They set a family meeting for one o’clock and I don’t come down. So they come up.
“The best thing we can do right now is try to keep our normal routines,” Dad says.
Normal. The word, the concept, hovers in my brain like a piece of abstract art. Interesting. Captivating. Meaningful and meaningless all at once.
Routine. We have new routines now. A standing order for tissue boxes to be delivered weekly. One of us opens the freezer around dinnertime and decides which ambiguous foil package to stick in the oven. Mom cries in the bathroom every morning and every night. Dad plays Jenga with the stack of unacknowledged condolence cards on the kitchen counter. For the life of me, I don’t know why they aren’t balled up in bed 24-7 like I would be if I was in charge.
“I’m not too happy with God right now.” It takes all I have to speak the words aloud. “Can’t you just leave it alone?” Leave me alone?
“Church isn’t about happiness,” Mom says. A truth already written on my bones.
“In this family, we have certain beliefs,” Dad begins.
“Shut up,” I snap. It shocks them. “This family is different now. Everything is different now!”
A hot rage surges through me. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself. A month ago, I could go to church every goddamn week and put on a self-denying smile. I could even enjoy it. So why can’t I now? Maybe it is because of Sheila. Maybe this was the last straw, God!
Regardless, it’s much easier to stand firm when they think they know the reason. When they think they know why my heart is raging against this particular machine.
The silence stretches out for a time. Finally, Dad speaks. “If we can’t turn to God in this time of grief, where can we turn?”
“Nowhere, Dad.” I roll away, so I don’t have to see what my words do to his face. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”