Devoted (27 page)

What is it you plan to do, Rachel Walker, with this one life I've given you?

I take a breath and feel my rib cage expanding, my heart pulsing, each beat moving me forward through time.

I have this one life that's mine, stretching out before me like the smooth, dark water of the sea, and God is inviting me to hold my breath and slide through the waves, my arms outstretched, my feet kicking, my soul headed for points unknown.

Rachel
, he tells me,
dive in
.

 

21

I think I'm working
my way
out of a job. When I get to Diane's this morning, she tells me I've done so much in the past few weeks she only has a little filing for me to finish.

“Come September, you could still help me out once a week if you'd like,” she asks from the love seat where she sits examining her list of appointments for the day. “Until everything starts to fall apart again. Then you can come more often.”

“That sounds good,” I say, organizing the paper on the desk into small piles.

There's a pause, and I sense Diane's eyes on me. “You look so cute today,” she says.

I blush just a bit and touch the nape of my neck. “I put my hair up like you said.”

“Yes, you have your hair up, and I can see your lovely face,” Diane says, peering at me. “But there's something else.” She purses her lips, thinking. “Wait. I know. I see your shoulders.”

Diane's right. I'm wearing one of Lauren's sleeveless tops—a light blue color—along with a knee-length denim skirt. The fit of the top is fairly loose, the straps are wide, and the scoop neck cuts just under my collarbone—it's not exactly scandalous by Diane's standards. But it's like nothing I've ever worn before. When I walked up the steps to the Treatses' house, it felt like the sun was kissing my skin.

“I borrowed this top from Lauren,” I say.

“I like it,” Diane tells me. “It's very becoming.”

“Really?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

I grin so hard I'm afraid I look silly, and I refocus my gaze on the papers in front of me. Diane gathers her belongings and makes her way to the front door. Before she gets there, I stop her.

“Diane?”

“Yes, honey?”

I take a moment to collect the right words and put them in order.

“I just want to tell you that I really want to thank you,” I say. “For this job. For taking me to church. For everything.” I want to say more—I should say more. But if I do, I'm afraid I might lose the sureness in my voice.

I expect a rapid-fire response, a typical Diane pep talk. But she just nods and smiles at me. “You're going to be just fine,” she says, blinking twice, her voice barely audible.

And she slips out the front door.

I get to work on the filing, and after about an hour, the door opens again. For a moment I wonder why Diane is back early, but it's Mark, wearing dark blue, knee-length swim trunks and a gray T-shirt. His hair is still wet, he has a towel slung over his shoulder, and he smells of chlorine.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you?” I'm nervous. Not awful, I've-been-caught-on-the-computer nervous, but what-did-I-get-for-Christmas nervous. Fluttery nervous.

“Hey,” he says as kicks off his flip-flops and sits down on the love seat. “What's happening?”

“Just working,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. My bare shoulders.

“Dang, you've really made this place look better,” Mark says, surveying the room. “My mom was lucky to find you.”

“She might want me to come back in the fall,” I tell him. “Once a week, I think.”

“You mean when school starts?”

I nod. The word
school
makes me think about my birthday tomorrow and the number for the Clayton Independent School District's main office printed carefully on a piece of paper in my purse.

“So what's going to happen to you come fall?” Mark asks. He leans back on the love seat. He's unusually still. For Mark, anyway. “Are you thinking about school?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “I think so. But I'm going to wait until tomorrow to call about it because that's when I turn eighteen. I'll be a legal adult and allowed to enroll myself.”

“Hey,” Mark says, his face lighting up, “well, happy early birthday. I don't turn eighteen until October, so you'll have to give me the heads up on what to expect.”

“I promise to reveal all,” I say. “You have my word.”

“Excellent,” Mark replies. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

We sit in silence for a moment, and I expect Mark to get up and go upstairs, but he doesn't. Finally, he looks at me and asks, “If you go to school, your family won't be too happy about it, will they?”

I shake my head no. “It's so … I mean … you'd think I of all people would be good at coming up with words to describe my situation, but all I can come up with is
complicated
, and I'm so tired of using that word. But no. They won't be happy about it.”

“They still want you to go to that church camp?”

“I think so, but I haven't spoken to them since I left.”

“That still kind of, like, blows my mind that they want you to go there,” Mark says.

I offer a rueful smile. “The longer I'm here and not there, the more it amazes me, too, but I still miss them,” I say. “Especially my little sister Ruth. But at the same time, if I was with them, I couldn't be here. I couldn't be thinking about enrolling in classes and earning my own money and visiting a new church and all of these things that are pretty exciting for me, even if they make me nervous, you know? So I go back and forth. My whole life is this mix of … mournfulness and euphoria.” Wow. I think that's the most I've ever said to Mark in one sitting.

“Mournphia,” Mark says, nodding.

“Yes, mournphia. I'm in a constant state of mournphia.”

It's quiet again. Mark's dark eyes focus on me, his gaze is steady. My cheeks feel warm, but I don't want to look away. I don't want him to look away either.

“I meant to bring those Madeleine L'Engle books, but I can't stop rereading them,” I say, when the silence becomes too much. But Mark shakes his head.

“You keep them. Consider them a birthday gift.”

“Really?” I ask. My own copy of
A Wrinkle in Time
for all time.

“Really. I've got too much to read right now anyway.”

“Like what? SAT prep stuff?”

“God, no.” Mark shudders. “No, I'm reading these comics by this guy named Harvey Pekar and the third book in the
Game of Thrones
series and this other book called
Slaughterhouse-Five
.”

“Wait, but which one are you reading right now?” I ask, confused.

“Well,” Mark says, “I do this thing where I, like, read three or four books at once. Like switch on and off? My mom thinks it shows lack of focus. But I finish most of them.”

“Oh,” I say. “Wow.”

“You could do it, too,” he says. “You're smarter than me, and I can do it.”

“I need more books first,” I tell him, my heart picking up speed just a bit. “I've read almost every book Lauren owns, but she doesn't own that many.”

“You can borrow some of mine whenever,” he says, and finally he stands up and wiggles his back a bit, cracking his spine. Then he looks at me again.

“Don't take this the wrong way,” he say, frowning slightly, “but you look different or something. You look nice.” He groans, flustered. “Not that you didn't look nice before. Oh, hell, that sounded awful. Forget it, you must think I sound like a jerk.”

“I put my hair up,” I manage, despite the fact that my mouth suddenly seems to have gone dry. “And you don't sound like a jerk.”

“No, I kind of do,” he says, dragging a hand through his own hair so I can see all of his face. His forehead is lighter than the rest of him, evidence of his hours in the sun. His eyes seem darker than ever. More beautiful than ever, if you can call a boy's eyes beautiful.

“You really didn't sound like a jerk, I promise,” I insist.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “But just so we're clear and everything, you always looked nice, okay? Just today you look, like, extra nice. All right, I'm going to stop now.”

“Okay,” I say, failing to suppress a giggle.

“I'm glad my idiocy humors you,” he responds, one eyebrow jumping. “Listen, do you want something to eat?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That would be nice.”

“Cool,” he says, scooting off to the kitchen. A few moments later I hear his voice. “Hey, why don't you come in here and keep me company?” he offers. “I can continue to amuse you while I make nachos.”

I look at the work Diane has left me. I've managed to get most of it done. There wasn't that much to begin with today, anyway. And I'm sure I'll have a little more time before she gets back.

“I'll be right there!” I shout. And I get up and head for the kitchen.

*   *   *

I feel a gentle push on my shoulders.

“Wake up, legal adult.”

I struggle to open my eyes. Sometimes I think I'm still making up for the years of sleep deprivation back home. When I finally sit up, I find Lauren perching on the back of the couch holding a small package wrapped in yellow paper.

“Happy birthday!” she says, tossing me my present.

“You didn't have to get me anything, Lauren,” I say, surprised.

“Well, I did, so open it,” she says, jumping over the couch and sitting at my feet. She wiggles in excitement.

I unwrap the paper. Lauren's given me a small, black cell phone. Not one of those fancy ones with the touch screen like she has, but a phone just the same.

“It doesn't have the Internet or anything,” she says, “but you can call and text. I put you on my plan and we can share the bill.”

“Wow,” I say, turning it over in my hand. “I have my own number?”

“Yes!” she says. “It's all yours.”

I lean over and hug Lauren hard, and she kisses me on the top of my head.

“Thanks, Lauren,” I say. “This is so nice.”

“I was happy to do it,” she says, sliding over the back of the couch and heading for the door. “I'm going to work, so don't call Europe or anything. Domestic calls only.”

I roll my eyes at her and fall back onto the couch where I spend a good twenty minutes fiddling around with my present, trying to make sure I understand how it works.

Eventually, I shower and get dressed, stopping to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, checking for any sign I seem older. As a little girl, eighteen sounded hopelessly far away, as foreign as thirty or forty. Eighteen meant adult. When I was younger, I thought I might be married by now, or even pregnant.

On my birthdays back home, my mom would always make me silver dollar pancakes for breakfast, and Faith or Ruth would bake me a chocolate cake for after supper. There wasn't enough money for big gifts, but sometimes my mother would sew me a new blouse or my siblings would give me the gift of taking on my chores for a full week. There was only one birthday when I'd received a present of any financial importance.

I glance at the Titus 2 bracelet my father gave me the year I turned twelve.
To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed.
Those are the words inscribed on this piece of jewelry I've worn for so long. One evening not long after I arrived at Lauren's, I took it off and looked at my empty wrist, and it looked so thin and strange without it, I put the bracelet back on again.

I touch it gently now, sliding the cool metal around and around on my wrist. I let my thumb skate over the inscription on the inside.

No matter how much love may have been behind this bracelet, I know I can't wear it anymore.

I make my way to the dresser and open the drawer where I've been keeping my clothes. I slide off the bracelet and place it toward the back, tucking it under my nightgown. My eyes sting a bit, and I blink back some tears, but I don't cry.

And then, as quickly as I can, so I don't lose my nerve, I find my purse and fish out the number for the Clayton Independent School District, which is silly since I know the number by heart.

I take my new phone and sit down on the couch. But I'm too nervous to sit, so I stand. Finally, I walk outside to the top of the metal stairs leading into the apartment courtyard and shut the front door behind me.

I'll count to ten and then I'll call.

I take a breath.

One, two, three.

God, I know I can do this.

Four, five, six.

By seven I decide I'm ready. I dial the number and hold the phone up to my ear. I listen to the tinny ring, picturing some phone on some desk in some office, waiting for someone to pick it up. Finally, a woman's voice answers.

“Clayton Independent School District, may I help you?”

“Yes,” I answer. “I'm calling about enrolling in school.” I look out past the courtyard at the bright blue August sky. The morning sun is shining hard, so hard that as I keep talking, I have to shield my eyes from the brightness.

*   *   *

Clutching a bag of groceries and a very full purse, I barely make it to the front door of the apartment building without dropping everything. I've spent the better part of the morning at the school district's offices with two middle-aged women named Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Sweeney, sitting with them at their desks as I filled out countless forms and scheduled something called a placement test, so the high school would be able to put me in the right classes. When I parked Lauren's Honda at the two-story brick building next door to Clayton Primary School and gazed at the main doors, I heard my father's voice in my head for the first time in months, stern and clipped in its delivery.