Clare and Dante
Clare opened the Bible, searching for something, some verse that would reassure her they had made the right choice back in New Jersey, the choice to continue rather than turn back. Though she enjoyed her life here, there were times she woke up in the night full of doubt. She had been happy with her old life. Her mom worked too hard, of course, and didn’t get to spend as much time with the kids as any of them wanted, but they loved each other and they had enough. Her friendship with Lily was strong, and she did well in school. She had recently begun thinking about going to college and about what she might want to do when she grew up. Her future had been a set track and that was reassuring … easy.
Now, in the quiet darkness that comes at 3 a.m. there was only uncertainty. In the finer moments, during the day, she envisioned the ideal future: going back home and being part of the Movement in order to regain what had been lost. Or even better, that the change back to real food would happen easily, without a revolution, without her help, and she could return to Mama and live a life like the one she had now.
The times of doubt, however, were cloaked in fear. Fear that a change would not come easily. Fear that a change might never come. Fear that maybe like Dante or some of the current Garden Guardians, she would decide not to go back—rarely seeing her mother, or Ana, or Lily, again. Clinging to the good life she experienced now rather than risking it to help others.
When her mind went in that direction she tried to catch it and talk back, often ending in prayer or searching her brain for fragments of verses she had learned. I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future … Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding … She called back the Bible stories featuring children—Samuel, David—looking for strength and inspiration. It was what had gotten her and Dante through the arduous journey here, and she relied on her faith to steady her in her doubt-filled moments.
In this respect, the Woods had been a disappointment. At the orientation, the children had filled out a host preference form and even though Clare had checked the box “Christian,” the Woods were pragmatists above all else. Meaning that most of the time they preferred to take it easy on Sundays rather than spend half of the day sitting in church. This, of course, did not bother Dante, being more philosopher than ardent churchgoer. But for Clare, a faithful weekly attender, it was a great letdown.
“Clare?”
A small voice startled her out of the midnight trance as she stared down at the Bible. For a second she thought it was God—like Elijah and the still small voice after the storm. Then, of course, she realized it was Dante.
“Whatcha doing up?” he asked. “What time is it?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she answered. “I was trying to hear from God.”
Silence. Then, “Did you hear anything?”
She smiled. “Nothing yet.”
“Oh … Clare?”
“Yeah?”
“Read me something.”
She flipped through the book, looking for signs of life—notes in the margins, underlining, or highlights. She stopped turning the pages. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid. The Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you.” Her voice was soft and comforting.
“That’s nice,” Dante said. “Clare?”
“Yeah?”
“I think about Mama at night when I can’t sleep.”
“Me, too.”
“I bet she really misses us.”
“That’s why you send her your drawings. And we pray for her every night.”
“Yeah. I didn’t mean it, Clare. That thing I said about not going back.”
“I know,” she said. “I know. Sleep tight, Dante.”