Devoted (18 page)

I realize I'm so anxious I've misfiled the last few papers when Mark walks back in with two plates, each carrying a ham sandwich as big as my head, bordered by heaps of thin, golden potato chips. He puts my plate down on the desk and carefully balances his own on the couch.

“Drink?” he asks, pointing at me.

“Water's okay.”

“We have soda if you want it.”

“Oh,” I answer. Is it more polite to accept the offer? “Um, do you have Diet Coke?”

“Uh, I think my mom has some in the fridge in the garage. I can go look.”

“No, that's okay. Water is fine.”

“No, I'll go, no big deal,” he says, and then as he walks out he adds, “You ladies and your Diet Cokes.”

The ham sandwich is one of the best I've ever tasted. If I asked one of my older brothers or my father to make me a ham sandwich, they wouldn't even know where we keep the ham in the refrigerator.

We eat in silence, my growling stomach suddenly letting me know how hungry it's been since subsisting on Lauren's peanut butter and jelly and pasta and marinara sauce.

“So, how much work does my mother have you doing?” he asks in between chews. “Does it involve filing every piece of paper since the Egyptians invented paper?”

I look down at my sandwich. “I'm happy to help your mother,” I manage.

“It's nice that you are, otherwise I would be stuck helping her with this, and the less I'm around her the less she can tell me how much I'm always screwing everything up. And anyway, I would probably make matters worse, given my total and complete lack of organizational skills.” He says the word
skills
like it ends with a long string of
Z
s.

“Oh,” I say.

“I'm lifeguarding at the Clayton pool most afternoons,” he says, even though I didn't ask. “I'm probably gonna get skin cancer out there in this damn heat. I must have been nuts to take that job but the pickings are pretty slim around here. And, you know, it's basically essential to my mother that I not spend all summer farting around or developing a secret plan to overthrow the government or, like, playing video games every day. She schedules her life to the second, and she thinks everyone else should, too.” He takes an enormous gulp of water and wipes the bit that spills down his chin with the stretched-out neck of his T-shirt.

“Did you know,” I ask, “that the Egyptians didn't actually invent paper? It was the Chinese. During the Han Dynasty.” What on Earth am I saying? I must sound impossibly rude. And he probably doesn't even remember that he
mentioned
that the Egyptians invented paper. That was at least ten sentences back.

But Mark just furrows his brow and stares at me, like he's figuring out a math problem in his mind. “The Egyptians didn't invent paper? Are you sure? Huh.”

“Yes. I'm pretty sure it was the Chinese,” I say. “I can look it up on the computer. If you want.”

“Okay, yeah,” Mark says. “Yeah, now I'm curious. But wait, what did the Egyptians invent then? I thought they invented everything.”

“I know they invented embalming dead bodies,” I offer, wrinkling my nose at the thought before turning in my seat to type
where did paper come from?
into the search engine. The familiar act of finding something out on the computer puts me slightly more at ease.

“Embalming. Gross,” Mark says, standing up and wiping his hands on the back of his shorts. “Okay, what did you get?”

I pull up a Wikipedia article that explains how the Chinese invented paper. Mark comes over behind me, leans over my shoulder, and peers at the screen. The distance between us could only be measured in centimeters. I do a quick modesty check, peering down to make sure Mark can't be tempted by the cut of my loose-fitting, three-quarter-sleeved blouse. But Mark only seems interested in reading about nineteenth century advances in papermaking. He's not even looking at me.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Fact for the day learned. The Chinese invented paper. Way to go, China.” He stands up and stretches, his spine cracking with a couple of pops. “I'm going upstairs, but let me know if you need anything. Like, more incorrect facts about history or another incredible ham sandwich or whatever.”

It's impossible not to smile. “Okay,” I tell him. “I'll let you know.”

He heads up the stairs two at a time.

“Thank you for the sandwich!” I yell.

“Welcome!” he yells back, and soon I hear what sounds like a shower running.

I get back to work, listening carefully to the noises coming from the second floor. It sounds like Mark is talking to himself, but maybe he's just on the phone. He stomps around like a herd of wild animals. Later, I hear music, something definitely not classical, with strains of guitars and a chorus of voices yelling.

I worry I haven't finished enough. I haven't even started stuffing the flyers yet. I want Diane to be pleased with my work, but my mind keeps reminding me that there's a boy upstairs. A boy my age. And he could come back downstairs at any moment.

The thought makes my skin flush.

I squeeze my eyes shut, overwhelmed, and open them again. I set my mouth in a firm line and work as quickly as I can, careful not to make a mistake. Mark doesn't come back downstairs, and when Diane gets home, she sees I've stuffed at least fifty envelopes and made headway on uploading an entire stack of listings on to the computer.

“Sweetheart, you are a gift from God, I tell you what,” she says, sweeping in for another embrace. After hugging me, her cell phone rings and she fishes it out of her purse before scowling at it and tapping her finger.

“Yes? Yes, the house on Morningside. Yes, they're very motivated sellers.”

Diane is just like Mark. Neither one seems able to sit still.

By the time she gets off the phone she's found her wallet and she counts out forty dollars for me.

“Can you come back Thursday?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, slipping the bills into my pocket. I've never had so much money before that was all mine. Once, Aunt Marjorie sent me five dollars for Christmas, but Dad made me put it into the collection plate at church.

“Oh, your son came home,” I say as casually as I can as I walk toward the door. “He's upstairs.”

“Well, maybe he'll stay up there until he can learn to make his bed,” Diane says. I'm not sure how to respond, so I just nod and offer Diane a small wave before heading back to the car, where I start up the engine and head down the street. At the end of the block I take a peek at my reflection in the rearview mirror, trying to see if going to a job and talking to a strange boy has made me look any different. I don't think my appearance has changed, but my reflection stares back at me warily, as if to ask what comes next.

 

15

With the money Diane pays me,
I buy a few simple things at the grocery store on my way home. I scout each aisle before heading down with my cart, wondering if I'll run into someone from my family or from Calvary Christian, even though it's unlikely. Mom likes to do her grocery shopping early in the morning when the store isn't so crowded, and since we do most of our shopping at the discount warehouse, it would be odd to find them here on a Tuesday afternoon.

It's so weird to buy food for just two people. Everything I've picked up barely covers the bottom of the cart—and that includes the treats I buy for Mitzi and Frankie. But it feels good to hand the money over to the cashier. My money. The cashier is the same older woman who told me the song I was listening to was by the Beatles. The same day Pastor Garrett turned my life inside out by saying I had to go to Journey of Faith.

No, that's not right. Pastor Garrett told my parents I should go to Journey of Faith. But my parents agreed with him. And they set the consequences for me if I didn't go. They made me leave, not Pastor Garrett.

The truth makes me wince, but it's the truth as sure as anything.

I get home and put away the groceries, then put the eight dollars I have left in change on Lauren's bed. It doesn't feel like enough given everything she's shared with me, but at least it's a start. I wish Diane would have me back tomorrow. There was something enjoyable about figuring out how to make her business run smoothly, plus I want to prove to Lauren that I'm worth the trouble of keeping me here.

In an effort to show her as much, I do a load of laundry in the tiny room downstairs. It has two washers and two dryers that everyone in the complex is supposed to share, and I realize—not for the first time—how much easier laundry would be at home if we could afford two of each machine. How many hours did Ruth and I spend willing the machines to spin and dry faster so we could get another basket of clothes in before suppertime? But there's so little clothing between Lauren and me it only takes a short time to do one load. As I'm sorting the pieces, I pull out several black bras and underpants with a leopard print on them, and I stare at them for a full minute. I can't fathom that any woman would ever wear something so revealing, and then I try to fathom that I'm living with a woman who actually does. I stare at them, wondering where anyone would even buy such things in Clayton. Then again, Lauren probably bought them when she lived in the city. I wonder if the black-haired boy from the kissing picture ever got to see them. The thought makes my cheeks flush again, and a delicious shiver runs up my back.

For to be carnally minded is death, but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.

Quickly and with urgency, I shove Lauren's underwear into the laundry basket under some blouses.

It's not right to think of such things. I don't want to go to Journey of Faith, but I also don't think God would approve of me forgetting to guard my heart against lustful thoughts. That doesn't seem all right.

Suddenly, I'm filled with panic. Was I lusting after Mark this afternoon? Is that why I thought about him so much that it was hard to get work done? And is God angry with me for it?

I take the deepest breath I can and exhale.

“God,” I whisper, “guide me. Help me to honor you in my words and actions.” At home, the words didn't come to me so easily. Not like Ruth with her secret messages from God. But just now, here, in the middle of the laundry room, the words appeared to me. I didn't even think them, really. They were just there. I repeat the words over in my mind.
God, guide me. Help me to honor you in my words and actions.
I take one more deep breath for good measure. I feel better. Less anxious at least.

When Lauren gets home around six, she drops her purse on the floor and smiles at the pasta salad I've set out on the table for supper.

“Oh, Rachel, this is so nice, and I want to hear all about your first day at work, but I have to figure out an outfit for tonight because I have”—she pauses dramatically—“a hot date.” She leans back against the door and sighs.

A hot date. I think about the underwear and the kissing boy picture and am suddenly gripped with the fear that I've taken on too much by living with Lauren. She's been nothing but good to me, but what if she wants me to be as worldly as she is to stay here? What if I can't be? I don't know if I even want to be.

“Who are you going on a date with?” I ask, trying to manage conversation. I look at the dinner I've made. At least the salad will keep until tomorrow. At least I hope it will. It took a while to make, too.

“Don't be mad,” she says. “You don't have to eat alone. Just bring your plate into my room and I'll tell you all about it.”

I pick up my plate and join Lauren in her tiny bedroom. The only place to sit is her unmade bed, so I curl up in the corner and balance my pasta salad in my lap.

“How could you tell I was upset?” I ask. “About you not joining me for supper?”

Lauren opens her closet door—on it is a poster of a serious-looking woman with dark lipstick and blue eye shadow, and it says BLONDIE in black and white letters over her bright yellow hair. Her gaze is so intense it's like she's staring right into my brain and reading my thoughts.

“I could tell you were upset because you, like, did a little frowny face when I told you I couldn't eat,” Lauren answers from inside the closet as she throws pieces of clothing on the floor, searching for something to try on before taking a shower. “I know you're not used to, you know, sharing negative emotions.” She exits the closet and wags a finger at me, speaking in a singsong voice that reminds me of Faith's. “‘Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give, not grudgingly or of necessity, for God loveth a cheerful giver.'” Then she rolls her eyes—very
un
-Faith-like.

“That's 2 Corinthians,” I say.

“Trust me, I remember,” Lauren answers. “I'll probably never forget even though I try.”

“It's strange to hear you quote the Bible,” I say.

“Remember, Rachel, that I was also part of a repressive religious cult that hates women and thinking for yourself and gay people.” Lauren takes off her vet tech scrub top and slips on a tight black T-shirt before stepping back to examine herself in her full-length mirror.

I take a bite of pasta salad so I won't be able to agree or disagree. I'm not sure what to say.

“I mean, you were afraid to tell me how you
really
felt just a few seconds ago, right? Over something like supper?” She turns and stares at me, hands on hips. She looks at me as intently as the girl on the BLONDIE poster.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Yes.”

“But why? Because a bunch of men who chose to interpret the Bible in a super specific, super ridiculous way decide that to love God and Jesus you can never be sad or mad or angry? I mean, give me a fucking break. Human beings get sad. We get mad. We get angry! If God didn't want us to feel this way, why did he create these emotions in the first place?”