Devoted (29 page)

Jezebel. Salome. Lot's wife. Eve.

“Faith's doing really well,” Ruth announces loudly, trying to change the topic. “Her morning sickness isn't as bad this time as it was with Caleb.”

“That's good,” I say. “I'm glad.” I don't care if I see Faith. Does this make me a bad person? I know Faith is my sister and I should care, but if I don't see her while I'm here, I won't mind. I don't know what to say to her. And she must think I'm nothing but doomed for hell now anyway. The sense of not needing to see her eats away at me a little, but I can't deny it's truth.

We finish supper, and I help Ruth clear. Dad takes Mom into their bedroom, and I hear my father's muffled voice behind the shut door. My older brothers move into the family room, and Ruth and I are alone for a moment, washing the supper dishes. I collect my words to try and find the right thing to say. But Ruth speaks first.

“Rachel,” she whispers, scrubbing at a dirty plate, not looking at me, “you only brought your purse. Please say you're not leaving again, Rachel. Please say you're going to stay.”

My heart crumples. “Oh, Ruth,” I say, “I've missed you so much. I want you to know how much I've missed you.”

She turns to me, her eyes full of tears. “Rachel, you said in that note you left that you would get in touch with me and you didn't.”

I put down my plate and take her into my arms for a hug, soapy hands and all. “Ruth,” I whisper into her ear, “I did try to write you a letter. Lots of them. But I wasn't sure how I could get them to you without Mom and Dad reading them first. Same with calling. I know you're never alone. I'm so sorry I broke my promise to you.”

Ruth pulls away suddenly and nods, wiping at a few tears with the back of her hand.

“I know,” she whispers, shaking her head. “It's nothing.”

“Ruth, it's not nothing,” I insist, but there isn't anything more I can say because my parents walk out of their room, and despite the fact that there are still dishes left to do, my father asks that we join him in the family room.

We go, and I take my usual seat on the couch. Back here in this room where Pastor Garrett and my parents told me I was no longer welcome, I can't help but feel that the walls are caving in on me. That my breath is harder to catch. My father walks over to me and presses his heavy, rough hands on my head and starts mumbling, whispering words of thanksgiving and requests for redemption. “Father God, let us pray for your servant, Rachel…” I want to squirm out from under him and race into the backyard to fill my lungs with fresh air. I want to pray to God the way I know works best for me—alone with my own thoughts. With my own steady breaths.

But Dad's words continue. “Father God, we bow on our knees before you, from whom every family in Heaven and on earth is named. Heavenly Father, we know you protect us from your enemies and we know you are our everlasting shield. Strengthen us, Father God, for the challenges of this day, and help us apply our hearts toward wisdom. In Jesus's name we pray.”

“Amen,” my family responds.

“Amen,” I say, not quite as loud.

My father sits back into his recliner. His large, calloused hands are wrapped around his Bible, his face still. I remember when I was a little girl, how much I loved evening time with Dad. It was the only time we ever really saw him, and his words were everything to us. When he prayed, I was sure he had a direct connection to God that was better than any other father's. I used to imagine some bolt of lightning coming down from Heaven, making him a strong and faithful servant of the Lord. He was my provider and my guardian. He was my whole world.

The last time he saw me, I was sobbing and running from his home. I wanted to blame Pastor Garrett, and I wanted to blame him.

But I know now that my father did set the rules as he believed they must be according to God's word. And when I left I was scared into leaving because I was afraid of those rules; the possibility of Journey of Faith was a fate that terrified me. Now I know I haven't just left because I was afraid. I've chosen—with my whole heart—not to follow the rules anymore.

That's why I'm not coming back. That's the truth of all of this.

“Rachel,” he begins, “your mother and I want to talk with you about what your being here means.”

My mother squeezes her hands together tightly. I know she won't speak during this entire conversation. She won't say one word.

“Rachel, why have you come here tonight?” he asks. Not accusatorily, not even angrily. Just directly.

For a moment I'm caught off guard. I expected a speech, more Scripture. I didn't expect the chance to speak first. But I look at my father, at my family, and I speak in a clear voice. A voice I've been given by God.

“Mom and Dad, everyone,” I begin, speaking the words I practiced over and over in the car on the way here, “I came here because I wanted to see you. I wanted to tell you, Mom and Dad, that I know you've always done what you believe to be right and guided by God. You raised me to be a follower of Christ, and I still believe I am one. A follower of Christ.”

Ruth looks at me when I say that. A quick glance, just barely. But I notice it. I glance back, but she hides her face behind Isaac, who's sitting in her lap.

“I believe that God has given me gifts, and I want to use them,” I continue. “I want to learn, and I want to go to school. I've been staying with Lauren Sullivan in town. I know you know that. But because I've turned eighteen, I'm legally allowed to enroll myself in school. I'll be starting next week.”

I hear a huff of disbelief from one of my older brothers, but my father's face is emotionless. As if he's expected as much from me and isn't surprised. “Rachel,” he answers, “this family has been built on Biblical principles. We tried to protect you from a God-hating culture, we tried to protect you from those who would turn you away from the Lord. This is not what God wants for your mission on this Earth.”

“Yes, Dad, but…” I begin, and I can hear my voice starting to waver, not quite so clear anymore. “I understand that, but I want to believe that I can still … I was thinking that maybe…” I look at Ruth again, but she is still looking away from me. I can't even see if she is crying.

“I want you to know that I still love God,” I try again. “And I still pray to Him, and I still have a relationship with Him…”

“God is not your buddy, Rachel,” my father interrupts. “He's not some pal you can be friends with on your terms. Your soul should proclaim the greatness of the Lord Jesus. Your spirit should rejoice in God as your savior, not your friend.” I finally hear an edge creep into his voice.

“Yes, Dad, I know that's what you believe,” I say. My heart is pounding and my face is hot. Tears are seconds away and my body is numb. “But are you saying that I can't … that I can't even visit?” My voice breaks as I manage the words.

“If this is how you've chosen to live your life, you cannot live here and you cannot visit,” he continues. “You can't be a halfway part of this family. Rachel, my daughter and child, I will keep praying that you will be led back to Christ. When you are ready to return home and live as the Lord God intended, you are welcome here. But not until then.”

At that my father stands up from his chair, turns around, and walks away from me, out to the backyard where he'll stay until I leave. I know he hopes this denial of affection will snap me into compliance. And I know that it's the only way he has left to tell me he loves me.

My older brothers get up and leave, too, and the twins follow, but Jeremiah looks over his shoulder once before he goes. Tears are running down my face now, but I give him a hopeful half smile. He only glances back, confused. Heartbroken. I want so much to make him understand, but I know he doesn't and he probably never will.

“Oh, Rachel,” my mother quietly manages from her chair on the other side of Dad's seat, her own tears rolling down her face. Sarah stands uncertainly by my mother before climbing into her lap.

“Mom, I just wish…” I say, barely able to get the words out through the tears that are flowing in earnest now. “I wish you could understand. I'm not a bad person, Mom. I'm not a bad person for wanting something else. I'm not.”

My mother squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head—she can't bear to listen to me.

“Rachel, you have to go now,” she says. “You have to leave.” She kisses Sarah on the head and puts her on the couch, then stands up and pulls me up from the chair into a tight embrace. “I'm praying for you, Rachel,” she whispers into my ear. “I'll never, ever stop praying for you to return to Christ. But Rachel, you have to go.”

Quick, like the strike of a match. That's how fast I'm cut out of my family.

I stand there, crying. Stunned.

When I told Lauren I wanted to come back to my family to say goodbye so I could move on, what I didn't want to tell her is that I thought my family was different from hers. My father had never beaten me or left marks on me. And that had to make my family different. That had to mean he would at least let me visit. He would at least give me that much.

But now I know that my family is not that different from Lauren's. Not in the ways that really matter.

And it breaks my heart so much.

My mother turns and heads toward the hallway and down to her bedroom. I hear her shut her door behind her.

Ruth is still holding Isaac who's tugging on her blouse—one of my old blouses that belonged to Faith before me. The pink fabric is soft and threadbare now after so many washings.

“Rachel go?” Isaac says. “Rachel go?”

“Yes, Rachel goes,” Ruth answers, sniffling and looking away.

“Ruth…” I start.

“No, Rachel, you heard them.” Her voice is deflated. Resigned.

“Ruth,” I plead.

“Rachel. You heard them.”

I nod and wipe at my running nose. I leave Ruth behind and turn and head toward the door—not taking in any of it. I want to miss this house, somehow, and all the knowledge I hold about it. But I won't miss this building. This space. I'll only miss that brief, precious time of childhood certainty. That sense of belonging to a family that seemed blessed beyond measure.

I walk, still sobbing, toward the car, and I'm about to get in when I hear Ruth's voice behind me.

“Rachel, wait. Wait!”

I turn and there she appears, alone, standing in front of me, her eyes red. Her face wet.

“Ruth!”

I grab her and hug her so hard. So hard so she knows I'll never ever let go of her in my heart.

“Rachel,” she says into my ear, sobbing. “I don't understand. I don't.”

“Ruth, I'm so sorry. I don't know how to make you understand. I don't think I can.”

Ruth lets go of me. Her body is shaking from crying. She keeps glancing back at the house. The risk she's taken by following me out here is enormous. I haven't been gone so long that I don't know that.

Finally, she's able to speak again. “Did you really try to write me letters?”

I nod, emphatic. “Yes, Ruth, I did. I really did. Lots of them.”

“What did they say?”

“I tried to tell you what was going on in my life,” I tell her, “but that doesn't matter now. If I could write you a letter right here, right now, I would tell you all the wonderful things about you. I would remind you of what a smart and caring and generous person you are. You're all of those things, Ruth. All of those things and more.”

I take her hands in mine, and we stand there by the car, surrounded by the thick August humidity and the rumblings of trucks off the nearby county road and the love that we have for each other.

“Rachel,” Ruth asks, tears sliding down her cheeks, “do you know what scares me the most?”

I shake my head.

“That I won't see you in Heaven one day.” Her voice cracks when she says it, and she starts crying harder.

“Ruth,” I say, squeezing her hands hard. “I promise you that I'll see you in Heaven.”

Ruth nods. “Okay,” she whispers, but I know she isn't sure.

“Look,” I say, letting go of her and managing to collect myself enough to find a pen and scrap of paper in my purse. I scribble down my phone number. “This is how you can get in touch with me, Ruth. Anytime. Day or night. Only I answer this number, okay? So you never have to be afraid to call me. Memorize it, okay?”

Ruth works the scrap of paper over in her hands and glances back at the house again. “I will,” she says. “But Rachel, I have to get back inside.”

“I know, Ruth, but Ruth,” I choke, barely able to speak, “Ruth, I love you.” I hug her again as hard as I can. “I love you so much. You have to promise me that you'll never forget that, no matter what you may hear about me. I love you, and I'll never stop loving you, Ruth.”

I feel her little head nodding against me. I think of all our late night snuggles. All our whispered conversations.

“I love you, too, Rachel,” Ruth says.

I don't know if I can drive with so many tears in my eyes. Wiping at my face, I get back into the car, start up the engine, and touch my hand to the car window in a final goodbye. Ruth raises hers in farewell.

And when I pull away, my little sister is still standing there, clutching my phone number, watching me until I disappear from sight.

I make it back to Lauren's apartment, and as soon as I pull in and park, I let myself collapse into tears, crying so hard I can barely breathe. After a few moments I hear a tap on the car window, and I look up and it's Lauren. I open the door.

“I saw you drive up,” she says. She reaches for me, takes my hand in hers, and leads me wordlessly back up the stairs into her apartment where we sit on the couch and I cry and I talk and she listens.

“I shouldn't have gone,” I tell her.