It’s not like Mom to want to go to the five-thirty service with us, but instead of pulling up to the yellow line on the curb, she drives the van around the oval and parks.
As she takes the keys from the ignition, I give her a look. “Um, Mom. You know Cory Vick’s band is doing music tonight, right?”
A ghost of her old smile appears as she straightens the collar on her sleeveless white blouse. Tugging to adjust the drape of her pale blue slacks, she says, “That boy’s drums don’t scare me, Ysabel.”
“O-kay.” I smirk, opening my door. “But don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. Poppy said last time he was deaf for a couple of hours after.”
“Your poppy is old,” my mother says loftily, and I have to laugh.
“I dare you to say that to his face.”
“No, thanks.” Mom’s expression is wry. She turns back to the car. “Come on, Justin.”
Justin sighs heavily and doesn’t move. He and my mother exchange a long, silent look, communicating any number of things, and then she slams the driver’s side door, walks to the front of the van, and waits.
There’s a click, then the passenger door on the far side rolls open. Long-armed, tall, and wiry, my brother, Justin, nonetheless gets out like he’s a hundred and thirty, then slams the sliding door hard enough to rock the whole van. I flinch, the sound startling new pain from the headache I already had, but Mom doesn’t move.
How long does it take someone to walk around a car? Impatiently, I shift forward, ready to walk into the church alone, but my mother reaches for my hand, and I wait, letting her hold me in place.
Finally Justin slouches toward us, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched and his face turned toward his battered deck shoes. Mom loops her arm in his, as if his sullen silence is an invitation, and together the three of us walk into the foyer.
It’s weird to be here. Lately if I show up to evening service at all, it’s by myself, since this isn’t Grandmama’s, Poppy’s, or Mom’s thing, and Justin hasn’t been to church now for … weeks. Since Dad’s been gone, Mom hasn’t made a big deal out of us going, but for whatever reason, today she just put her foot down. “It’s a family service,” she’d said, and dragged us all with her.
We know why, of course. It’s because we’re going to Dad’s house in Buchannan, and Mom’s wrapping us both in an extra layer of God.
Which we might not need—no offense to God—if she’d just let us stay home.
My mother is the one making us spend our spring break on the other end of the state, out of touch with our friends and out of reach of anything real. I could put in so many hours at The Crucible with a week free of school, but no, she’s on this thing where she keeps saying, “A daughter needs her father.” Um, hardly. What this daughter needs is her blowtorch, thank you. Disconnected from my routine, from the steadying chaos of The Crucible, I’ll be completely out of sync with myself. In the six months since Dad’s been gone and everything’s been so weird, routine is what I need. Without it, the world is too sharp-edged, and too right up in my face, and things comes rushing toward me.
It is all rushing toward me. We’re flying down to Dad’s tomorrow.
Mom tugs on my hand questioningly, and I realize I’ve almost stopped walking. I pull away and cross my arms, suddenly angry with her all over again.
I hate this. I want to put this off, put Dad off, and shove spring break onto a back burner. Instead, I’m hurtling a hundred miles an hour toward this blank space in my head, a place I’ve dreaded so much I can’t even imagine it. Dad’s house. Where he now lives a life I can’t even imagine.
“Well, hey, Nicholas family! Good to see you, Justin!” Maisie Tan, our youth pastor’s wife, beams at us at the door, where she’s standing and bouncing her baby. Justin just grunts and barely acknowledges her, which doesn’t dim her sunny smile. A moment later, he jumps and twists away from my mother, looking irritated. She must have poked him in the ribs. She has this thing about greeting people at church and is not above giving us little “reminders” when we forget.
To prevent a “reminder” of my own, I quickly wave at Maisie and enter the sanctuary while Mom slows to chat. I glance back and flinch from the compassion in Maisie’s face as she squeezes Mom’s hand and says something I don’t quite hear.
Ugh. I turn away, rubbing my arms to erase the goose bumps. “Maisie knows,” I mutter to Justin, feeling exposed and betrayed. “I guess Pastor Max told her. So much for confidentiality.”
My brother doesn’t look at me. “Mom told her.”
I look back and shoot my mother an angry look. “What?! Why?”
Justin, having used up his fund of words for the hour, ignores me. He moves into the back row and drops to the pew like his strings have been cut. I know Mom won’t let us sit back there, so I keep going, all the way up to the third row on the left, which is where we always sit.
We’ve attended Church of the Redeemer my whole life, so I know just about everyone, not that I feel like talking to anyone today. People wave and chatter around me, and I sit and hope for invisibility.
“Ysabel.” Sherilyn appears at the end of the pew. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
Crap. I look up and smile vaguely, hoping she doesn’t sit down. “Hey, Sherilyn.”
“So, how’s life?” She leans forward a bit, her expression friendly and concerned.
“Good, good. Everything’s great.” The lie spills from my mouth and falls flat.
For a moment, Sherilyn stands with her hands in her pockets, staring at me. My face burns, first with shame, then anger. Why can’t she just leave it alone? The awkward pause lengthens, then Sherilyn clears her throat. “Great. Glad everything’s okay. Guess I’d better find a seat. Good seeing you.”
“Yeah. See you.” I wrap my arms around my middle, hoping to squeeze away the sick emptiness that threatens to overwhelm me. At least Sherilyn doesn’t know, I comfort myself.
It’s bad enough having Pastor Max know about Dad, but I can’t believe Mom talked to Maisie, too. I thought I could be normal at church at least, and pretend like nothing had changed—everybody knows Dad travels a lot for his job, so people have gotten used to not seeing him much. Now I find myself wondering if I’ve been fooling myself. How long has Maisie known? Do both the pastors know? Do the elders? Does everyone?
Fortunately, the panicked circling of my thoughts is disrupted by Justin and Mom arriving to shove me further along the bench. As I scoot over, Cory’s sticks tap together, Karissa, Paul, and Brianna start playing their guitars, and the music kicks off.
The band is loud and fast and energetic, and I’m grateful for the distraction. It’s easier to be part of a force of voices, a wall of sound singing out with everyone else, than to deal with the spew in my brain. I do my best to just focus on the words of each song and sing. And when Cory starts off a pretty decent cover of Third Day’s “Sing a Song” and urges us to our feet, I’ve actually, for the moment, managed to set everything else aside. Even Justin’s tapping his fingers on the back of the pew in front of us.
Karissa and Brianna lean in and sing harmony, totally into the music and happy, and I’m glad for them. A lot of the older members of our congregation couldn’t deal with Cory wanting his band to play for regular services. For a while, there were a lot of church board meetings and drama, and people took sides. Dad was one of the people who really pushed for the five-thirty service to be less formal and basically younger. When the band plays, I always realize how much I miss him.
When Mom’s shoulder gently bumps mine as she turns to greet the people behind us, I don’t think anything of it, except to glance to my left to see if it’s anybody interesting.
When I see the familiar long-fingered hands on my mother’s shoulder, shock seems to suck all the air from the room, and a soundless explosion goes off in my brain.
Dad?
Jaw slack, I stare at him—and then all the blood in my body seems to drain down to my feet. Dizzy, I turn away, hot and cold and shaky.
Dad. Here.
I grip my brother’s arm and shake it. He gives me an irritated look, then looks again, his face worried as he studies mine. “What—”
“Dad,” I hiss, jerking my chin to indicate his position.
Justin’s eyes widen, and he begins to turn, then stops himself. He pulls away from my arm. “I’m out,” he mutters, and moves down the pew. I clutch his arm again and squeeze.
“No!” The music stops right then, so I only mouth the word “wait.” I pull my brother’s arm and make him sit, whispering, “Where can you go? If you leave, he’ll follow you. Or Mom will.”
Justin sucks in a shaky breath, and I see him stop himself from turning around again. He scrubs his hands over his face and sits forward, his elbows on his knees. “God,” he mutters, and I hope he’s praying. I know I am.
They did this on purpose. We haven’t seen Dad in three months and were expecting him to meet us tomorrow, at the airport, in a town where we don’t know anyone. Why is he here?
On the platform, the band is really getting into it, but all I can do is sit and wonder if people will look at my father and be able to tell. Is it obvious? If I look at him again, will I see that he’s … changed?
Suddenly the denim skirt and T-shirt I’m wearing seem too thin as shivers crawl over my skin. Has everything changed? Is he going to spend the week with us?
Where’s he going to sleep?
The music is quieting down to the hushed, reflective tones that mean it’s almost time for prayer, and for Pastor Max to give us one of his famous ten-minute sermons—which is another reason I normally like the five-thirty service. As Pastor Max heads for the pulpit, Maisie wheels the stroller filled with their sleeping son up the middle aisle and slides in at the end of our row. She smiles over at us, but I can only manage a grimace as my heart clutches in dread. Probably she sees herself as sitting with us for moral support. What I see is that our way out of here is now completely blocked. Mom on one side, stroller on the other, and Pastor Max just starting the last ten minutes of the service.
I have no idea what the sermon is about. All I know is when Cory taps his drumsticks together to count time for one last song, Justin abruptly lurches to his feet and heads for Maisie’s end of the pew. Maisie moves the stroller, and I make an abortive motion to rise, but feel my mother’s fingers clamp down on my wrist.
“Five more minutes,” she says in my ear. “You can wait that long.”
I slump back and sigh, wondering if I should just go, wondering if people are watching.
The last song. The benediction. As soon as the service is over, I’m up and moving toward the front of the church. I’m not normally a band groupie, but I’m going to be one tonight. I make small talk and stand in the loose crowd around Karissa, Cory, Paul, and Brianna, watching them pack up their gear. Cory’s girlfriend, Rachel, smiles over at me.
“Where’s Justin these days? Haven’t seen him in forever.”
“Um, he’s around,” I say, waving vaguely toward the back of the church.
“Ysabel. We’re going.” My father’s voice is right behind me, and I jerk at the sound. I’m not ready, but there’s no more time.
“Uh, bye.” I step back as Rachel waves.
My hands are shaking, and I hide them, crossing my arms. My father is standing a few feet from me, smiling slightly. I take in his appearance with a quick glance. He looks exactly the same as always, his height and build a bulked-up version of Justin’s gawky long arms and legs. His bronze-dark skin contrasts with the charcoal gray of his good suit, and his dark eyes are watching me steadily.
I glance down, a little smile coming before I can stop it. “Thanks.” It’s really too warm for calf-high combat boots, but I love them, especially the roses embroidered up the sides. I wear them every chance I get.
My father clears his throat. “It’s good to see you, Bel. I missed you.”
My eyes are suddenly burning. I want to throw myself in his arms and forget all this awkwardness. “Thanks,” I mumble again.
My father half turns to leave, then turns back toward me. “That a new necklace?”
I run my finger along the beads on my throat. “Yeah. It’s just clay.”
“It’s pretty, babe. You do good work.”
I fiddle with the small clay rounds and shrug. Dad’s always thought it’s great that I’m artistic, but he doesn’t normally stand around complimenting me. This is weird. I do good work? What does he want me to say?
“I know.”
My father’s laugh is loud, and draws the smiling attention of the people around us. “Well, all right, then. It’s good you know that. Let’s go.”
I follow him out of the church, catching up to him as we dodge through the crowd at the door. As we step outside, his hand brushes my shoulder, and he briefly squeezes before letting me go.
My throat aches, and I open my mouth to take in little sips of air as my nose clogs with tears. I don’t know what to do with these feelings. I have missed my dad so much. Every time he’s called, I haven’t been able to talk to him, and yet, I haven’t been able to leave the room. Mom puts him on speakerphone, and I stay, just to hear his voice. And now, he’s here. But, even though he’s here, he’s not … back, is he?
I can’t stand hoping.
Mom’s ahead of us, opening the door to the van. Breaking into a run, I cross the parking lot, needing a little distance. I hope Dad understands.
God, how do I do this? How do I love someone who isn’t who I thought he was?