WHEN I NEXT SAW Octavia, she said, ‘This good weather’s not going to last so we’re not going to spend such a fabulous day inside. Have you ever been to a zoo, Magdalene?’
I shook my head. ‘The only places we went were playgrounds and sometimes the beach.’
She rubbed her hands together. ‘Would those stuffy old men shake their fingers at you if they knew we were off to have fun at the zoo?’
‘They’d preach. They’d make us feel wicked and small.’
‘Well, sucks to them!’ she said. ‘Let’s you and me have the best day ever.’
She was so disrespectful — and life wasn’t about having fun. But I would have to obey her. Children had to obey adults. It was the Rule.
She gave me a hat. ‘You’ll need this. We can’t send you home with a burnt face.’ The hat was blue with a pink ribbon.
The zoo was close enough to walk to. I expected Octavia to talk and ask questions on the way, but she seemed content to be silent.
Once we entered the zoo, I forgot about questions, the Rule and the Elders. I wished Zillah was with me to see the wonder of bright birds, scuttling monkeys, giraffes, zebras, lions. Here in front of me were creatures I’d only ever read about in some of our more interesting lessons. Many of them I’d never even heard of. The meerkats made me laugh.
Octavia still didn’t ask questions. While I gazed at the creatures, she drew pictures of them in her sketchbook.
When we got back to her house for the afternoon, she showed me her sketches. I thought she’d been drawing the animals and birds, and she sort of had, but the focus of each picture was a person — sometimes a group of them. Laughing faces, awed children — excitement, happiness.
Then she turned to a section at the back of her book. ‘Look at these, my dear.’
She’d drawn me. In the first one I saw that my face was intent. I turned the page to see that there I was laughing. In the next one I looked happy.
My sister had drawn me when I was little, and for that she’d been expelled and declared dead to us.
Octavia’s hand gripped my shoulder. ‘Tell me what you see in these pictures.’ She turned back to the first one, slowly turning the pages to give me time to study each drawing.
I felt shaky — pulled between being almost five years old and believing I’d killed my sister, to being here in a world where Miriam was alive and glad she was worldly. ‘I remember,’ I said slowly, ‘when I hurt my hands, the doctor asked what was one thing I’d like to do that I couldn’t.’
She let silence drift between us for a moment, then asked, ‘What did you tell him?’
I scrunched my eyes up and rubbed them. I was here, not back in Wanganui and not in a doctor’s room in Nelson. I was here with Octavia, who didn’t think it was a sin to be happy. ‘I told him I’d like to worship the Lord with a joyful heart.’
Her face twisted. ‘Ouch. Do you see a girl with a joyful heart when you look at your pictures?’
‘Yes. But I can’t feel it now.’ I wanted to weep.
She pulled the pages out of the book. ‘Take these home with you. They’re to remind you that one day soon you’ll become that girl with the joyful heart.’
My family were delighted to see the drawings. ‘You look so happy,’ Nina said.
‘Can you go to the zoo every day?’ Zillah asked. ‘I like you to be happy, Magdalene.’
‘I like it too.’ I wished I could remember feeling happy.
After dinner, Zillah sat at the table doing the first homework she’d ever had. I didn’t want to spoil her joy with worry about me, so I joined her and worked on my scrapbook.
The doorbell rang. Nina glanced at the clock. ‘It’s late to be calling on people.’
Jim got up. ‘If it’s somebody else trying to sign us up to some deal, I swear I’ll kick them into next week.’
Zillah giggled.
We heard voices but couldn’t make out the words, then footsteps returning. Our uncle said, ‘Girls …’
We looked up. The scissors I was holding fell from my fingers. I heard Zillah’s pencil drop to the table. ‘Father?’
Our father came into the room. His face was marked with deep lines. He looked gaunt and grey and old. For a wild moment I feared he’d come to tell us he was dying — to tell us we’d killed him with our wickedness.
Jim looked at Nina. ‘My brother Caleb.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Please, sit down, Caleb.’
Father didn’t appear to hear her. He set his hat down on a chair but didn’t take his coat off.
I tried to breathe. ‘Have you come to take us home?’ I should want to go. It was wicked to feel sick at the thought of returning to my parents. My stomach hurt for the first time in days.
Beside me, Zillah’s breath was coming in short, sharp bursts.
Father drew his hand across his eyes. ‘My beloved daughters. My very dear daughters.’ It seemed to be all he could say.
Jim said, ‘Sit down, Caleb, before you fall down. I’ll make you a cuppa.’
Father lowered himself on to the chair, moving slowly as if everything pained him. I’d seen old men sit like that. ‘No refreshment, I thank you, Brother James. I wish to speak to my daughters alone, if you and your wife would kindly leave us.’
Zillah clutched my hand. My heart thumped in my throat.
Jim said, ‘No. Not happening.’ He perched himself on a high stool at the breakfast bar. Nina stayed where she was.
I breathed again. They would help us. We weren’t alone.
Father regarded our uncle for some moments. Jim eyed him right back.
‘So be it.’ Our father bowed his head. ‘You have earned the right. I thank you and your wife for the care of my children. All my children.’
All his children? Rage jerked me upright in my seat. ‘You knew Miriam was alive and well after she left? You knew it but you let me believe she was dead? You let me believe I’d killed my sister?’ I wanted him to admit it. I needed to hear him say it.
Zillah slid off her chair to lean against me, her arm threaded through mine.
Father rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. Then he lowered his hands and turned his gaze on me, and when he spoke his voice was full of pain. ‘I beg your forgiveness, my daughter.’
I stared at him, unable to utter a word.
His mouth twisted. ‘It grieves me to see you so shocked. I do not expect your forgiveness, Magdalene — or yours, Zillah.’
I felt a shudder run through my sister’s body as she pressed against me. I still couldn’t speak. There was too much to take in. Forgiveness. He wanted us to forgive him. I thought of Miriam, of her bitterness, and I knew she would never forgive him.
When we didn’t speak, he sighed, fixing his eyes on Zillah’s exercise book and my pile of magazines. ‘Already you are worldly children.’ He sounded sad, not angry. I wanted him to be angry. I wanted him to order us to fall on our knees while he prayed for us. I couldn’t stand the suspense — why had he come?
‘Father, do we have to go home?’
All the lines in his face tightened in pain. ‘I would like you to come home. You are deeply missed.’ He stopped, and Zillah’s body shivered against mine. ‘But recent events have forced me to understand you were right to fear Elder Stephen.’
It was Zillah who asked, ‘Father, tell us — what has happened?’
‘Nothing has actually occurred.’ He didn’t seem able to look at us as he spoke. ‘But our leader’s words have been intemperate. It is clear to me the Lord no longer speaks through Elder Stephen.’
We waited for more but he seemed to have reached the end of his strength. Could I forgive him? Miriam wouldn’t. I thought the others would. But I was Magdalene, I wasn’t Miriam or Daniel or Rebecca, and I didn’t know what I felt.
He began speaking again. ‘I came to apologise to you both. I came to tell you I no longer believe you are damned to eternal fire for leaving. I know my brother James and sister Nina are good people. I know you are safe in their care.’ His words were so quiet we had to strain to hear. It sounded like he’d learned them as if they were a punishment psalm. He didn’t seem to be aware of his tears.
Jim walked to him and gripped his shoulder.
I heard myself asking, ‘Do you want us to come home?’
‘No. Not yet. It would not be safe for you to do so. Perhaps you will be able to return one day. I hope so.’
Relief swept through me. I could stop feeling bad about leaving Mother in her hour of need.
He began speaking again. ‘There is discontent about the leadership. There could be change. I do not know.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I will leave you now. Goodbye, my daughters.’
I found I didn’t want to let him go like that — so broken, so despairing. ‘Father, please … will you give us your blessing?’
Zillah found her voice. ‘Please, Father. You were kind to us.’
He bent over as if she’d smote him on the heart, but after a second he straightened. ‘I am blessed indeed to hear you say so, Zillah. Magdalene, it means more to me than you can ever comprehend that you ask for my blessing.’ He came first to me, laying both hands on my head. ‘I give you my blessing, beloved child.’ Then it was Zillah’s turn.
We watched Jim lead our father out, his arm around his shoulders.
We hadn’t asked about Mother. We were both in tears when Jim came back.
Our aunt and uncle talked to us about the visit. We couldn’t stop crying. They didn’t get angry. Jim said his own heart was wrung to see his brother so broken. Zillah said, ‘Is it our fault, Jim? Would he be okay if we hadn’t run away?’
Jim shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. But, by the sound of it, I’d say you running away made old Elder Stephen lose his temper in public. I’m guessing he let loose a rant that wasn’t even a scrap godly. Showed his true colours at last. You speeded things up, that’s all. Good job too. That guy’s one mean crushing machine.’
Nina said, ‘Would you like to ring your sisters, and the boys too?’
We spoke to all of them.
Daniel said, ‘Poor Father. It’s going to be beyond painful for him.’
Miriam said, ‘Sorry, Pops. Too little, too late.’
Rebecca said, ‘I might be able to see Rachel again. One day, I might be able to see my sister.’
Abraham gave a whistle. ‘Go, Father! What’s the betting Luke’s forced him to face the truth? Hey, sisters — you okay?’
We would be, I hoped we would be. And it was good to be able to talk about it, to try to understand.