Afterward (31 page)

“Rachel, are the beans almost ready?”

“Just about done,” I answer, giving them a nudge with my fork.

My mother smiles at me and nods. “What were you looking at out there?” she asks, motioning toward the kitchen window.

I shrug my shoulders and mumble, “Nothing, really.” I don't want to admit I've been distracted from my work and staring at some hummingbirds darting back and forth at the shrub of yellow bells in the front yard. They love to swoop and swerve at one another to get the best flower, like little kamikaze pilots. Everyone thinks hummingbirds are these sweet little birds, but they're really hateful, actually.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask her, pouring the beans into a serving dish. She looks paler than normal, and there's a parade of pimples marching up her normally clear complexion.

“Yes, praise God,” she answers, touching her belly. Walker baby number eleven is just a couple weeks along, and the first few months are always the worst for my mom when it comes to being pregnant. With Sarah, she spent what felt like forever trapped in the bathroom, throwing up during what should have been school time at the kitchen table.

This baby surprised us. I mean, as much as babies can be a surprise in a family with ten children. But my mom is forty-four, and it was sort of understood that two-year-old Isaac would be the last addition. Then this spring during evening Bible study, Dad read those familiar verses from Psalms that always serve as an announcement that a new Walker baby is on the way: “‘As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man, so are the children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them!'” When Dad said it, everyone turned to look at Mom, and she nodded, smiling shyly.

I smiled, too, of course, but my stomach sank just a bit at the same time. Mom had more time for all of us now that Isaac was sleeping through the night and would soon be out of diapers. And how was I supposed to keep up with my chores and help teach the little ones with my mother preoccupied with the new baby? I had to reprimand myself as soon as I had those thoughts. In all things give thanks, Rachel, I reminded myself.

With Sunday dinner finally ready, everyone sits down to eat at the three tables pushed together. There are so many of us the end of the long table is practically in the hallway leading to my parents' bedroom. I set down a platter of rolls.

“What a lovely meal, Rachel,” says Paul in the same loud voice that he uses to say everything. Paul is my sister Faith's husband. They live with baby Caleb about thirty minutes away in the next town over, but that doesn't stop them from spending almost every Sunday afternoon with us. Paul is five years older than me but he acts like it's fifty years instead of five. His face is always pinched up like a spider's, and he loves to quote Scripture like he's a pastor even though he's not. He gets on my nerves. No—that's unkind. Paul's a good Christian husband and father, and Faith is blessed to be under his protection. And yet, I wish he would lower his voice just a little.

“Thank you, Paul,” I respond, dishing out food for the little ones before we all sit down to pray. I let myself wonder for a moment about my future husband and what he will be like, and I try to imagine myself returning here to my parents' house in just a few years with my own children. It's what's meant to be, but when I try to picture it, my head goes blank and my stomach twists.

My father sits at the head of the table, and we bow our heads as he thanks the Lord for food that will nourish our bodies so we can continue to spread His word. As Dad gets to the end of the prayer, he adds, “And Father God, we ask you to keep your child James Fulton under your careful watch, and that you renew a steadfast spirit within him and create in him a clean heart. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

Everyone responds with an amen, but Paul's amen is the loudest.

I'm passing the butter to my younger sister Ruth when Paul brings up James again.

“It's so wonderful that you reminded us how much we need to pray for those who've strayed,” he says to Dad.

“Well, we're all capable of straying from the love of Jesus,” my father answers.

“Amen,” Paul says, nodding vigorously. Faith is seated at his side trying to eat and feed baby Caleb at the same time. Her hand slips and she drops her napkin, but Paul is too busy talking to notice. I crawl under the table to reach for it.

“I was thinking of another person who has abandoned Christ's path and who also desperately needs our prayers,” he continues as I sit up. Faith looks over at him.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “Paul's talking about Lauren Sullivan. She's back in town.”

There's a shift in the room, and I realize I've stopped chewing.

“Really?” my older brother Andrew asks. “She left years ago. She moved to the city, right? I mean, that's what I heard.”

“Yes, but someone saw her at the drugstore,” Faith answers, holding back on her source. “And someone else saw her moving her things into that little apartment complex near the animal hospital. You know, the one on Rice Street? It looks like she's back for good. Or at least for a while, anyway.”

Whispers. Bits of whispers. It's how we find out everything.

“Lauren Sullivan?” Ruth asks. “Something about that name sounds familiar. Who is she?” She tries to pry our little brother Isaac's fingers off the butter knife.

“Lauren is someone who needs our prayers, honey,” my mom answers, and she smiles at Paul and Faith in a way that's clear this conversation is over. “Let's hope this move brings her back home to the Lord.”

Ruth is thirteen now which means she was barely seven when Lauren left, so it makes sense she wouldn't remember her clearly. But I do. I remember the morning she showed up to Calvary Christian with her long blond hair dyed candy-apple red. I remember prayer requests for her soul after the stories that she'd snuck out of the house, met boys, and drank alcohol. I remember the Bible verses the pastor would use during sermons that seemed to be directed straight at her: “‘The eye that mocketh at his father and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.'”

I remember after that sermon how she stood up and calmly walked out.

She was like a grenade that had sat quietly for years and then, suddenly, exploded. But Lauren Sullivan didn't go to Journey of Faith.

She disappeared before anyone could make her.

 

2

In a family with ten kids,
bedtime is nothing short of total chaos. We do it every night, so I think we should be a lot better at it than we are. But we're not. Trying to get all those bodies cleaned up, dressed in pajamas, and tucked into bed requires a formula I haven't perfected yet, try as I might.

Of course Faith doesn't live with us anymore and my three older brothers—Matthew, Andrew, and David—can take care of themselves, but Ruth and I are responsible for Sarah, the twins Jeremiah and Gabriel, and Isaac. That's eight hands, eight feet, four faces, and four sets of baby teeth.

“Sarah, stand still, so I can get your molars,” Ruth says, trying to manipulate Sarah's green and white toothbrush into our little sister's mouth. I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub trying to wipe down Isaac's face and hands. Ruth is better at all of this than I was when I was her age. When I was thirteen and supposed to be helping at bedtime, my mom and Faith sometimes found me flipping through the encyclopedia or drawing pictures to go along with the stories I had written during school lessons. Faith would reprimand me and remind me I was supposed to be practicing to be a good helpmeet, and I'd guiltily shove my books and papers aside and start whatever task I was supposed to be doing. I'm grateful Ruth is so motivated to please others and to do what's right. I wouldn't have the heart to correct her if she misbehaved.

We lead the little ones downstairs to the family room where Dad is reading a devotional guide. He smiles as we walk in and find our places around the room for our nightly Bible study. Isaac snuggles into his place in our mother's lap. Not for long, I think to myself, picturing the new baby on its way.

“My children,” Dad begins, taking his well-worn Bible in his hands and flipping through the onionskin pages, “I was thinking of a verse from Proverbs tonight that I wanted to share with you.” His finger expertly traces the columns until he finds the verse he's looking for. “Here it is. Chapter 13, verse 20. ‘He that walketh with wise men shall be wise, but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.'”

All of us nod, and my father asks if we know what the words might mean.

“That if we allow ourselves to be caught up in a God-hating culture with those who don't follow Christ, we will make poor choices,” my older brother David answers immediately. “Choices that don't honor the Lord.”

My father offers us a brief smile. “Yes,” he says. “That doesn't mean that Father God doesn't want us to pray for those who are lost and who've strayed, but we must be careful not to be led from Christ. We must choose our company carefully.”

I know the reason he's chosen this verse. I'm only curious if he'll mention her name.

“Earlier today Paul and Faith brought up a former member of our church family who has moved back to town,” my father continues. “Lauren Sullivan. Some of you may be old enough to remember her.” Little Sarah is sitting in my lap, and I've buried my nose into her still damp, freshly shampooed hair. But when Dad mentions those of us who might remember Lauren, I glance at him. His steady gaze is on me. Maybe it's because I'm around the same age Lauren was when she left, but his eyes make me feel like he can somehow read my mind from earlier in the day, when I thought unkindly about Paul and didn't trust in God's future plan for me.

“It's important to remember that we must pray for Lauren and for all those who have discarded the path Christ has set for them, but we must also remember what Scripture tells us about walking with the wise. We must remember that we should avoid speaking with or interacting with those who have left the flock.”

“Amen,” Mom whispers, her eyes pressed shut.

“Amen,” we all echo.

Then the little ones form a line in front of Dad, and he stands up so he can lay his hands on them for a nightly blessing. His rough, callused palms are so large that one alone covers each small head.

“Lord, let salvation spring up within my children, that they may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory,” he murmurs over and over as each little one approaches.

The younger ones kiss Mom good night, and, even though it will be hours before we'll finish our chores and go to bed ourselves, Ruth and I stand for a blessing from Dad. He stops in front of each of us individually, so he can lay both his hands on us. My dad's hands are so heavy on my head that sometimes I imagine myself sinking under their weight, folding in on myself straight into the house's foundation.

“Submit yourselves therefore to God,” he says in his quiet, confident voice. “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

One night, after we had gone to bed in the room we shared with Sarah, Ruth whispered to me from her bed, asking why Dad always used the scarier verses with the two of us. The ones that mentioned hell and the devil.

“Because the devil is real,” I whispered back. “And it's Dad's job to make sure we stay vigilant against temptation.”

Tonight, after we read stories and tuck in little bodies and bring last minute glasses of water and kiss and kiss and kiss good night, I carefully shut my baby brothers' bedroom door behind me and step into the upstairs hallway, stretching my arms up over my head in an attempt to unwind. I want to curl up in bed with my favorite book,
A Wrinkle in Time,
but instead, I head downstairs to the family room, sit down at the desk in the corner, and start up our ancient computer. It whirs pitifully as it struggles to come to life, but eventually the log-in page pops up.

My dad is still sitting on one of our old, well-loved couches, reading his devotional. He glances toward me, watching as I carefully type in the log in and password everyone in the family shares. Once I'm logged in, his eyes go back to his book.

A few years ago, I talked my parents into buying a how-to book for online businesses at the resale shop, and with its help I built a website and an online billing and appointment system for the landscape and tree trimming business Dad runs with my older brothers. I even set up a way to keep track of the books online with some simple accounting software I downloaded for free. It's a sin to be prideful, but I can't help but feel proud of myself for figuring it all out on my own.

When I got the idea to do this, there was a lot of concern from my dad about whether or not this was appropriate or even safe. After all, God's plan for me is to be a wife and mother, not a businessperson, and the Internet is a dangerous place full of temptation—I only need to remember James Fulton's embarrassed face in front of the congregation to know as much. But after praying over it with Pastor Garrett, Dad decided to let me use the computer to work on the business as long as someone was always monitoring me. And anyway, I'm helping Dad, and I think that's practicing to be a good helpmeet.

My fingers have been clicking away for about twenty minutes when my father puts aside his devotional and gets up from the couch.

“Are you going to be much longer, Rachel?” he asks. We try not to do too much on the Sabbath besides church and family time, but if work has piled up, Dad allows me to spend a little time on the computer on Sunday evenings.

“Not much,” I say. I have a few more appointments to set and that's it.

“I'm going to bed then,” he says, walking over and patting me on the shoulder. “Don't stay up too late.”

“Yes, Dad, of course,” I answer.