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At precisely 6:30 p.m. the Gallen family climbed out of the van yet again. The white church steeple stood out in stark contrast to the intense, pink sunset.
Arlana smoothed her hand over her hand-made cotton dress, whisking off any lingering bits of hay. No one needed to know of their Sunday romps to the country or of their fickle hearts. She had enveloped a silver thread shawl around her shoulders, the tassels grazing against her waist. A white lace doily in lieu of a hat completed her Sunday evening look.
Unfortunately, Arlana didn't notice the eye rolls - the sneers hidden behind manicured hands. Arlana looked more like a pioneer - a young woman stepping out of the pages of a history book than any of the fashionable women in the foyer. Her style was antiquated to be sure.
"Weenie," Jason hissed beside her ear before disappearing into the crowd.
Arlana flushed before locating a seat far away from her family. Everyone sat separately from their families, although no one ever told her why. They had always sat together as a family at their previous church. At their Baptist church in Westport, things had been different. Along with the cushioned seats had come detachment and the very real struggle to fit in.
"Does anyone have a favourite hymn?"
It was a Sunday evening tradition.
Mark cleared his throat much too loud before standing.
"Amazing Grace."
No sooner was the hymnal page number called out than Mark began to sing as off-key as a crow.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now I'm found
'Was blind, but now I see!
The song was his testimony. A hymn penned by John Newton so long ago summed up Mark's life story.
Arlana heard the choke of emotion in his voice but chose to focus again on how very loud and off-key the man was - he was just embarrassing.
****
WHISKING ASIDE THE cobwebs concealing long-forgotten memories, Arlana absently gnawed at the end of her pen, her thoughts wandering the pathways of the past. It seemed an eternity ago - another lifetime - and yet, only twenty years had elapsed. Twenty - a blink of an eye and it had vanished along with the great dramas and afflictions of those days, now but a distant memory.
Her son's shrieking as he raced his new Hot Wheels car was the only sound that interrupted the never-ending drone of the news channel in the background as Arlana stirred piping hot pasta.
Keiran, the nucleus of her world, was long forgotten, assigned to a minute niche of her memories. She hadn't darkened that church's doors in over twelve years. A few church members were on her Facebook friends' list - most had blocked her.
Arlana sighed, tucking a curl back into her scrunchie.
"Some things never improve."
Her father was no longer an embarrassing hillbilly. Arlana admitted that years changed a person, making one recognize what is genuinely valued. Once disregarded, Mark now held a place of honour in her heart.
Changes.
Perhaps it was the snowy hair that uncovered her eyes, a stark warning of the brevity of life. Arlana couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed or when it had happened, but changed, she most certainly had.
Arlana kept an eye on her son while working on a memoir. It was actually fiction with more truth than fantasy. Her temples pounded. Arlana was uncertain if it was an air pressure-induced headache, Aziel's incessant chatter, or most likely memories she greatly regretted. She had been such a bumbling, pious, pretentious fool desperate for affection, but living a lie.
Setting her pen down, Arlana rubbed her reddened eyes. It had been absurd to assume writing about her past would be faster than beginning a novel from scratch. There were so many things to atone for. Too many memories were better left alone in the dusty corridors of the past, long forgotten. The past couldn't be altered.
"Mom! Mom! Mummy! Mummy! I'm Hungry!" Aziel howled, drawing her sharply back to the present.
"Give it a minute," Arlana stood from her chair at the kitchen table, setting the paper and pen aside.
Arlana returned to the pasta dancing in the bubbling water before inspecting a spiral-shaped noodle. She'd caught it in the nick of time.
"There is nothing more disgusting than soggy pasta."
Leaving the notebook on the counter's edge, she joined her son at the table, concentrating once again on the present, although her heart ached. Travelling down memory lane was not pleasant. Hindsight is 20/20 and if Arlana had known then what she recognized now, she would never make the same choices.
They say, "Write what you know," and Arlana had plenty to go on as she had only skimmed the surface of her memories.
****
"MOMMY? CAN YOU PLEASE read me a Bible story?" Aziel curled up beside her under the blankets.
"Alright," Arlana agreed, sighing.
In the darkness, she told her son the story of a young boy named David who dared to fight a Philistine giant. An enemy of God and His people that even the Israelites dreaded. David, however, was very brave because he knew God would be with him and give him the strength to triumph.
Aziel counted along, "One, two, three, four, five...five smooth stones..."
"Slipping one into his slingshot, he ran to face Goliath."
"Who dares fight me?" Aziel snarled, imitating the voice of the feared giant.
Arlana couldn't help but smile in the darkness. For David, the story ended well and it gave her youngster renewed faith.
Moments later she stood. "Alright, that's it for tonight. Now let's get you into your own bed."
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
"What?"
"We have to pray, obviously."
Arlana was at a loss for words. She wouldn't risk sharing her doubts with her son, but if God truly cared, why hadn't He rescued them? Five years she had waited for a miracle. Five long-drawn years He had witnessed their wretchedness and done nothing. The heavens were locked up. Was there even a God?
Shaking her head in the darkness, Arlana was fearful of her own blasphemous thoughts. Even if there wasn't, she refused to take the risk. Arlana would do all she could to raise her son right.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she began. "Dear Heavenly Father, thank You for this day," Arlana prayed the same way she had since she was a child. "Thank you for all You are doing for us," but her mind balked at each word that spilled from her lips. "Help us to be good. Thank You for my son, Aziel. Bless him, I pray."
One thing had changed from her childhood prayers of long ago. Arlana glanced at her son beneath lowered lashes, his hands clasped in prayer in front of his earnest features. "Help us to have a good night's sleep...and please, help us to have our own place soon. Amen." Arlana nudged Aziel, "Your turn."
"I'm going to pray in my head," he whispered, Aziel's prayer a secret between him and God. "Amen," he ended a few minutes later.
"Alright. Off to bed."