16

There were plenty of things for which Charley was prepared. She was prepared for the day Micah first kissed a boy (or a girl), and for the day she’d start her period. She was prepared for the day Micah got her learner’s permit and accidentally drove through a neighbor’s yard because she mistook the gas pedal for the brake; and though she hoped it would never happen, she was prepared for the day Micah got caught shoplifting strawberry lip gloss from the five-and-dime, and, God forbid, for the day she got busted for smoking cigarettes behind the high school gym. Charley had steeled herself for conversations with Micah about sex, and considered the advice she’d offer about colleges and careers, love, marriage, and parenthood. But Charley was not prepared when, after a long day at the farm and a quick stop at the Piggly Wiggly, she pulled in front of Miss Honey’s and saw Micah standing in the yard, her Polaroid camera pointed at the sky.

“What are you doing?” Charley asked.

“I’m taking pictures of the gates of heaven,” Micah said.

“The what?”

“The gates of heaven,” Micah said. She pressed the button and the camera spat a dark square into her hand.

“May I see?” Micah handed her the square on which a fuzzy pronged circle of gold and white light appeared against a backdrop of sky the color of bleached driftwood, and Charley was flushed with a sinking sensation. “Exactly where did you get the idea you could take pictures of heaven?”

“Miss Honey,” Micah said. “She always talks about God, how he washes us clean. How he always answers our prayers. She says after we die, God is waiting for us at the gates.”

“I think that’s Peter at the gates,” Charley said, grimly. “Or Samson. One or the other.”

“It’s what she says.”

Charley looked into Micah’s face, which was so open, so hopeful and filled with innocence it was all she could do not to turn away. “Sweetheart,” Charley said in her most patient voice, “I know you’re curious about God, but those aren’t the gates of heaven.”

“They are.” Micah pressed her finger to the photo. “You aren’t looking at it right.”

“I’m looking,” Charley said. She studied the photograph closely, then handed it back, but when Micah aimed her camera at the sky again, something within Charley flared. “That’s enough.”

“Just a few more,” Micah said, twirling away. She snapped another picture, quickly, and another. And another.

Ten pictures lay spread across the top porch step before Micah put down the camera.

“And you can really see the gates of heaven in all of them?” Charley asked, seated now and not reaching for the camera any longer, because the last time she tried to grab something from Micah, she wound up on her hands and knees, crawling through a cane field. She wanted to make sure she understood exactly what Micah believed she saw so that when she spoke to Miss Honey, she could thank her for exposing Micah to God, and could suggest, as delicately as possible, that a little faith was fine, Lord knew she could use some herself, but that religion was like vitamin A: a little bit every day was good, but too much left you sweaty and unable to see straight.

“Yeah,” Micah said. “That’s what I showed you.” She knelt on the step a few inches from where Charley sat, but didn’t look at her as she gathered the pictures into a stack, carefully aligning the corners like a deck of cards.

“What are you going to do with them now?” Charley asked, remembering how, as a kid, she was never good at cards or any other game for that matter, not Monopoly or Sorry or even Clue. She did play the Game of Life once, though, at her friend Carolyn’s house. Carolyn Brewster, with hair the color of corn silk and eyes blue as a baby doll’s. They spread the board on the shag carpet in the living room, and she’d especially loved the tiny pink and blue “people” pegs tucked into the little plastic cars, how the twisting roads promised as much misfortune as triumph, how a spin of fate’s wheel could set your make-believe grown-up life in motion, like a ship launched from a dock.

Micah responded to Charley’s question with a half shrug, a gesture Charley found off-putting and slightly disrespectful, but she decided to ignore it. One day, months or even years from now, she’d find the pictures under the couch or scattered along the bottom of an old shoe box with other artifacts of Micah’s youth, and she’d look back on these moments and wonder why she wasted so much time and energy worrying.

And so Charley decided to take a different approach. “Well then, let’s get sno-cones,” she said, even though she had just bought two boxes of Moon Pies at the market, and saw what they put on sno-cones: not just the usual assortment of artificially flavored syrups, but condensed milk, of all things.

“Can we?” Micah asked, unable to mask her surprise. “Right now?”

“Why not?” Charley said. “Take these groceries inside. We’ll unpack them when we get back.” She handed Micah a grocery bag. “And put some shoes on,” she called, as Micah disappeared into the house.

While Charley waited for Micah to change, she poked around Micah’s garden, where the first sprigs of carrots with leaves like the lace on baby’s bonnets were just poking through the soil, and pea blossoms, fragile as tiny fairy hats unfurled against the fence. And walking up and down the rows now, Charley’s heart broke even as it leaped, because Micah had done all the work without her help. Soon enough, Charley thought, even the garden would be forgotten as Micah’s interest turned to boys and dating, and college after that. Up and out and on her own. Time moved too fast. Charley stared at the garden again. Time moved too fast and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

•   •   •

The late-afternoon sun lingered as though it were enjoying, far too much, shining its golden light over rooftops and warming the country roads to give way to evening, and Charley wandered about the garden, gathering up Micah’s tools and empty seed packets, recoiling the hose, until she heard the screen door slam and walked to the corner of the house, thinking she’d meet Micah on the walkway. Only it was Ralph Angel and not Micah who’d stepped out onto the porch in his T-shirt and sweats, his hand raised against the afternoon sunlight, looking like he’d just woken up from a nap.

“Hello, Ralph Angel.” Charley spoke politely but cautiously. She hadn’t been in the mood for too much conversation since he teased Hollywood for asking her out.

“Hey.” Ralph Angel yawned and stretched. “Micah said you were out here. But it’s what—five thirty? You don’t normally roll in here till after six.”

“We finished early for once,” Charley said. Privately, she was glad when Alison said the preschool called, one of his grandsons was sick, he needed to leave by three, and Denton had suggested they call it a day. The fields were looking good. The cane had grown another notch, which meant that it was almost as high as it needed to be for this time of year, and they’d nearly finished making minor repairs to the equipment they bought at the auction. But since Ralph Angel seemed to be in a good mood, she let her guard down. “I would have been home sooner, but LeBlanc’s light was on, so I picked up a loaf,” Charley said. “I bought some ginger cakes, too, if you want one. I told Micah to put them on the counter.”

“Good to know,” Ralph Angel said. He leaned against the porch rail and surveyed the garden. “’Da had a garden when I was coming up, but I always hated yard work. Too hard.”

“Hard work builds character,” Charley said, picking up a shovel Micah had left facedown in the grass.

“Maybe, but this here is plain old manual labor, which doesn’t build anything but an aching back. Thanks, but no thanks. That’s why I was an engineering major.”

“What kind of work do you do, exactly?”

Ralph Angel seemed to hesitate. “Actually, I’m out of work at the moment, but my last gig was for the Department of Water and Power.”

“Like designing power grids and reclamation facilities?” Charley asked, thinking maybe she’d underestimated him.

“Reading meters,” Ralph Angel said. “But it’s more technical than you think. Have to be extremely precise or customers complain.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Sort of hoping you’d made a decision about me working on the farm.”

But for the cereal bowls he often left in the sink or his sweat jacket she noticed slung across the back of a kitchen chair, Charley had almost forgotten Ralph Angel was around.

“Here’s the thing—” Charley began, but then, thankfully, the screen door slammed again and Micah, and then Blue, holding a small action figure, stood on the top step. Micah took the camera from around her neck and slipped it over Blue’s, helped him point it at the sky. He pressed the button and smiled as the camera churned a dark square into his hand.

“Now blow on it,” Micah said.

“Micah, we need to go,” Charley said.

“Those aren’t the gates of heaven,” Blue said, disappointment leaking into his tone. “That’s a tiger’s eye.” And just like that, he and Micah were bickering like they’d known each other all their lives.

“Hey, now. Cool it, you two.” Ralph Angel’s voice was like a firm hand on the napes of their necks. “Here, let me see that thing.” He studied the photo, asked Blue what he saw, and when Blue said he saw the tiger’s whole body now, Ralph Angel laughed, and Charley laughed too, because wasn’t it just like a kid to let his imagination run wild? “Now, show me those gates of heaven.” He held the picture while Micah explained.

Charley tucked her keys back in her pocket as she watched Ralph Angel with the children. She thought he looked like a regular father playing with his kids on a Saturday afternoon, was impressed when he managed, somehow, to convince them the Polaroid could be both things, and no one cried or pouted or ran into the house.

“Uncle Ralph Angel has memorized the whole Bible,” Micah said. She yanked his arm. “Say that thing about clean hands.”

“What’s this?” Charley said.

“Your daughter’s overstating things,” Ralph Angel said, looking sheepish. “The other day I told her I used to memorize Bible verses for Sunday school.”

“Whatever,” Micah said. “Just say it again, so Mom can hear.”

“Okay. But one time and that’s it.” Ralph Angel took a breath, closed his eyes. “‘Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation.’ Psalm twenty-four, verses three through five.”

Micah and Blue clapped, and Charley clapped too. “Impressive,” she said. “I didn’t make you out for the religious type.”

“Yeah, well. The Lord and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms, but some things are just hardwired, you know? ‘For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.’ Ephesians, chapter two, verse eight.”

“Nice,” Charley said, and meant it.

“Say another one,” Blue demanded.

“That’s enough.” Ralph Angel handed Micah the stack of Polaroids. “Your mother’s ready to go.”

Micah turned to Charley. “Can Blue come with us?”

Charley hesitated. She had talked to Ralph Angel more in the last ten minutes than she had in the last three weeks. She looked at him. “It’s fine with me.”

Ralph Angel reached for his wallet. “Uh—well, buddy, let’s see.”

Charley didn’t want Blue to see his father fumble with his flimsy billfold. She didn’t want Blue to see his father finger the two measly singles and grab for the smeared scraps of paper that fell into the grass, not that there was anything wrong with being broke, but she didn’t want Blue to understand that Ralph Angel was broke in a particular and humiliating kind of way.

“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s my treat.”

•   •   •

The John Deere 3510 sugarcane harvester was designed for comfort and convenience with its forward-tilting cab and pressurized ClimaTrak temperature control that provided a dust-free environment, its air suspension driver’s seat and optional DVD player with surround sound speakers. Lying on her bed that evening, Charley stared at the machine’s picture featured in a two-page catalog spread with the same rush of desire as a high school boy staring at his first Playboy centerfold. All those hoses, gears, and bright green paint, Charley thought. Who knew a piece of farm equipment could be that sexy? She was reviewing the safety features for the second time when Ralph Angel knocked on her open door.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said when she startled. “You busy?” He stood awkwardly, just over the threshold.

“Just reading.” Charley invited him in, aware that she was sitting on the bed that should have been his.

Ralph Angel stepped into the room. He looked around, brushed dust off the lampshade, and drummed his fingers on the headboard. Charley expected him to say something about the way she’d maintained the room, but he didn’t.

Instead, he laughed nervously. “Weird, you know. Never thought I’d be back here again.” He drifted over to the dresser, lifted Micah’s T-shirt off The Cane Cutter. “Something tells me you didn’t get this at Walmart.”

“It belonged to Dad.”

Ralph Angel nodded, and again, Charley waited for him to say something about her being spoiled. But he lifted the shirt higher and studied the piece more closely, ran his finger along the cane knife, traced the pant fold. He stared into the figure’s deeply carved eyes, then turned it around to examine the back, handling it with respect, even reverence.

“Micah said you talk to it.”

“Micah said that?” Charley wondered what other personal tics and idiosyncrasies, what small moments, forgotten or overlooked, Micah had innocently revealed.

Ralph Angel gently turned The Cane Cutter around. “Kids. Boy, I tell you, nothing gets past them.” He shook his head. “And, man, don’t promise you’re going to do something and then not do it. They never let you off the hook.”

Charley recalled the recent promises she’d made to Micah: that she’d have her own room in the house they’d own one day, where she’d be free to hang her favorite posters and paint the walls any color she chose, because it would be their house and not some rental; that she’d help Micah find kids to play with and her afternoons would be filled with endless games of Capture the Flag and Kick the Can, because everyone wanted to know a kid from California. Charley thought of those promises and all the others she’d made to lure Micah into coming, and felt sick at how few she’d delivered on.

“On our way down here,” Ralph Angel was saying, “I promised Blue I’d buy him a toy, some Power Ranger thing he saw at a rest stop. I thought he’d forget, but he must have asked me about that thing ten times. Probably stopped at twenty rest stops before I found it.”

Ralph Angel’s eyes met Charley’s and she smiled in agreement. “Kids.” An easy calm settled in the space between them.

“Kinda funny when you think about the two of us,” Ralph Angel said. “We got the same daddy. My wife dies, your husband dies, and here we are, come to roost in the same house. To say we spent so many years apart, we’re just alike.”

Charley gave Ralph Angel a smile, but she felt a chill ripple across her skin. “Funny,” she said, and thought he was almost right—almost but not quite. She wasn’t perfect, far from it, but she’d never taken money from her father and lied to him about it. She’d never used drugs or pushed an old woman down. Were they minor infractions? Perhaps. And she believed everyone deserved a second chance, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to her brother than he was letting her see.

Ralph Angel absentmindedly pulled the dresser’s top drawer open a fraction, then seemed to remember whose room it was now and closed it. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks again for taking Blue with you this afternoon. He’s still talking about it.”

“It was just a sno-cone,” Charley said.

“Not to him.”

Charley nodded, understanding all that Ralph Angel couldn’t bring himself to say. “My pleasure.”

Ralph Angel re-covered The Cane Cutter and slid it back into position. He glanced around the room as though he were seeing it for the last time. “Well, I ought to let you get back to your reading. I just wanted to say thanks.”

“No problem.”

Ralph Angel turned to leave, and was over the threshold, pulling the door behind him, when he paused. “There was one more thing I wanted to ask.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “You said you’d think about us partnering up on the farm.”

“Well, like I said, I already have a partner.” Two, Charley thought, and prayed Ralph Angel never found out about Alison.

“Yeah, you said that before.”

“And there’s not much—”

“To administer. You said that, too. But I’ve been thinking.” Ralph Angel stepped back into the room and straightened the lampshade. “You’ve got to need help with something. I could drive a tractor, run errands. It wouldn’t be permanent. Just till, you know, we figured out an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?”

“For cutting me in on the action.”

“What action?” Charley thought of the long hours she, Denton, and Alison spent in the fields, the black mold she scrubbed off the refrigerator shelves, the bird shit she chiseled off the shop windows. Tedious, boring work. And then there were the bills. Between the unpaid invoices and Denton’s ever-growing list of parts and supplies, they were barely scraping by. Denton and Alison had agreed to take smaller draws till the harvest, but Charley still had to pay them something. As for herself, she’d budgeted sixty dollars a week for gas and her share of Miss Honey’s food bill, but she still felt like they were eating more than their share. Charley looked at her brother in the glow of the bedside lamp and knew Ralph Angel was desperate; she could see it on his face. She knew that in her brother’s eyes, she was seated at a grand banquet and that all he was asking for, begging for, was a morsel off her plate. But she had nothing to offer. Nothing to spare.

“I can barely afford to buy gas,” Charley said. “If I can’t afford that, I can’t afford to pay you, and you can’t work for free. If I could hire you now with the promise of paying you after the harvest, I would, but I’m not sure there’ll be any profit. Hell, I’ll not sure there will be any cane to harvest.” Still, he was her brother—her disinherited brother. She reached for her purse and pulled her last twenty from her wallet. “It’s all I have. I’m sorry.” As she held out the money, Charley thought of the old black veteran who peddled newspapers outside her neighborhood market back in Los Angeles—not a fancy market, but still a decent one, with its crates of freshly picked produce, and bulk bins of grain, and cuts of meat laid between sheets of butcher paper. All day, every day, he stood there, politely, in his dirty veteran’s cap, with his pulpy, smudged newspapers in one hand and frayed American flag in the other. She always thanked him as she bought a paper, slipped him an extra dollar. And sometimes she didn’t buy a paper at all, just gave him the money. “It’s all I have,” she’d say.

Ralph Angel took the money. But rather than put it in his pocket, he let the bill hang limply between his fingers. “Twenty dollars,” he said. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“I’d give you more if I had it,” Charley said, and it was true. If Ernest had left her any unrestricted cash she’d have gladly shared it. For a moment, she thought about explaining the trust: that every expense had to be backed up with receipts; that if she made one false move she’d lose everything.

“Jesus, Charley. I thought we had an understanding.”

Charley blinked. “What are you talking about? What understanding?”

“I gave you that damn chemistry set.”

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. “But—” Charley counted back through the years. “That was ages ago. I was just a kid.”

“I’m your brother, Charley. Your big brother. Your only brother. We’re supposed to look out for each other.” Ralph Angel stepped deeper into the room and began to pace the floor in front of the dresser. Back and forth, back and forth, slowly, with his hands on his hips. “You know, I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to be nice about it, give you space. But I’m starting to think you’re giving me the runaround.”

“I told you. I can’t afford to take on more expenses.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ralph Angel said. “This is what I’m hearing.” He bunched the fingers on his left hand together, pressed them against his thumb, then opened and closed his hand, pantomiming a mouth talking. “Just talk. Talk, talk, talk.” He gripped the bedpost and leaned toward her. “You think it’s easy for me to sit around here sucking eggs while you waltz off to work every day?”

“It’s not the party you imagine, trust me.” Charley felt her heart drumming. Her legs felt shaky even though she was sitting on the bed.

“I hear you talking to Miss Honey. I know you just bought a shitload of equipment, and that Denton taught you how to drive a combine. You think I can’t do that stuff?”

“You don’t like manual labor. You said so yourself.”

“You think it’s been easy for me, all these years, hearing stories about how good you had it? ‘Charley got a new car for her birthday.’ ‘Charley’s going to a fancy East Coast school.’ ‘Charley went to Hawaii on her honeymoon.’ How do you think that made me feel, sis, knowing Dad loved you more?”

“How can you say that? That’s not true,” Charley said, but the truth was, even if he’d had a perfect childhood, whatever that meant, something told her he would always believe she’d had a better one, and she would never be able to convince him otherwise.

“Then how come he didn’t leave me part of the farm? Come on, sis. Don’t bullshit me.”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what I think? I think you had something to do with it. I think you told him to cut me out because you wanted it all for yourself.”

“That’s crazy.” Charley thought about her father’s final months: the hospital bed like a barge docked in the living room, the cocktail of medications that coated his teeth with plaque and made his breath smell like metal and rotting meat, the gurgling tubes that sucked green mucus from his lungs, bones so brittle they snapped like matchsticks. Even with hospice there, she’d barely had time for her own life, for Micah. Charley threw her legs over the side of the bed. “I didn’t know anything until he was gone and his lawyer told me.”

When Charley looked at Ralph Angel again, she saw that something had changed. The man who’d played with the kids was gone, replaced by the person who’d teased Hollywood.

“Yeah, right. I bet,” Ralph Angel said. “Just look at you, sitting there like Little Miss Perfect. Little Miss Rich Girl. And that daughter of yours, running her mouth all the time. She’s a goddamn little know-it-all. She’s going to grow up to be a spoiled brat, just like her mother. The two of you make me sick.”

Before he went back to Houston, Uncle Brother had warned her the house would be tight with Ralph Angel in it. Charley thought about how Violet had said, as she left the reunion, that things wouldn’t work out if Ralph Angel were allowed to stay. Now she understood.

“Maybe the reason Dad left you out of his will,” Charley said slowly, “had something to do with money you stole.”

Ralph Angel blinked. “He owed me that money.”

“For school. Which, by the way, I know you didn’t finish, so spare me all that talk about being an engineer.”

“I am an engineer. Just a few more credits and I could get my degree if I wanted.”

Charley knew she should stop, yet she couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to, because he’d insulted Micah, and it was as though he’d opened the latch on an enormous steel door where every hope and fear and worry and secret longing she’d ever felt about her child was piled up on the other side, and it all came tumbling out. It was not fair to go after Micah; that was crossing the line. “What did you spend the money on? Drugs? Did you smoke it up? Snort it? Did you drink it away? Because that’s what I heard.”

“Violet and Brother should mind their own business.”

“Were you on something when you pushed Miss Honey?” Charley said. “Or did you break her arm on purpose?”

“Shut up!” Ralph Angel said. “You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t have to be,” Charley said. “All I have to do is look at the way you treat Hollywood to know what you’re capable of. He’s supposed to be your friend, but you treat him like shit. But you can’t help yourself, can you? You hate the fact that he has a business and you don’t.”

“I said, shut the fuck up!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Ralph Angel lunged forward and grabbed Charley’s wrist.

Charley looked down at Ralph Angel’s hand. All the blood had drained from his fingertips, he was squeezing so hard, the skin under his nail beds had gone white. Charley’s hand was slowly going numb. She looked up into Ralph Angel’s face, expecting to see a monster, but to her surprise, she saw a man who was out of his mind with anger, yes, but also terribly, achingly, afraid.

“Pop?” a small voice said. “What game are you playing?”

Charley and Ralph Angel both looked and saw Blue standing in the doorway.

“Oh—hey, buddy.” Ralph Angel’s voice sounded strained and breathy. He let go of Charley’s wrist. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I woke up and couldn’t find you. I kept calling you.”

“Oh yeah? I guess I didn’t hear you. Where’s ’Da?”

“Watching TV with Micah,” Blue said. “I heard you say a bad word.”

“Yeah, well, uh—” Ralph Angel patted his pockets as though searching for his keys.

“He made a mistake.” Charley did not look at Ralph Angel as she said this. “But it’s okay now. Let him take you back to bed.”

“Yeah,” Ralph Angel said. “We’ll finish our story.”

When Ralph Angel was gone, Charley closed the door, and as soon as she did, a surge of adrenaline shot through her so that her whole body tingled and she had to lean her head against the door, close her eyes. Through the door, she could hear the faint sounds of the TV coming from the den, and behind her, through the open window as the warm air drifted in under the curtains, the sound of Miss Marti next door, dropping an empty bottle in her trash can and dragging it to the curb. Charley stood there until the anxious feeling passed, then she sat on the bed. She wasn’t afraid of Ralph Angel, but she could never trust him. He wasn’t the person she’d hoped he would be.

•   •   •

Charley woke in the night and saw that Micah was not on the air mattress. Nor was she in Miss Honey’s bed, or on the moonlit porch, or in the den watching TV, and it was only on her way back to her room that Charley saw a sliver of light under the bathroom door, heard Micah’s voice, and imagined who might be in there with her, doing God knew what, and she turned the knob, thinking the worst, ready to slay any monster, ready to kill her own brother if it came to that. And so it was with extravagant relief that she saw, immediately, that Micah was alone. Alone, but also naked, standing at the sink on a kitchen chair so she could see herself in the mirror. She had taped all of her gates of heaven Polaroids around the mirror’s edge, propped the lookalike Barbie doll—the bare-chested one with the nest of tangles and the crochet antebellum hoop skirt, the one Miss Honey gave her the day they arrived—on the counter beside a flickering candle, and—Oh my God, was that a Shirley Temple DVD cover on the floor?—so that now the bathroom looked like some kind of freaky voodoo shrine.

“Micah! What on earth—?”

“Mom!” Micah tried to cover herself. “Get out!”

“What are you doing?”

“I said get out! Please!”

Close the door, Charley’s mind said, as she stood there gazing into the dark bathroom, where the mirror reflected the candle’s golden glow and Micah tried to cover herself. Just close the door. You don’t want to know. But then her mind cleared and she realized there was no way she could abide Micah’s command.

Charley stepped into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” She spoke in a measured tone, like a tour guide, This way, please. Everyone follow me, even though inside, she was screaming.

And when Micah realized Charley was not leaving, when she saw that her mother had locked them both in, she jumped down from the chair and climbed into the far end of the bathtub. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, put her head down, and rocked slowly.

“Micah, please. What’s going on? What were you doing?” The bathroom smelled like cucumbers and melon from the candle Micah had lit.

Micah shook her head, no. She covered her ears.

“Please, talk to me.” Charley sat on the floor with her back against the tub and waited. She would wait as long as it took.

“I was praying,” Micah said at last. “I was asking God—I was asking God to fix my arm.”

The red flame had already spread up Micah’s shirt by the time Charley reached the kitchen and she smelled the burning flesh, saw how the top layer of Micah’s skin had already blistered, how under that top layer of Micah’s arm was the same wet pink as her tongue.

“I was asking Him to make me pretty.”

“Oh, babe—” Charley said. “But you are.”

“I’m not. Not with my arm.”

Charley climbed into the bathtub with an aching heart. “My sweet girl.” She pulled Micah into her lap and felt where Micah’s body was cold from leaning against the side of the tub. She wrapped her arms around her daughter. And that was all Micah needed. She burst into tears. She cried harder than Charley had ever heard her: anguished sobs with long breaths and choking in between, until she was spent and her body was hot and sweaty. And when she finally fell asleep, Charley covered her with a towel, then leaned back against the tub’s sloping back and prayed to be forgiven.