by Laura McHugh
When they had all filed out, my mother handed me an apron. “You still remember how to peel potatoes?”
“Of course,” I said. I tied the apron around my waist and found the peeler in the same drawer it had been in the last time I’d used it.
“I know I should have written back sooner, to let you know I was coming. I called the Darlings to tell you.”
“I’m sure Sylvie was pleased to see you.”
“Thank you for letting me come.”
“This is your home,” she said. “We are your family. You’re always welcome here.”
She got butter out of the fridge to soften. I noticed silver hairs creeping up from the nape of her neck and thought of Grams, how Mama had let her own mother die alone in a nursing home because they had fought over our increasingly uncompromising lifestyle.
“Do you mean that?”
She slapped the butter dish down on the counter.
“Do you know what happened when you left?” she hissed. “A social worker came to the house. Someone from the department of family services. They were concerned about our children for some reason. They wanted to interview them without us present. It was humiliating. Your sister was terrified. She cried for a week.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know? Really? Why do you think they came? Why do you think they suddenly wanted to investigate our children’s well-being?”
I clutched the peeler, the dull blade biting into my palm. She blamed me.
“Your father’s never gotten over it. Sylvie was heartbroken. You didn’t even tell her goodbye.” She pushed up her sleeves, washed her hands in cold water. “But despite all that, yes, you are welcome here. You are one of our flock. We pray for your soul every day. Especially your sister.”
I remembered the game we played at Bible camp, how Sylvie would cry for every soul she failed to save. I had come home in hopes of rescuing her, but she didn’t want my help. I wondered if she’d invited me back because the fate of my soul weighed on her, if she thought I was the one who needed saving.
* * *
—
I felt like an unwelcome ghost at the dinner table, my parents and younger brothers doing their best not to look at me. The conversation was stilted at first, Daddy talking at length about the weather. Finally Eli told a funny story about a temperamental cow that had been found wandering the Price Chopper parking lot, and everyone cracked up, even Mama. When the laughter died down, they seemed more relaxed and began to chat with one another about everyday things I had no part of, as though they’d forgotten I was there. My family had knitted back together without me, my absence a wound that had healed over and left no visible scar.
Afterward, we gathered together in the living room to sing hymns, a tradition Mama had started when we moved to the farm. To me, it had served as a bitter reminder that we no longer had a TV to watch or books to read. I hadn’t sung in years, but the verses flowed out of me from memory, unbidden. In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me! It was disorienting, my mouth forming words I thought I’d forgotten. The room grew steadily darker as the sun went down. I watched them sing, their faces shadowed and unfamiliar in the dying light. They were my blood, but they were strangers. It felt wrong to be here. Beneath the joyful music, tension threaded through me like a trip wire.
CHAPTER 16
SARABETH, THEN
AGE 17
My legs cramped as I attempted to get up from the floor. I’d finally finished scrubbing all the cabinets and baseboards in the kitchen. Mama had been finding all sorts of indoor tasks to keep me busy and within her line of sight. Anytime I left the house, she made sure Sylvie went with me.
“Retta’s wedding will be here before we know it,” Mama said. She was seated at the kitchen table, flipping through her prayer journal. “If you’re planning to sew a new dress, you’d best get started.”
I couldn’t keep my eyes from rolling. I wasn’t about to sew anything, even for Retta. It didn’t matter what I wore, whether it was old or new. Every dress was the same: long skirt, long sleeves, plain fabric, blah, blah, blah.
“No need to be fancy,” I said, wringing out my cleaning rag in the sink. “I’ll just wear something I already have.” It was exactly the kind of thing she would say herself, and I figured she’d be pleased to think her humble practicality had finally rubbed off on me. Pleased enough that she’d shut up about sewing.
“But you want to look nice,” she said. “A wedding is a special occasion. You should wear your hair down, maybe curl it a little.”
“The day’s all about the bride,” I said, pouring on the humility. “It doesn’t matter how I look.”
“It’s not all about the bride,” she said, a coy smile emerging. “It’s a social event as well. You want to make a good impression.” She smoothed her apron. “I was speaking to Donna Hartzell this afternoon, and she said that Doug is building a house on their land.”
Doug was several years older and worked at his father’s sawmill. A while back, he had accidentally sawn off two of his fingers. We had taken cinnamon rolls to his family at church, and that was the only time I could remember speaking to him directly. Sorry about your fingers, I’d said. My mother had pinched the back of my arm, twisting the flesh tight until I added that we were praying for him.
“That’s nice,” I said, edging toward the stairs. I wondered if she’d believe me if I said I needed to go to my room and work on a Sunday school assignment. Now that I’d finished my homeschooling, it was getting harder to find excuses to be left alone. Mama was constantly on alert for idleness.
“He’ll be looking for a wife soon, I imagine, once the house is done.” She eyed me meaningfully. “He’ll make a good husband for someone.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“He’d make a good husband for you.” She clasped her hands over her heart and beamed at me, as though marrying an eight-fingered stranger was the most wonderful thing she could wish for me. I had almost made it to the staircase. I could mumble something pleasant but noncommittal, nod politely, escape to my room. It would only make things worse if I argued with her, and things were bad enough already. Nod, I told myself. Smile. But I couldn’t do it.
“What makes you think that?” I said. “I don’t even know him. I know nothing about him except that he’s not very careful with a saw.”
The joy drained from her face, replaced by a look of bitter determination. “You ungrateful child,” she said. “I’m trying to help you. You don’t understand what your father and I have done for this family, what we’ve given you. Your father quit his job, we moved to this farm, to create a better life for our children. For you.”
“Really? I thought it was because Daddy screwed a waitress.”
“Sarabeth.” Her low voice dripped venom.
“Do you think any of us believe we moved out here and left our whole lives behind because he had impure thoughts? How did you find out about her? Were there pictures on his phone? Did he tell you what they did together?”
Her face reddened, her jaw clenching. It felt good to make her angry. Like I was the one in control.
“That is enough, Sarabeth.”
“I can see why he did it,” I said. “I don’t blame him.”
She grabbed my arm and twisted. “You get down on your knees and start praying.”
I thought of everything she had taken from me. My friends. My books. My clothes. Music. Movies. Dancing. School. She dictated every tiny piece of my life, made every decision for me. And now she was telling me who to marry. I was sick of her telling me what to do.
“You can fuck off,” I said.
She whipped her hand back to slap me, pausing for a moment for dramatic effect, and I slapped her first, as hard as I could.
She gaped at me with horror, one hand on her face and the other c
lutching her belly, as though shocked that such a devil-child could have sprung from her own womb. I turned to climb the stairs and she didn’t try to stop me. I lay on my bed, my heart thudding like I’d been running through the fields, wondering how many lashes I’d earned, whether I could keep from crying out when the belt split my skin. I might get something worse than the belt this time, but I didn’t care.
My anger hadn’t subsided, even after the slap. The Guide for Godly Girls that Mama had so carefully made for me sat on my shelf, the flowered cover faded and coated with dust. I opened it up to the first page and started scribbling over the top of Mama’s perfect handwriting. I wrote 666, the number of the Beast, and then I scrawled it again and again, filling lines, margins, pages, the pen scratching through the paper, knowing what it would do to my mother when she found it. When we lived in town, she would cross the street to avoid walking by a house with the Devil’s number.
Twenty minutes passed until Mama opened the door without knocking.
“Pastor Rick is here to see you.”
“What for? An exorcism?”
The pastor emerged from behind my mother, filling up the doorway. “Hello, Sarabeth.” I jolted to my feet. He came in and shut the door behind him, leaving Mama in the hallway. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m just here to talk. Your family’s worried about you.”
I didn’t say anything. He came closer, close enough that he could have reached out and touched me, but he didn’t. Instead, he sat down on Sylvie’s bed, facing me. “Have a seat,” he said.
I sat at the edge of my bed, my hands planted at my sides, wishing I could push myself up off the yellow blanket and run out the door.
“I hear you’ve been having some trouble lately,” he said, leaning forward. “And I want you to know that I can help. We can talk through some things, you and me.”
“I don’t need to talk,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Your mother would disagree.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming. “Look, I was a teenager once. There’s no need to be embarrassed about anything. It’s a confusing time. So much is changing, so many emotions. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone aside from your parents. I know at church, I’m usually the one doing all the talking, but if you give me a chance, I think you’ll see I’m a really good listener.”
“Thank you for the offer,” I said, hoping that would be sufficient to get him to leave. It wasn’t. We stared at each other until I gave up and dropped my gaze. Dark chest hair sprouted from the open collar of his shirt. He wore all black, like a priest.
“I’ll let your mother know you didn’t feel like talking today,” he said finally, smoothing his hand over Sylvie’s blanket. He heaved himself up from the bed, leaving a dent in the thin mattress, and clasped my shoulder, his hand like a vise. “I’ll be waiting when you change your mind.”
CHAPTER 17
SARAH, NOW
I had dreaded climbing into my childhood bed and sleeping in the claustrophobic room under the eaves. I was grateful that Sylvie fell asleep immediately, that she didn’t see me checking and double-checking the window, panicking when I remembered that the door didn’t have a lock. I had brought my night-light but the only outlet was on Sylvie’s side, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to plug it in. I fell asleep with it in my hand, eyes on the door, counting my breaths. If I had nightmares I didn’t remember them.
I spent my first full day on the farm helping Sylvie with chores and wedding preparations while Mama worked to finish the double wedding ring quilt she was making for Sylvie and Noah. I recognized the fabric. She’d started piecing it together before I left home. It had originally been meant for me.
Sylvie praised the Lord for the beautiful weather, sang as we mucked out the chicken coop, smiled serenely while crafting handmade place cards with the same perfect handwriting as our mother. I kept waiting for her to break character, to say or do something that might hint at a different Sylvie underneath, a slightly less agreeable one.
“Here you go,” she said, holding up the card she’d carefully lettered with my name. Sarabeth. No one here called me Sarah. Maybe I hadn’t told them, though I doubted it would have mattered. I would always be Sarabeth here. Something twisted inside of me every time I heard my old name spoken aloud. “Let’s see yours,” Sylvie said.
She had let me do Eli’s, the one with the fewest letters. The E started out fine, but the l and the i had looked too skinny, so I’d tried to fatten them up and it got worse from there. Sylvie tried not to grimace. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll redo it.”
“It’s okay,” she said, giggling. “Eli won’t mind.” She added it to the stack and started on the next card, Mama’s.
“Sylvie…I know you’re sure that you’re ready to get married. But how do you know you’re sure? You’ve barely left the farm. You haven’t had a chance to experience anything else. Don’t you want to see what’s out there before you decide what to do with the rest of your life?”
She folded her hands, tilted her head thoughtfully. “You grew up here, too, and somehow you knew you wanted something else, even though you’d never seen it.”
“That’s not really true. I had a glimpse of it, at least. Before we moved, I had TV, books, the internet, friends from school. You didn’t have any of that.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful to Mama and Daddy for keeping me away from it. I like how simple things are here. I can focus on my family and my faith, the things that are truly important. I loved growing up on the farm, and I want to raise my children the same way.” She reached out and took my hand. “You loved the farm, too,” she said. “I know you did. Don’t you miss home, at least a little?”
“I miss you,” I said. I could feel her slipping away from me even as I held her hand. Her whole world was in Wisteria. She didn’t want to leave. She smiled, and we got back to our work.
I was so focused on Sylvie that I had to remind myself she wasn’t the only reason I was here. I’d promised Farrow that I’d let him know if I came across anything that might connect back to Abby and Destiny. The least I could do was ask around, see what people were saying, and the one person I had always counted on for gossip was Retta. When Sylvie and I finished the place cards, I got Retta’s number from Mama, and once I worked up the nerve to call, she invited me to stop by for a visit after supper.
* * *
—
Retta and Philip’s property stood out from the others on the long dirt road past Bethel Church. There were no rusting appliances, roaming dogs, or no trespassing signs. The yard was tidy, almost barren. A split-rail fence bordered the road, and all vegetation had been scalped close to the dirt, except for a pair of withered rosebushes on either side of the front step, the leaves skeletonized by insects. The modest house was clad in rustic Ozark field rock, the stones pieced together like a puzzle, mortar crumbling in between. Retta whipped the door open before I could finish knocking. She wore a long pink dress buttoned up to the neck, her hair piled high on her head in an old-fashioned Gibson Girl bun.
“Sarabeth!” She stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking, and then scooted aside so I could pass through. “Come in.”
The cramped living room was dated but well cared for, the flowered curtains starched and ironed, shabby furniture draped with pretty hand-knit afghans, the tired orange carpet bearing fresh vacuum lines. There were no toys or sippy cups or any other sign of children, and I wondered if there had been a problem, because she had wanted to start having babies right away. Or at least she had the last time I’d spoken to her.
“Philip’s at work,” she said, leading me to the couch to sit down. “And the boys are already in bed, or I’d introduce them.”
“Boys, plural?” I said. “Congratulations! How many?”
“Three, so far,” she said. “We’re so blessed. They’re all healthy. All miniature Philips, blond and fair and serious, just like
him. You wouldn’t know I was involved, from looking at them.” She pressed one hand to her belly, and I could see the protrusion beneath her dress. “I’d love to have a little girl, if God sees fit. Remember how much fun we used to have, playing dolls? We thought our own daughters would play together one day.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It doesn’t seem like that long ago.” We were practically still playing with dolls when she got engaged. And now she had three kids of her own, maybe another on the way. This could have been my life, too, if I hadn’t been taken, if that hadn’t changed everything. I didn’t like to think of my abduction having a silver lining, but I wondered, if I had been given a choice back then—to stay and get married, or endure that horrific week with a promise of freedom—which one I would have chosen.
“How are you?” I asked. “I feel like I’ve missed so much. The wedding, the babies…I can’t believe you’re a mom! What’s it like—married life, Philip, all of it?”
“It’s everything I prayed for,” she said. “Philip…I’m so lucky. He’s a good man, Sarabeth, he really is. He’s kind. He’s patient. He’s a good father. He always compliments my cooking, even when it’s awful.” The giggle returned, the one that used to punctuate every sentence when we were kids, and a genuine smile warmed her face. She was still the Retta I knew, still my friend, despite all that had changed.
“I’m happy for you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe it sometimes. I barely get a moment’s rest with three little ones, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I hoped she truly was as happy as she was trying to make it seem. My boss, Melissa, was always rolling her eyes at her ex’s Facebook page, claiming that the people bragging about how happy they are, the ones who really shove it in your face, are all miserable on the inside, their smiles just for display.