The Journal

by Ronnica Z Rothe

  As I arrived home early, Mom was waiting for me. She threw me off guard because neither of us were usually home at that time, but there she was, with a mug of hot chocolate waiting for me on the table at my place. It even had three marshmallows floating on top, which were hard to find these days.

  “Mom?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Sit down, Amala. I think it’s about time we have a talk. No, don’t be scared; I have no intention of yelling at you. It’s just that we haven’t really seen eye to eye lately, and I want to fix that. I miss our conversations that we would have when you were younger. And I’m not blaming you alone for that: sure, you’re a teenager now, but I should have given you more attention and not just let you do your own thing because you are able to. I’ve allowed my job to be more important than it should be.”

  “Well, it is important.”

  “Yes, but it’s not more important to me than my daughter, the beautiful daughter I want to have a relationship with. So before we get started I must ask: will you forgive me?”

  Her contriteness surprised me. It always seemed like power and control were her modus operandi, not apologies and taking the blame.

  “Of course, Mom. I suppose I should own up to my own share of the blame, too.”

  “Yes, and we’ll get there, sweetie, but first I want to know the truth. We had a good discussion the other night, but I think that there are some things you’re not telling me. Please don’t try to varnish it…I’m prepared to hear whatever you have to say. It’s more important to me that you tell me the truth than that you tell me what I want to hear.”

  “Okay,” tentatively, wondering what she was going to ask me.

  “Where have you really been these past few weeks in the afternoons? I thought you were with Sebastian, but I talked to his dad, and he said that he hasn’t seen you around or heard Sebastian talk about you in quite some time. I then assumed you were with Ryan, but Ryan’s mom told me a bit snippily that her daughter is no longer friends with my daughter.”

  “You’re right,” suddenly emboldened by last night’s conversation with Ethel. If I can tell Ethel, I could tell Mom, right? I hoped so. “I’ve not been with either of them. Ryan and I had a huge fight, and Sebastian, well, went back to Kinsley Stewart.”

  “Well, antiques didn’t seem like something that they would be interested in,” she said, with a knowing glance while I looked a bit shocked at the change of subject. I should have guessed she would have looked at my chip information if she was concerned. “What have you been doing at Millennial Antiques?”

  At least I could start with this secret. It was a dumb one from the start. I knew Mom wouldn’t care that I had a job, but I had kept it from her because I was angry about her accusations about Sebastian. It seemed so silly now.

  “Well, I’ve been working.”

  “Working?” she said, surprised.

  “Yes. You know how I used to spend time there reading, right?”

  “Well, yes, but I thought you had grown out of that.”

  “Or got distracted by a boy...” I asserted, good-naturedly.

  “Let’s not go there,” Mom said with a shake of her head. “We’ve already established that Sebastian is out of the picture. And can I add that I’m relieved?”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said with a chuckle and an eye roll. “Glad I had your full support when we were together. But really, you were right. He went back to Kinsley. Apparently he was only with me because she had rejected him, but when she was ready to pick him back up, he was back by her side. They’re still together, too, the regular ‘it’ couple at Henry High.”

  “Well, I hate to say it, but I told you so. Relationships shouldn’t be that serious in high school, anyway. You all haven’t figured out who you are yet, so how are you supposed to figure out who you want to be with?”

  “Yeah, well tell that to all my friends—or I should say former friends. It’s like everyone can’t live unless they’re paired up.”

  “Well, you don’t have to go along with the crowd.”

  “Yeah, I’m learning that.”

  “So tell me more about this job.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, you know how I love to read books, like real paper books? Well, the day after I broke it off with Sebastian, or the other way around I guess, I went to Millennial Antiques because I was mad at you and wanted you to think I was with Sebastian. Being back at Millennial Antiques was so great. I fell in love with those books again when I walked in that door. I was looking at the books from the turn of the millennium—my favorite time period—and one stood out to me. Guess what it was?”

  “Umm, a book?”

  I rolled my eyes. Mom was always the sarcastic one. “Well it was a type of a book—it was a journal.”

  “Oh, interesting,” Mom tried to pretend she was interested.

  “Okay, so you don’t think it’s interesting...that’s fine. But it was a journal written in 2001, which I think is a fascinating year. The girl was my age at the time, too. Since I wanted this journal, I had to work for it. I knew that I couldn’t ask you for the 400 eCreds it would take to buy it.”

  “Well, good. I’m glad that you’ve worked for it...not that I would have had that kind of money to give you to spend on a book, anyway. But it’s good to learn responsibility and will go a long way towards helping you get a job when you graduate—jobs are so hard to get, so anything you can bring to the table will be helpful. I just wish you hadn’t gone behind my back.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I did it in anger, and then I had to keep it up and keep lying to cover my tracks. It was a stupid lie, and one that I never expected to get so big. Forgive me?”

  “Yes, I forgive you. I’m glad that we can be friends again not just mother and daughter.”

  “Me, too. It’s been hard lately, hasn’t it? But Mom, I have a couple other things that I really need to tell you, and you’re not going to like it. Promise not to be mad at me, okay? There’s nothing that can be done to fix the past.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that...”

  “Okay, then I’ll start easy. Yesterday I went to church.”

  “Church?” Mom said, amused and relieved. “They still have those?”

  “Yes, apparently. Though I have a feeling there’s not very many here in the USNA. And the one I went to was only attended by five older people hosted in a house—nothing like the church that used to be in this building.”

  “How did you hear about this church?”

  “Well, my boss, Hasan, knew someone who attends.”

  “So what made you decide to go?” Mom asked, clearly interested in my story.

  “Well, it started with the journal, oddly enough.”

  “With the journal? Okay.”

  “Yeah, the girl writing the journal, Beth, well, she starts going to a church during the time she is writing in the journal.”

  “Ahh, so you wanted to experience it for yourself?”

  “Well, sort of. Really, she was reading a Bible, and was quoting it, and it has some interesting things to say. You know me and books, so I was trying to get my hands on a Bible.”

  “Did Millennial Antiques not have one?”

  “No, it didn’t. I was disappointed...I figured a book as important as the Bible would be there. And there aren’t any online, which is weird. I think it may be because there used to be, but then the servers supporting them were taken off line—if no one cares, then there was no one to notice that they weren’t there any more.”

  “Well, that makes sense I suppose. So did you find a Bible?”

  “Not yet, but I’m really close. So Hasan had invited me to have dinner with him and Ethel. And Ming was there, too—don’t even get me started on her.”

  “Who’s Ming? Is she a new friend?” my mom asked brightly.

  “I told you not to get me started on her. She was a fellow friendless girl who befriended me…before she betrayed me.”

  “Okay...”

  “Yeah, anyway. So
I met Hasan’s friend, Ethel, and though she’s a Christian, she didn’t have a Bible in English, only in Chinese. But she invited me to her church, hoping that someone there could help me find a Bible. But sadly, none of them speak English as their first language, and their Bibles are all in their first languages.”

  “I guess I should have had your father teach you Chinese like we always planned, huh?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Though it looks hard to learn!”

  “Yes, yes it does. So why do you say that you’re close to getting your hands on a Bible?”

  I went on to tell Mom about meeting Leonard and how I hoped to hear any day that he had found me a bible.

  “So what did you think of the church?”

  “Well, it’s interesting. I actually had a good talk with Ethel last night—that’s where I was. We talked about all this, and about something else that I need to tell you about. But I think that what she’s been sharing with me about Christianity has some good points to it.”

  “Interesting. You know I don’t care what you believe. I’ve never really believed in anything more than that there is some creator or creators out there—I’m not stupid enough to believe we came from nothing, but I’ve never really cared whether that person is a ‘person’ as we think of or not. I do want you to really think through what you choose to believe, though, and not just believe it because you read it in this fanciful journal.”

  “It’s not fanciful, Mom. It’s just a journal by a girl like me. And don’t worry, I still haven’t made up my mind about what I believe.”

  “So what else did you have to tell me?”

  “Yeah, that,” I said, and got quiet. “Don’t be mad, okay?”

  “Okay...” Mom said, swallowing. I could tell that this was hard for her, but she was trying to handle it like an adult conversation. “Hit me, but please be gentle.”

  “I’ll try,” and I paused.

  “And...” Mom said, trying to prompt me.

  “I’m trying, but this is really hard. I’ve only told one other person. I’ve been keeping it in, and it’s not easy to share.”

  “Okay, but you know you can tell me anything.”

  “I know, and I should have told you earlier. So here goes...” I took a deep breath and told her everything that happened the night of the concert.

  Freeing

  When I had told Mom everything, I just let the truth hang in the air for a few moments, as my mom reached over and embraced me. She didn’t know what to say either. After we cried together for a few minutes—what is it about me and crying these days? I quietly got up and went into my room. I hated to leave my mom there, but I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It was odd to hear what really happened coming out of my mouth so easily, but somehow it felt right, if not good.

  I was done talking. After the night before with Ethel and this afternoon with Mom, I was talked out. I was ready to move on, move forward. I didn’t know if that was possible, but that’s what I wanted.

  As I walked into my room, I immediately grabbed Beth’s journal. I was ready for my old friend, one that wouldn’t expect me to explain myself. I could just be.

  December 5, 2001

  Something’s happened. I’m not the same person I was the last time I wrote. Though I still have lots of questions—Faith said that she still does too—I’ve now found some answers that I can rest in. The questions no longer seem so pressing.

  I’m a Christian. I mean, not someone who goes to church or does the right thing all the time—if such a person could exist—but one who is walking—or trying to—in faith in God. I can’t believe I’ve made it this far in the last 3 months, but I’ve now recognized for myself the truth that I’ve been hearing and reading.

  I now know that I’m a sinner, too. It’s not just parents and terrorists that sin. It’s me.

  “For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles in one point, he has become guilty of all.”

  Yep, I’ve stumbled, and definitely at more than one point!

  I’m a wreck—I’ve put myself first, I’ve lied, I’ve done everything to make sure that my own interests were being fulfilled with little thought of others. I’ve self-centeredly relied on my own “good” works to get me by, but turns out, that won’t get me far.

  And praise God, I’ve found the answer. “What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!” as Paul says.

  Wow...this is exactly the kind of thing that Ethel was talking to me about last night. It’s amazing that Christianity hasn’t changed in 100 years. That’s a good thing. But has it changed in 2100 years? Perhaps not. I guess I’ll have to read the Bible for myself to find that out.

  And it made sense. What had happened to me was awful. Jamari’s uncle took what was not his—I knew that. I would likely never get over it, but I was not a guiltless victim.

  I was a sinner, too.

  The next morning I woke up before my alarm. First time in a while that I’ve done it. But I was excited. The night before, I decided that I may in fact want to be a Christian.

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel different. I did, and I didn’t. I still had the same imperfections: blemishes on my face, desire to rebel, and all. But I also had hope.

  Oh, what a glorious hope!

  I still wanted to get my hands on a Bible, but for different reasons now. I no longer wanted it just for the novelty of it, but because I recognized that it would have a lot of good things for me to read. I was hungry, and wanted to know what God said.

  But first, I had to face school again. I wasn’t excited about that at all. The insults hurled at me before might not have been great, but now they were true. I really was a “despicable” Christian.

  When I saw Ryan for the first time in my new life, I looked at her in the eye. I didn’t flinch. Just before I looked away, I even managed to give a smile, though it hurt. I’m glad that I did.

  Not that the smile helped anything—she hurled insults all the more during lunch.

  Coming home from work, I was nervous when I heard Grandma messing around in the kitchen. As much as I wanted to avoid Ryan at school, I wanted to avoid Grandma at home. I knew I had to share with her that I went to church, but what would she say? If she wouldn’t visit us here for years after moving into a former church building, what would she do about her granddaughter actually going to a church? Would she disown me? Would she force Mom to ground me?

  I walked as silently as I could into the living room, but the swoosh of the apartment door seemed louder than usual. As I expected, Grandma was busy in the kitchen, making us dinner. I was hoping that her old ears were unable to hear my footsteps as I slinked back towards my room. She must have been as aware of me as I was of her, because she turned around and faced me after I had not made it two steps into the apartment.

  “I’m glad you’re home, Amala. Go ahead and have a seat,” Grandma said with a weary look. Clearly, Mom had given her a heads up about my recent activities.

  “I just have to...” I started, pointing back towards my room.

  “No, go ahead and have a seat. I’m dreading this conversation as much as you are. We might as well break the ice...let’s not put it off any longer.”

  I followed orders, dropping my purse beside my seat as I slouched into the worn chair. I didn’t even try to look like I was excited to have this conversation. I knew that a big part about being an adult—something that I was trying to be—was having the hard conversations and being able to form a well-thought-out argument as for why you make the choices you do.

  “Alright, young lady, explain to me what you told your Mom last night,” Grandma said with a sigh. I had a feeling she must knew a lot about what I was going to say, but I appreciated that she wasn’t going to lay into me based solely on what she had heard from Mom.

  I told Grandma my story and about why I wanted to visit the church. I did tell her that while finding t
he Bible was my original motivation, I was intrigued and hoped to go to the church again, even if they couldn’t find me a Bible. I told her about Ethel, and I talked about Beth. I told her about the decision that Beth made, and how I was considering a similar decision.

  All told, she listened to me for 20 minutes without interruption. It was good to share my story, though every time I said a word like “Bible,” “church,” or “Jesus,” I was afraid it would cause Grandma to roll her eyes or to break out in cursing. Though I could tell she was uncomfortable, she held back negative remarks.

  “Thank you for sharing all that, Amala. Based on what I’ve told you before, you rightly assume it concerns me. A grandmother is always scared her grandchildren will fall in with the wrong crowd and get caught up in sex or drugs. But I’ll admit, to me this is worse.”

  “To hear you say these things,” she continued, “is a painful reminder of my past. Growing up in the church, I heard people who got caught up in it like you are. It’s dangerous—some of those people never leave. If you’re serious about this, you must know, that you may be making up your mind for life. That’s a hard decision for someone so young.”

  “Grandma, I’m 17. Soon, I’ll be on my own, trying to get a job. I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”

  “Well, I disagree. I think that you should wait until you’re at least 18. But if you’ve made up your mind, then I don’t know that I’ll be able to stop you.”

  “I do want to hear your side. Even though you told me a lot before, why exactly are you so against the church? What’s so wrong with people coming together to worship God together?”

  “Are you really ready to hear this?”

  “Yes,” I said, hesitating, “I think so,” I finished quietly, looking down at the scratches in the table.

  “Okay,” Grandma took in a big breath, as if winding a bat. “First of all, Christians are hypocrites.”

  “Hypocrites? How so?” I’ve heard this accusation before, but I never really thought about what it meant.

  “They don’t practice what they preach. They tell people to respect marriage by not living with your boyfriend or shacking up with someone of the same sex, but yet they use pornography. They critique almost every book and movie put out, but if it has the word ‘Christian’ on the back, they take it without thinking, and promote it to the nth degree. They strictly enforce such things like women not teaching men, but don’t require women to shed their jewelry, something else that Paul says. They’re told not to judge, but they’re the ones doing all the judging!” As Grandma said each statement of hypocrisy, her voice grew even louder, so much so that the last statement was punctuated with a broom thud on the wall from Ms. O’Henry next door.