Family (8 page)

in our family, we are each of us special. unique. treasured.

but.

there is such a thing as being
more
treasured than the rest,

more wanted, for a time.

there is such a thing as being

chosen.

Henry’s orbit is vast.

there is
so much
Henry that He can handpick a handmaiden, can select one sister with whom to fuse from time to time.

one person to be the closest to Him of us all.

often, it is leila or shelly who are called to wrap themselves within Henry’s cocoon. they are the sisters who have been with Him the longest, who have proven themselves worthy of His trust and glory.

often, it is leila or shelly.

but tonight, i am called.

tonight,
i
am chosen.

special.

i
am Henry’s. i alone.

i am

loved.

i
am Henry’s tonight, alone. and so, tonight, my broken edges are oh-so-slightly sanded down.

tonight, i am Henry’s, and i am slightly more whole.

this is what it means to be

chosen.

He approaches me just after dinner.

i am rising to head toward the oversize basins and faucets housed in the barn—to rinse dishes, to render things clean once again—when Henry appears behind me.

though i cannot see Him from where He stands, His presence is immediately felt. something happens to the air, the atmosphere, when Henry approaches; all of the tiny cells and particles that bind together to create my being stand on point when He arrives. i shudder and contract, shiver as He lays a warm palm against the nape of my neck.

“will you come back with me tonight?”

i nod, weak. unable to form words.

of course.

of
course
i will go back with Henry to His private space, His sanctum. it is an honor, a gift, to be chosen.

tonight, for a time, i am

special.

unique.

almost whole.

i quickly finish rinsing my dinner plate and return it to its shelf with the rest of our family’s dishware. i rub my hands against the front of my drawstring skirt and head toward the entrance to the barn.

my body, my bones hum with anticipation, with fever.

i burn.

i am on my way to His room.

i have been chosen.

the other sisters know, can tell what it means when Henry appears from behind that way, a look of devout reverence etched across His features. like me, they quiver, despite being the ones who, for tonight, at least, have been overlooked. like me, they crackle with energy and fire.

we are a chain of paper dolls, after all, and all connected. we are conjoined, one unit, despite my being
chosen for
the night.

shelly grabs at me as i pass her by, pinches the soft flesh above my hip. i look back at her and she grins at me.

her expression shows no trace of jealousy or anger. no betrayal. my sister, my paper-doll partner, she
knows
as well as any of them, understands that Henry’s love is overflowing. that there is more than enough for each of us.

time enough for us all, each of us,

to be chosen.

Henry’s room is a hideaway.

it is a comforting cave, a nest.

His quarters are set apart from our own bunks, our rows of unrolled sleeping bags laid out; a chaotic quilt across the dusty floor of one of the outbuildings of the barn. Henry stays in the general store, up closer to the front entrance to the ranch, closer to where emmett lives.

closer to the boundary between our haven and the real world.

He is our window, after all.

Henry’s room is a sanctuary, a haven, but reveals no details about His before, His true core. being invited into His private spaces does not grant access to His innermost mind.

even here, nestled against Him, veiled by the fragile gauze of His lazily draped bedsheets, awash in the heady scent of Him—even here,
now
, He is a mystery.

“what do you think?” He asks.

i think: no man has ever asked for my opinion before. has ever cared. but then, Henry knows that. Henry
knows
. everything.

i smile slowly. take it all in: the splintering grooves that run deep into the wooden plank walls, the vibrant tapestries He’s hung. even something as ordinary as the worn rubber sole of His overturned sandal peeking out from underneath a corner of the bed frame, even that small detail seems holy in the
now
.

everything about Henry is holy. everything He touches.

and so.

i tilt, turn my body toward His, searching. i beg Him, with widened eyes, to put His hands on me. to touch
me.

to make
me

holy.

and whole.

Henry is our window, and our rudder. He is the one of us with access, with any window to the outside world.

but He shares. with us. He does.

and tonight, He shares with
me.

after we have fused, connected, healed each other—after He has put His hands on me and made me holy—He tells me stories. fanciful tales, legends

from a collective
before,

a moment when music was power.

i rest my head against His bare chest, tracing the grooves, the valleys and fault lines of His skin. take hold of the smoky wand of magic cloud that He extends between two graceful fingers. i inhale, adrift. searching for consciousness.

awaiting.

Henry’s stories, the tales He shares, are about bodies, mostly. bodies breaking apart and coming back together. bodies that connect and then shatter. gentle, fragmented bodies, ready for a message.
His
message.

and music. Henry’s favorite stories are about music, and the messages that it carries.

one day He—

we—

our
family—

will have a story of our own. to sing out.

to share.

His skin pressed against my own, Henry begins one of His most-loved tales, one He’s shared with me before, though never quite like this, never just the two of us. the story, though familiar, feels different with His heart pulsing against me. His body beats out its own metered rhythm, lulling me.

Henry tells me another truth about the power of music to

reach,

to preach

to envelop.

to entwine.

a story about

a message set to

spoil.

a story about

a message gone

sour.

“a concert,” He says, waving His free arm languidly.

“lots of performers.

it was supposed to be a celebration.

supposed to be about love and light.

but it went bad.

“that would never happen to us.

to our family.

“we’re gonna get our music out there,” He says.

“spread our message.

one day.

you’ll see.”

i believe it, of course.

of course, i believe it.

Henry’s word is gospel.

and my sisters and i,

His faithful choir.

i sidle closer still, until we are so tightly pressed together that we might be breathing from the same lungs. i gaze up at Henry with wide-eyed worship. tilt my body toward Him, rest a tentative hand on His knee.

i open my hollow spaces to Him. it may be that i am not His only grateful supplicant.

so
far.
infinity.
light-years away.

but. tonight,
i
am here, alone.
i
am chosen.

tonight, His stories are for

me.

Henry’s love is full to bursting. overflowing.

Henry’s love is torrents, tides. raging fevers of
always
.

He burns.

we
all
burn.

the whole world is

burning.

but tonight

my world

is

still.

i want to know.

burn to
know.

alone, with Henry, in His bed, i need to hear. to learn. from Henry.

about a time when a message went sour.

about a time when the love and light

transformed

into something filthy and fetid.

about a time

that turned.

that went

bad.

i ask, “what happened?”

Henry makes a deep, choked sound, something between a laugh and something else; a noise more full, more round, more

supple.

“people forget,” He says.

“people don’t want to think about stuff like that.”

He says:

“it was chaos. total chaos.”

His eyes glitter. His body shudders.

there is something about the word:
chaos.
something fierce.

chaos.

the word slithers, undulates, winds its way down Henry’s spine. i can see it growing, gathering speed, strength, silent power. i can see Henry straighten against the backboard of the bed.

i can see it burrow deep, lodge itself within His fault lines.

chaos
is a fierce thing.

Henry purses His lips. swallows forcefully. brushes a wild thatch of hair from His eyes.

“too many people, getting riled. and security got out of control.

the crew—

the men that were hired to keep the peace—

they got violent with the crowd.

lots of folks were injured. some died.”

some died.

a bitter taste builds up inside of me, rises to the back of my throat. i look down, away, reach for a glass of water.

i think:
violence
.

i think:
bodies
.

crushing, reaching, stretching bodies.

feverish, electric bodies, roiling and churning.

bodies pulled by an invisible undertow.

bodies rushing toward the
now
, toward the

half-life.

toward a collective, unknown,

afterlife.

bodies. so many bodies. too many.

torrents of skin and bone.

skin and bone, and blood.

Henry shakes His head, makes the guttural sound again. “that this would happen at a concert. a
concert.
don’t people know?

music is the message.

music is how we spread our word.

music is how we share our love.”

music.

Henry’s music will reach, expand, fill. it will creep toward all the bodies and seep into the empty places.

Henry’s music, His message—it is
always, now, forever.

it is
infinity.

and it will be heard.

“music and chaos are two separate things,” Henry continues, more to Himself than to me, now.

He repeats: “two separate things.” this is an important point. a point worth sharing.

this is a point that has
meaning.

He is right, of course. He
is
. right.

He is always right.

music
is love.

Henry
is love.

but
chaos?

chaos
is a fierce thing.

chaos
burrows deep.

life on the ranch is not very chaotic.

chaos is outside.

we are taught: there is no
i
, no
ego
, no
before.

we are taught: there is only the
now
.

but
in
the now: there are routines. there are rhythms. there is a steadiness to be found.

namely, there are chores.

every day of every week, chores. we divide the tasks amongst ourselves, the
family
.

some days i am sent, usually with shelly, to forage for food.

foraging can be okay because i like to ride in the pickup, like to feel the smooth, sturdy motion of rubber tires beneath me, to watch the horizon race along against my sight line,

just forever out of reach,

just forever limitless.

i like to soak, to simmer, in the air outside the ranch, which is somehow, sometimes, crisper, brighter, cleaner.

more.

even when we are knee-deep in day-old produce.

i like to be with my sister, shelly.

i like to provide for my

family.

still, the truth is:

shelly is a lot.

she is. a
lot
. to take.

and in the smooth, sturdy safe house of the pickup, there is only me to take her.

in those moments, we have no buffer between us, she and i.

how lucky it is, then, that we are sisters. that we are so close we are nearly one person, nearly fit neatly into one set of skin, our thoughts occurring almost in tandem.

shelly is my inside-out. my mirror-me. my shadowself. she wears her fault lines on the outside, trophies pinned to the heavy cloak of her self.

whereas everything, every last bit of me, all of my hollow places—they are wrapped up tightly and stuffed down inside.

shelly is the inner voice that i dare not allow to speak aloud. She is fire, shattered glass, and shards of ice. she is her own orbit, her own atmosphere. her own half-life.

shelly and mirror-mel

-me>—

they wear their scar tissue like bright, shiny ribbons. like prizes.

they embrace their fractures, swallow their chaos whole.

while i am merely

broken.

shelly has opinions about everything. but shelly’s
everything
is quite specific; usually her opinions, her points of reference—usually they snake their way back to Henry. always Henry.

and even though i
get it,
i really do

<—Henry is
always;
sometimes just the suggestion of Henry awake, alive in my mind fills me up so i think i could die for Him just from thinking about it—>

even though i
get it
, it is a lot.

today, now, in the cramped cab of the pickup, it is almost too much. the glaze that falls over her eyes and the rote movement of her lips, they unsettle me, make me think of painted dolls, of static.

of blankness.

it is… upsetting. shelly is my inside-out, my positive charge.

but today, shelly has hollow places.
so many
hollow places.

and today, she shows them to me.

today, her

fault lines

are beginning

to

crack.