ROSALIE
SUNDAY, JANUARY 7
From my spot behind the Info Desk, I can see the late afternoon sun swell into a fat golden orb, then begin its slow drift through the spindly January trees. We’re the ones in motion, but it doesn’t seem that way. I stare through the library window at the wind and sun and cars on the road and feel the world moving fast while I’m motionless, caught. Between my parents’ fear and my future. Between my future and Lily. Between church doctrine as familiar as the air I breathe and the truth buried deep in my heart. Between the past damage still coursing through my veins and the harm I’m inflicting, even now, a fracture to stave off a catastrophic break.
I answer questions, make recommendations, guide patrons toward the right aisles, and watch the clock tick toward four. It’s my usual weekend routine: library, church, library, homework. I love my job, but today by closing time, I’m itching to get outside, get on my bike, throw my body into motion. I’m so eager to go, go, go, I forget to check in with Dad before I start home.
I jam my feet down on the pedals, ride fast and hard for the first few minutes until my calves start to burn and the wind stings tears from my eyes. Then I slow down and take my time biking along the two-lane road, stretching the fifteen-minute ride into thirty. The small branch where I work is technically in Bracken Hollow, the next township over, but there’s not much to distinguish the rural communities surrounding Logansville. On my right, a barbed-wire fence keeps grazing cattle in and curious humans out. The air smells of manure mixed with a sharp winter tang. I try to relax into the motion of the bike, start planning out the English paper I have to write when I get home, but as I ride, my mind does what it likes to do when I’m alone: spiral. I picture Lily, her small face jumbled together with flashes of Carter and Pau and Carter again. The good feelings and the ugly feelings whirring and spinning inside me until they’re all the same messy fear.
When I get home, I lock my bike in the shed out back and let myself in through the mudroom. The car’s gone, which means Mom’s still at God’s Grace. She spends every Sunday afternoon volunteering, something she’d like me to do more of. Fortunately, my need for a job is paramount seeing as my parents can’t really give me an allowance. Working at the library pays for my phone, which is my lifeline since we don’t have internet or cable in the house, and everything else goes straight into the account I set up for college.
I kick off my shoes and hang my coat on the empty peg by the back door. Then, I head to the den to check in with Dad. He’s in his usual spot at the big table in the corner, camped out in front of two stacks of math papers. When he looks up from his grading, his face tells me I’ve screwed up big time. I glance at the clock, and it hits me all at once. Fifteen minutes later than I should be, and I forgot to call before I left.
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically before he can lay into me. I think about making up some excuse, but that would only make things worse.
“Where have you been?” His voice is clipped, edged with fear. That I’ve done something much worse than coming home late. That I’ve strayed.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Just biking home. I lost track of time.”
He stands up, and I take a step back.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Rosalie. There are rules in this house.”
“I know,” I mumble.
“Do you?” His voice pitches up.
I swallow. I don’t know what else to say. It was thoughtless to forget to call, even more so to dawdle on my way home. I did this to myself. “I’m really sorry,” I say again.
“Lily!” Dad calls, his body leaning in the direction of the stairs. She must be up playing in her room. I know what’s coming. He’s calling her down so we can pray together. About me.
In a minute, she appears in the doorway to the den, Lily-Barbie, her favorite and therefore eponymous knockoff, clutched in her fist.
“Come here.” Dad holds his hands out to both of us. We take them without question and kneel in a small circle on the den floor. Lily-Barbie drops to the carpet. Dad recites from heart: “Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, ‘Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders?’ ” It’s Matthew 15, from the New International Version, the preferred Bible of the FOC. I, too, know this verse by heart and join in, the words ticking like times tables off my tongue.
“Jesus replied, ‘And why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition? For God said, “Honor your father and mother” and “Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death. . . .” ’ ”
I close my eyes, and the coarse grain of the den carpet against my knees and the dry scratch of my father’s palm against mine take me back to another house, on the other side of the state, where my parents and I kneeled to pray for my soul almost nightly the year I turned thirteen.
My heart pounds furiously in my chest, a sharp staccato beat I can’t slow or steady. I clutch Mom’s hand to my left and Dad’s to my right. Lily, barely more than an infant, whimpers in her bassinet by the window. Together, we recite from Timothy 1, the verses that teach that homosexuality is immoral, a sin on par with those of killers and slave traders. I press each word through rattling lips, pretend I’m tattooing them to my skin. If the words become part of me, I’ll remember them. If the words become part of me, I can change.
Last week, I went to my parents because I was afraid. I wanted them to say Jesus would accept me anyway. I wanted them to say they’d love me unconditionally. I wanted it to be okay.
Dad’s face turned to stone. Mom asked me question after question. Had I kissed a girl? Was a specific girl leading me into sin? It’s not like that, not for me. It’s not one person; it’s a million feelings that add up to one thing I know for sure about myself. It’s the lilac shampoo smell that floats from Cat Heaton’s hair when she passes by the orchestra room every day before lunch. It’s the brush of Mila Astin’s knee against my knee in the girl’s locker room last Thursday, changing for field hockey practice. The way she doesn’t shave her legs, and the powder-fine hairs tickled my skin. It’s Emmy Rossum in Beautiful Creatures, the way her eyes glowed with a darkness and light that sent a shiver straight through me. The way I snuck back into the theater to see her a second time.
Dad says it’s not too late. Temptation itself is not a sin. If I can overcome these thoughts before they become sinful behaviors, I can still find salvation.
If not, Mom, Dad, and Lily will go to heaven, and I’ll burn in hell. Alone.
My heart is still pounding, rapid fire. My palms are slick, and I grab my parents’ hands tighter. I need them. I can’t go to hell.
Later, after dinner, I’m supposed to be doing my homework at the table in the den. My parents are in their bedroom with the door closed. I wriggle under the table and press my ear to the heating vent.
“I don’t know what I did wrong, Richard.” Mom’s voice is tinny, bounced against the vent’s metal edges. I squirm closer, press my ear hard against the slats.
“It was a mistake to let her join field hockey.” Dad’s voice is deeper, clearer. “You heard her; those locker rooms are the devil’s playground.”
Mom whimpers. “We didn’t know.” A pause, then: “I’m still waiting for Stan to approve my request to go part-time.” I draw in a deep breath. Part-time?
“He’ll approve it. It’ll work out.”
“You’re the teacher. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll help, you know I will. She’ll do math and earth science with me in the evenings.” A pause, then: “The sooner we get her out of that school, the better. It’s too dangerous for her to be around so many girls.” My mind whirs. No more school?
“Her sessions with Michael start on Wednesday, praise Jesus. Rosalie says she’s ready to work hard.”
I am. Next week, I’ll start meeting with a counselor at church. Michael. I’m to do everything he tells me. I’m to work harder than I’ve ever worked before. I’m ready. I’ll do anything to save myself.
Dad drops my hand. The room is thick with silence. My parents believe I have sought redemption for my “choice” to like girls through confession, repentance, and faith. They believe I’ve made another “choice”—to change. I look up at Dad, force myself to meet his eyes. When he speaks again, his words are soft, filled with love.
“We worry for you, Rosalie. We only want you to live according to His path.” He’s talking about today’s infractions, but really, he means so much more.
“I know.” I push myself up from the carpet, legs trembling. Lily scrambles up beside me. “I’ll do better. I promise.” I reach down and give Dad a hand up. When he’s standing again, he folds me into a huge hug.
“I love you,” he whispers in my ear.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, we’re silent. Lily fidgets beside me, doll back in her clutch, unsure if she’s been released to her room.
“I have that English paper due tomorrow.”
He nods and returns to his desk, his stacks of papers. I take Lily’s hand and start toward the stairs.
“Rosalie?” he calls after me. I freeze. “Your mom’s going to be home late tonight. They’re kicking off the Winter Campaign at God’s Grace. So it’s just the three of us for dinner.” That’s code for, Can you figure out dinner, Rosalie? Hopefully it also means he’ll let my transgression slide without alerting Mom.
“Of course,” I call. “I’m on it.”
Upstairs, Lily drags me into her room. We don’t talk about what happened downstairs. Prayer sessions like that—usually a Bible verse followed by specific prayers from Mom or Dad—are a regular occurrence. Usually when Lily or I have messed up. Usually me. I used to find comfort in family prayer. The verses were like a script: Do this, and you’ll be okay. You’ll be saved. Simple. Now, that comfort has been replaced by a cold dread that settles in my stomach and refuses to leave for hours after we pray.
Lily plops down on the little strip of floor next to her kid’s bed. She’s surrounded by every doll she owns. From where she’s sitting, you could easily touch the bed with one hand and the wall with the other, elbows bent, but Lily doesn’t seem to notice. At six, my sister slips with ease between the worlds of dolls and pop stars, Disney princesses and the Blessed Virgin. The world isn’t yet carved up for her, godly and secular, childhood and adulthood, fantasy and reality. Despite the rules that govern Lily’s life, anything still seems possible.
I’m caught between a rush of envy for her innocence, and pity—because anything isn’t possible. Not if Lily wants to keep her place in this family. And even then, eventually, she’ll have to choose: our parents, or me. God, or me.
I swallow, thinking about Miss Larkin, how she hasn’t seen her family in years. How their love for her has been replaced by fear at best, bitter contempt at worst. How someday, that could be me.
“What’s up with Lily-Barbie?” I ask, shoving the thoughts deep inside and crouching down to my sister’s level.
“She’s sad because Rachel-Barbie moved away. Lily-Barbie’s mom is getting her a dachshund puppy, but Lily-Barbie doesn’t know it yet.” She pronounces it dash-hound.
“Sounds like she’s going to love that surprise.”
“Yeah.” Lily picks up her dolls and begins playing like the earlier interruption never happened.
She was only three when we moved to Culver Ridge, but she still talks about Rachel, her best friend from our old town. Mom helped Lily send Rachel a few letters when we first moved, but now we only hear from Rachel’s family at Christmas. It’s hard to keep in touch when you’re a little kid. I feel a stab of guilt. If it wasn’t for me, we’d still live in our old town. Lily would probably be playing Barbies with Rachel right now.
“Mac and cheese for dinner.” I give Lily a kiss on the top of her head. “You’ll help me make a salad?”
“Now?” Lily asks, eyes wide.
“Later. I’ll come get you.”
For a minute, I stand frozen in the doorway, watching my sister play with her dolls. I want to watch her grow up. I want to know the person she’ll become. As badly as I want a life outside a faith that condemns me for being myself, I want a life with Lily in it. Inside my chest, my heart shudders and throbs.
I turn away, crossing the hall to my room, and close the door behind me. It’s after five and completely dark outside. Instead of switching on a light, I walk over to the window. The gray swell of a gibbous moon illuminates the sky. In the space of an hour, the world has transformed, light to dark, golden to gray. I grip the sill with my fingers and wonder how much longer I can hold on.