.

  — Vivian, is that really necessary?

  — Yes, it is. She mumbles back through her coffee cup and thumps it hard onto the tablecloth. A dark, purplish splash stains the white and Emily holds her breath, unable to reach across and cover it. Her mother, after chewing another forkful of pasta, sets her mug over it. Emily exhales and briefly closes her eyes.

  — Are you okay, Emily? Her father watches her, his head slightly tilted.

  — Yes. She quickly slurps some noodles.

  — Do you have homework still to do tonight?

  — A little bit. The pasta feels stuck somewhere between her throat and her stomach, as though her stomach is shut tight and won’t let anything in. She moves her food around on her plate and hopes that drinking a whole glass of water will help. It doesn’t look like any of them are eating very much. The room seems empty but at the same time thick with Lenora’s absence.

  Emily and her mom wash and dry the dishes, and she is careful not to leave any streaks or wet spots on the plates or silverware or glasses.

  She does her math homework at the table, her father goes upstairs with the new Watchtower issue under his arm, and her mom continues to pace through the house. She leaves the television on mute but doesn’t watch any particular program, just strides around, picking up dishes or books and setting them down again a few feet away and constantly looking out the windows. Nine passes, then 10:00, and no one tells Emily to go to bed. Her mother goes upstairs and leaves Emily pretending to read in the kitchen. She can’t quite make out what her parents say, but she can hear her mother’s voice getting louder. The bedroom door slams and her mom stomps back downstairs.

  — You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself! she yells into the otherwise silent house.

  — You’d rather risk your own daughter’s life than have the elders think you’re anything less than the ideal Witness.

  Her mother stands in the doorway of the kitchen, her head cocked up toward their bedroom, but Emily’s father does not respond.

  — Well, I’m calling the cops.

  As soon as her mother mentions the police, Emily’s father comes downstairs.

  — You are not to call the police. Do you understand? His face gets red and he leans toward her mom.

  — They won’t listen anyway. She’s probably just at some other friend’s house. She was angry at both of us last night, and is just trying to scare us.

  — I’m not just going to sit here and do nothing while our daughter is missing! Just because you’re too embarrassed to admit we have problems—

  — Keep your voice down. You’re hysterical.

  — I am not hysterical!

  Lenora has never stayed away overnight before, not without permission, and never at a worldly person’s house. There are a few other teenagers at the Kingdom Hall, but Lenora isn’t close friends with them. She once said they were bland and without an original thought of their own, which is when their father assigned her a long Bible reading about pride. She isn’t mean to the other kids her age in the Truth, but she doesn’t hang around with them.

  — She might have been abducted!

  Her mother paces the kitchen, shredding a tissue she pulled from her pocket. When she notices the white bits all over the floor, she sweeps frantically, empties it into the trash, and throws the dustpan at Emily’s father.

  He dodges it and picks it up — very slowly, while staring at his wife — and puts it away in the closet.

  — Calm down, Vivian. Perhaps a prayer to Jehovah for a little more self-control is in order—

  — Yeah, you know, sometimes I pray that Jehovah will help me fall asleep more easily at night and protect me from demons, and I think it’s working—

  — Shut up, Emily. Her mother runs her hands through her coarse hair.

  — And go to bed.

  — I highly doubt Lenora’s been abducted. She’s probably just with some worldly friends and will come home in the middle of the night.

  — What does ‘abducted’ mean?

  Her mother grabs her shoulders and turns Emily toward the door.

  — It means go to bed now, Emily!

  Upstairs in her room, she pulls an old dictionary out from under her bed. To carry away by force, to kidnap. Emily pictures a tall man dressed in black with Lenora — kicking, punching, screaming — flung over his shoulder. He carries her off in the sharp whorls of snow, and they disappear into the dark beyond the streetlights.

  33

  AT THE GYM, I CHANGED out of my black boots and into the soft-soled shoes. I was still on the half-metre practice wire and it was more difficult to master than I had expected. My quads and calves always ached and felt heavier the next day, just from an hour or two of these tense, halting steps. One foot in front of the other. Exhale. Exhale.

  — Concentrate, Morrow! Focus! the indomitably perky Janice yelled over at me.

  — You’re relying too much on the mat! Pretend it’s not there, pretend it’s a pit of vipers. Remember, Philippe Petit didn’t even have a net!

  Janice’s idol was the self-taught French master — he was infamous, he even upstaged Nixon in the newspapers when he strolled between the twin towers i
n New York City. A feat, no question, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to be alone. I ignored her, and started again. Janice, hands on her hips as usual, watched from nearby.

  She had said I was a fast learner, dedicated, and calm. In each lesson, I’d get a few steps further along the wire than the last time. It was addictive. A pattern emerged, a cycle of emotion and release, and I was emboldened not just by the thrill of it all, but also by knowing what to expect. My psychological routine would still usually begin with fear and self-consciousness, followed by a debate about whether or not to abandon the tightrope altogether, but then I would force myself to go anyway. Once I got there, I trained harder than anyone else in the gym, and temporarily overcame my fear of failure.

  — Let’s call it a day, Morrow.

  I was sitting on the mat, rubbing my foot.

  — Why? We’re not out of time yet.

  — Because you’re not concentrating, and it’s wasting our time. And because it’s Saturday night. Go have some fun.

  She was right, I was preoccupied, and I did have plans, but I’d been trying to take my mind off that by coming to my tightrope lesson. I nodded as she tidied up the studio and turned off lights.

  It’s all your fault I couldn’t focus.

  Too bad. Are you ready for tonight?

  I don’t know.

  Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what to do.

  When I got home, I sprayed disinfectant on the counters and wiped them down, then began to wash the small linoleum area in my kitchen again. I had done the same less than twenty-four hours ago, but bacteria could sneak in at any time. The harsh chemical smell obliterated all other thought, and I lulled myself into the rhythm of scrubbing the floor. Right, left, up, down, killing any and all germs that may lurk: no less than two hundred strokes across the floor. My hands were red and the cracks were split open again, but the apartment was spotless. Gradually, the turbulence buffeting my stomach slowed its wings.

  After a shower, I dusted my face with white powder, painted my eyelids with cold, black liquid, and smoothed on two coats of red lipstick. It took only ten minutes to tease and spray up my hair; I had gotten better at it. Next, I pulled on the old black and white striped tights, then slid into the short black skirt. Next came the black lace bra, slightly too big, followed by the satin camisole, red lace-trimmed blouse, and black cardigan. I folded the cuffs of the sleeves up and looked at my chafed hands. Disgusting. I rolled them back down and let them cover my knuckles. Finally, I laced up the boots and tentatively glanced into the mirror.

  Relics and masquerade. I was a spectre.

  I took another dusty box from beneath my bed and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. I slid it into my pocket, and ran my fingertips over its brittle edges. I pulled my hand out as though burned.

  The note was for me. I was terrified to unfold it, but I had no choice.

  I turned off the lamps in my apartment, and I closed the blinds. With an engraved silver Zippo, I lit a series of ten candles and arranged them in a semi-circle on the floor of my small, damp living room. Careful not to trip over them and burn down the house, I took out the necessary items from the box.

  One tiny flame for each year that had passed.

  I’m creating a ceremony. Just for us.

  My hands shook as I laid out the ratty old Misfits t-shirt — frayed, stained, and chewed through with holes — between me and the flickering arc of candles.

  Next I stood up and walked over to the freezer. I took out the small package of Belmont Milds. Then I sat back down and lit a cigarette from the flame of the tenth candle. I inhaled, coughed, and inhaled again. The smoke filled my lungs and my head felt hot and prickly. My nostrils burned when I exhaled. I tried hard not to think about the ash and tar coating my throat and lungs as I flicked the ashes into the lumpy black and red clay candle holder that served as an ashtray.

  After I smoked the entire cigarette, I flushed the butt down the toilet and washed my hands three times, then returned the pack to the freezer for next time. I wished there was a way to cleanse myself on the inside too.

  I slid the CD into my portable stereo and skipped to the right track. The low, mournful song began — the same one I used to hear behind her bedroom door.

  I barred all other thoughts and concentrated only on the baritone vocals — silence and danger — until my breathing slowed and my hands stopped shaking.

  Careful to avoid contact with the candles, I took from my pocket the dirty piece of folded paper. By then, the creases had started to tear. I placed it in my lap and closed my eyes.

  I’m trying to make things right. I’ll do what you tell me to.

  Good.

  Please don’t be mad at me anymore.

  It was time to unfold the paper. I waited until the song finished, then put it on “repeat.” My hands started to tremble again. It had been almost ten years since I’d looked at it.

  My stomach heaved when I saw the familiar handwriting. My lungs shrank to impossible specks. I gasped and wheezed as though being strangled, the page blurred, and I fought for air.

  I want whoever finds this to know the truth. The real truth, not the hypocrisy that calls itself the Truth. Then give it to my sister, Emily. She isn’t too young to know what happened to me.

  I grabbed the nearest candle and held the flame against the scabs on my arm for as long as I could stand it. I read her words as small hairs burned away and the air smelled bitter. I dug my teeth into my lips to keep from crying out. Her note was two and a half pages long. My arm erupted in blisters and a corner of the note started to burn. I quickly put it out with my fingers and pulled the candle away from my flesh.

  I want her to keep this letter, this chronicle, and remember everything. Ems, maybe things will turn out better for you. I don’t know. Just don’t get trapped in the lies that other people tell themselves, and tell you.

  I pressed her t-shirt against my face and there was still a faint scent of vanilla.

  I won’t, Lenora. I’m sorry.

  I finished rereading the letter, put it and the t-shirt back into the box beneath my bed, and blew out the candles. Their smoke eddied in the air, sharp and sweet.

  Outside, snow fell in a thick, white shroud, smothering the city.

  How do I look?

  Undo two more buttons.

  But—

  Do it.

  34

  EMILY CAN HARDLY MOVE IN her own house. The rooms overflow with elders, Ministerial Servants, their wives, and other brothers and sisters from the Hall. They perch on the living room sofa, cluster around the kitchen table, huddle in groups of three or four in corners, while another van load pulls into the driveway. It’s as crowded as a party, but the atmosphere — the reason everyone is here — is the opposite.

  Someone has taped the service map to the wall and they’re organizing who will take each area for the search, like they do on Sundays before going out door to door. Emily weaves through the fray, wondering where her parents are. No one looks at her, just at each other, and then they shake their heads when they think no one is watching. Emily feels something on her shoulder and she jumps. Sister Bulchinsky pulls her hand back and looks away. On the far side of the living room, flanked by two sentinel-like elders’ wives, sits her mom with her hands over her face, crying.

  These must be the Last Days. Emily can feel the panic in the room as it erupts into goosebumps on her arms and scalp. She shivers. She is afraid to move, lest her tiny action trigger further catastrophe, so she stands rigid in the middle of the room as adults drift past her. Everyone’s murmurs meld together into the sound of wind keening at the windows. She holds her breath and the room blurs. She tries to conjure up Lenora’s face, Lenora’s laugh; she needs Lenora’s strength today more than ever, but her mind is fogged.

  Then Emily falls to the carpet, into a black hole, and
everyone surges into the space she left behind. Someone picks her up and sets her on the couch and gives her a glass of water. Still, she won’t open her eyes. Not until she can will everything to return to normal.

  Please Jehovah God, make Lenora come home. Please don’t let her get in too much trouble. Please forgive Lenora for running away.

  Lenora has been missing for three days.

  The congregation, a tidal wave of search-and-rescue, has taken over their home. Emily knows she cannot just chew her hangnails and eavesdrop anymore; she has been swept up into this tsunami and must save her sister. She is the only one.

  Please Jehovah, let me be the one to find Lenora and bring her back home. It has to be me. I know that you understand this. Please God, this is very important.

  The phone rings while her mother sobs amid the elders’ hushed tones and surreptitious glances. Emily’s father answers, tells whomever it is that no, there is no news, and he must keep the line clear.

  Emily has to get out. She wishes she’d thought of it earlier, before their house had so quickly filled with all these brothers and sisters. She knows what to do.

  Thank you Jehovah God, and forgive all my sins. And Lenora’s too, especially Lenora’s. She doesn’t mean it, I promise. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

  It’s weird to have everyone in their house — in the kitchen, the bathroom, sipping from their mugs, looking at their things. Someone is bound to find something else wrong with their family.

  With the group’s attention on her parents, Emily darts upstairs, grabs a handful of change from her piggy bank, and slips out the back door.

  She walks quickly down the road, almost running, shoulders hunched, hoping that no passing carload of fellow Jehovah’s Witnesses recognizes her. She clutches a tiny piece of folded paper in her pocket.

  It takes Emily about fifteen minutes to reach the payphone outside of the truck stop on the highway, the same one she’d watched Lenora use the other night. She wishes she’d had time to find her mittens before she left.