Afterward (32 page)

It's been three years since I started working on the computer for the family business, and Dad is often so tired he dozes off while he's sitting up with me. Sometimes he's so exhausted he allows me to work alone. Tonight, although he's sleepy, I can still feel his watchful eyes on the screen as he stands over me, as if he's debating whether he should leave me alone. I let my fingers hover over the keys as though they're itching to get back to work. Finally, he nods and leaves, flipping off the light in the hallway as he makes his way down to his bedroom.

It's so rare that I find myself alone in my house that for a second I just sit there, listening to the sound of my own breathing and the air conditioner cycling on. I'm sure it's wrong to feel this way, but this moment of solitude feels pleasant. Delicious, even. The light from the computer screen shines onto my fingers, making them look like skeleton hands tapping on the keyboard.

I finish up the work I need to do, and I open up a search engine. I've done this before when Ruth or my mom or dad can't be sitting next to me watching me work. I usually look up questions that come up during school lessons or when I'm reading our ancient encyclopedias. I confess there was a not-so-small part of me that was hoping my dad would go to bed early this evening, and I look at the blank search screen and run my tongue back and forth on the back of my teeth. My father's words from a few hours before have been playing over in my brain. “‘He that walketh with wise men shall be wise, but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.'”

James Fulton was a fool. That's why he had to go to Journey of Faith. Does that mean he's now wise? I know it didn't make him happy—at least he didn't seem happy this morning. But his happiness isn't the point. His submission to God is what's important. If you care about being happy, about pursuing pleasures of the flesh, maybe that makes you a fool. But I'm not looking for the same material James was caught looking at. I don't think I'm being a fool.

I stare at the long blank rectangle of the search engine and the blinking cursor sitting inside of it, winking at me. My heart outpaces the cursor three beats for every wink. I lean back and look over my shoulder and down the hall. No light shines out from under my parents' bedroom door. I peer up at the ceiling. No noises echo from the bedrooms upstairs.

With a touch so I light I'm surprised it works, I type four words.

 

Lauren Sullivan Clayton Texas

 

3

I'm not just rereading A Wrinkle in Time,
I realize, I'm breathing it. Breathing the familiar, comforting smell of the used paperback's yellowed pages, a scent more delicious than Ruth's from-scratch chocolate-chip cookies. I'm at one of my favorite parts, when Mrs. Whatsit announces that there is such a thing as a tesseract.

Ruth pokes at me with the eraser end of her pencil.

“I can't figure out this problem, Rachel,” she says. “Can you help me?”

I hide
A Wrinkle in Time
under my notebook and lean over Ruth's math workbook. She's struggling with some basic multiplication problems.

“This isn't too tricky,” I tell her, and I pick up her pencil and make a few marks. “See? Like this.”

Ruth purses her lips at me. “You make it look easy.”

“Rachel goes too fast,” announces Jeremiah. He and his twin, Gabriel, are working at the other end of the table, quizzing each other on their spelling list for the week. Sarah and Isaac are on the floor of the family room playing with the ancient set of Legos that's been in our family since my older brothers did their lessons in this very room.

“I don't mean to,” I answer. I hand the pencil back to Ruth. “I just do the problem how I do it.”

But I do go fast. Faster than anyone else in my family, anyway. Mom's been our teacher since we were tiny, but even though she took algebra and even chemistry as a teenager, she's forgotten most of it. She focuses on the basics with us during our daily lessons—the stuff we'll really need to run homes and be good witnesses for the Lord—and she stopped teaching me around Ruth's age when there wasn't anything academic left for her to explain that I didn't already know. When I've asked her about ordering more advanced workbooks or worried about whether Ruth struggles too much with figures, she likes to quote Proverbs in order to remind me that the knowledge of the Lord is the real beginning of wisdom. I try to remember that when I'm sucked into an interesting encyclopedia entry or a difficult math problem.

Of course, Mom's latest pregnancy has her so tired she's resting in bed this morning, leaving me to run the lessons. I'm tired, too, I realize, probably from staying up too late the night before. I glance shamefully at the computer in the corner and wonder if there's any way my dad will be able to tell I typed in Lauren Sullivan's name last night, even if I didn't hit Enter.

Stop being so paranoid,
I tell myself in a different, sterner voice. It was nothing. You just hit a bunch of letters on a keyboard. You aren't a sinner. You're a good girl.

I go back to
A Wrinkle in Time,
which I convinced my mom to buy me on a trip to the resale shop last year even though she wasn't sure it was appropriate. Meg Murry is my favorite character of all time, even more than Anne Shirley. But as I turn the pages, I worry if I shouldn't put it away. Even though it's school hours and I like to use the time to read novels or interesting topics in some of our textbooks, I'm almost eighteen now, and my focus really should be on the little ones and learning how to be a wife and mother, a helpmeet with a cheerful countenance. To try and remind myself of what's most important, I rub the bracelet I wear on my wrist as I read—the bracelet my dad gave me on my twelfth birthday that's inscribed with a verse from the book of Titus:
To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed.

It doesn't say anything about loving to read or being really fast at math.

What might my future husband think about the fact that I've read
A Wrinkle in Time
three times in the past few months and that I taught myself algebra? My future husband. I've been hearing about him since I was nine or ten, a shadowy figure God will deliver to me one day. He'll want a woman who submits to his authority. A woman who is confident that God is working through his decisions. I discover I'm holding my breath like I always do when I dwell on my future for too long. Right now, I'm just a year younger than Faith was when she got married. I rub my bracelet a little more and manage to pull myself away from the book. I need to help Ruth with her math lessons before starting lunch.

But just as I pick up the pencil, I hear my mother's voice coming from the back bedroom.

“Rachel, come quick, I need you!”

My mother never yells. In fact, no one in our family ever yells—it's not godly behavior. I jump up but the looks of confusion on the little ones' faces make me hesitate. Ruth doesn't stop. She starts for the bedroom and something about seeing her running shakes me awake, makes me run right after her.

My mother calls for me again, her voice shaking now, filled with fear. Ruth is bolting down the hallway with me close behind.

“I'm in here,” Mom shouts, and we head through our parents' bedroom to their attached bathroom. The door is half open, and when we look inside, we see our mother sitting on the toilet, doubled over. Her long brown hair hangs down all the way down to the white tiled floor. I can't see her face.

“Rachel,” she gasps, “I'm cramping and it hurts so much. Oh, Lord, Oh, God, I think I'm losing this baby. Lord Jesus, please be with my baby. Oh, Lord Jesus, save my baby.”

Ruth's dark blue eyes are wide open. She moves past me and kneels down by Mom's feet.

“Lord, Father God, we ask you to be with us right now, Father God,” she begins. I stand mute, trying to take in what's happening in front of me. A trail of bright red blood is snaking its way down my mother's inner thigh. The sight of it turns my stomach. I have to do something.

“You stay here with her, Ruth. I'm going to call Dad.”

*   *   *

The baby is dead. My little brother or sister is gone, and I never even got to know him. Or her.

I feared the baby was dead this morning, the second I stared at my mom bent over in the bathroom, blood pooling at her feet. I feared it was dead when I was calling my dad at his work site and begging him to hurry home. But I knew it was dead the moment my parents came back from the doctor, my mom's face buried deep inside my father's shoulder. Only the loss of her child could make my mother so despondent.

“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,” my father tells all of us as we stand in the kitchen, the little ones looking at our mom, their faces covered in confusion. Our mother's body shakes with soft sobs.

Now the sun is setting and I'm curled up on my parents' bed across from my mom, who's dressed in her white cotton nightgown with the tiny purple flowers all over it. I push her hair back as she stares out at nothing. My mom has such beautiful hair. There are tiny streaks of gray around the temples, but mostly it's still dark brown. Straight and thick like Faith's. She has fine, baby wrinkles around her big blue eyes, but even with those, a person would have to be blind not to realize my mother is beautiful.

“Rachel, I need your help.”

It's my sister Faith. She came over with Caleb as soon as I called her, right after our parents left for the doctor's office.

“Mom, are you okay to be alone?” I ask. I can tell she's been crying, but now her face is just empty, her eyes staring at something I can't see. But she nods slightly at my question, and I slip out into the kitchen.

Faith is making tuna salad sandwiches for supper and Ruth is setting the table. My older brothers aren't home yet. They're finishing up the job my dad had to leave when I called him this morning. My dad has gone to meet with our pastor so they can plan a memorial service for the baby. My parents will have to pick out a name, too.

I take my place next to Faith at the kitchen counter, just like I used to when she wasn't married yet and still lived at home. As I scoop some of the tuna salad onto white bread, Faith places her hand over mine, closes her eyes, and prays loudly, “Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made Heaven and earth. Father God, be with our mother right now in this time of loss. We know our little one is with you now, Lord, safe in your arms for all eternity. Help us in this time of overwhelming grief. Amen.”

I plop the tuna salad onto the bread. “Amen,” I whisper.

I smush the tuna salad down with a fork. I haven't prayed for my mother or my unborn little baby brother or sister all day long, and the realization fills me with guilt. I'd been too busy cleaning up the bathroom and trying to read up on why miscarriages happen—first in the encyclopedia and then on the computer. But it wasn't just busyness that kept me from praying. I hadn't even stopped to call out to God like Ruth did when Mom first yelled for us—I'd just stood there until I thought to phone Dad. I shake my head a little, frustrated with myself.

“Are you okay?” Faith asks.

“It's just so awful,” I say.

“This happened one time before,” Faith tells me. “When you were tiny. Before Ruth was born. That's why there's that big gap between the two of you.”

I put down my fork and look at Faith, my eyes wide. Four years is a pretty big gap between kids in my family, it's true. We believe that it's up to God to decide how large our family will be, and with babies coming every year or two, that space between Ruth and me stands out. But I thought that was just how God worked things out. I never knew about a miscarriage.

“She was further along that time,” Faith says, not looking at me as she continues to make supper, her movements quick and precise. “And she stayed in bed for almost a month after. All the women from church helped, but it was so bad Dad even had to call Aunt Marjorie to come help us out.”

I stare at Faith. “Aunt Marjorie? Dad's sister who lives in Dallas? I've never even met her.” Dad rarely communicates with his family because they aren't believers.

“Yes,” Faith answers. “She came down for a few days, but it was a disaster. She showed up and started insisting that Dad take Mom to a mental doctor or something. I don't remember all of it. I was really little at the time.”

“Why did she want Dad to take Mom to a…,” I search for the word, “psychiatrist?”

“Because Aunt Marjorie doesn't know the healing power of the Lord,” Faith responds, stacking the finished sandwiches on a plate and heading for the table. “She said Mom had depression.” Faith rolls her eyes just slightly. “Of course she was sad. Of course she was depressed. Her baby went to Heaven before she'd even had a chance to hold him. But he went to Heaven.” Faith pauses and looks at me before continuing. “And that's what helped Mom, eventually. I think that's what helped her get up out of bed. She realized by living her own life in a manner that glorifies God, she knew that one day she'd see her baby again. And then she had Ruth, and eventually she got pregnant with twins. I believe it was God's gift to her for enduring so much.”

Faith nods definitively and puts down the plate, then crosses the kitchen to peek out the window.

“Dad's late at Pastor Garrett's house,” she says. “I would stay, but I have to get home with Caleb before Paul makes it back. He's up in Huntsville with his father ministering to prisoners this afternoon.”

“I can handle things,” I say. But my stomach knots up at the idea of having to handle supper and bedtime with just Ruth helping me.

“Well, call me if you need me, all right?” Faith untucks the blue-and-white-checked dishtowel she's been using as an apron and folds it neatly into thirds before laying it on the kitchen counter. She gives it a quick double pat like she's reminding it to stay put.