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Rachel
Rachel brought the photo album out into the sunlight and flipped it open. This felt both terrifying and liberating. The daylight was so bright. Nothing could hide in it. “Here I am at twenty-five.”
Zoe gasped.
Perfect. That’s exactly the reaction Rachel had hoped for: horror. The picture showed her in the factory, in her work boots, which made her two inches taller, and her dirty work clothes. Her hair was pulled back, making the miserable expression on her face even more pronounced. Her cheekbones looked like blades trying to cut through her skin.
“I was a looker, wasn’t I?”
Zoe looked at her wide-eyed.
This was wonderful. She smiled at Zoe, trying to convey everything she felt in her heart with that smile.
Zoe looked away, went back to her painting.
“The truth was, I was not a looker. I was an ugly duckling. And I was very hard on myself because of it. I was big and strong and ugly, and none of the boys wanted anything to do with me. Well, that’s not quite true. They were fine with being my buddy. But they certainly weren’t lining up to be my husband.” She couldn’t see Zoe’s face, yet she felt Zoe was listening closely. “And Zoe ...” She softened her voice. “I have lived the fullest, best life. I don’t have words to tell you how much joy and fun I’ve experienced.”
Zoe’s arm dropped to her side. She still didn’t look at her, but Rachel could hear tears in her voice. “But you did get married, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then things must have been different back then. Nowadays, guys see the movie stars and the models, and a girl like me doesn’t stand a chance.”
Rachel hadn’t anticipated this argument and took her time countering it. “Things have certainly changed. I don’t know much about your generation, I’ll admit. But let me tell you about mine. You’re right, there weren’t as many movie stars and models. But girls were skinny. And I wasn’t. I was thick like a beef stick.”
Zoe giggled.
“And girls were feminine. And I wasn’t. I’ve never had breasts big enough to notice, and my voice has always been as deep as a canyon.”
Zoe giggled again.
Rachel found this incredibly rewarding. This was working. This was actually working. God was so good. “And in a way, girls in my generation had it a bit harder even. Girls back then knew their way around a household. They could all sew, cook, and clean because their mothers had taught them to. I didn’t know how to do any of that.” She slowly returned to her chair. “My mother died when I was young. I was raised by my father. Wonderful man, but he didn’t know how to cook, and even if he had known how to boil an egg, I wouldn’t have cared to learn. I had no interest and no ability in any of that stuff. Zoe, do you know what home ec class is?”
Zoe scrunched up her face. “Like they used to teach you how to cook and stuff in school?”
“Right. Easiest class ever. And I failed it. The teacher hated me. I almost burned the school down.”
Zoe finally looked at her. “You seriously don’t know how to boil an egg?”
Rachel didn’t appreciate the patronizing expression on the kid’s face. Rachel highly doubted that Zoe knew how to boil an egg either and was tempted to quiz her on it, but she had bigger fish to fry. She forced a smile. “I do now—sort of. But I didn’t back then. My point is, I had nothing that men were looking for. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t good with kids. I was a disaster in the kitchen.”
Zoe looked skeptical.
“I was smart as a whip, I was great at fixing cars, and I could make the men laugh, but none of them wanted to take me out to the movies.”
Zoe nodded, but Rachel sensed she was tired of this conversation. Then Zoe surprised her with a question. “So how did you find your husband?”
Rachel smiled at the memory. “It was a tent revival. He was an usher. He showed me to my seat. I didn’t even notice him at first, but he kept smiling at me.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did he keep smiling at you?”
Rachel thought about it. “I don’t know. He saw something in me. By then, I was going on thirty, nearly an old maid. He was twenty-eight. And he was handsome as all get out. So don’t buy the lie that us plain Janes only get to marry ugly men.”
Zoe’s face fell.
“What?”
Zoe looked down.
“What is it? Do you not believe me?”
Zoe shook her head and then spoke almost too quietly to hear. “I think calling me a plain Jane is generous.”
Rachel leaned forward and lowered her voice as well, something that didn’t come easily to her. “Look at me.”
After a hesitation, Zoe did.
“You are your harshest critic. No one looks at you the way you look at yourself. You want to know what I see? I see a lively, strong young woman who no one wants to mess with. I see a tough, healthy woman with great hips. I see beauty, Zoe. No, you’re right. Not the conventional beauty that Hollywood tells you is in style right now, but a deeper, God-given beauty that is uniquely yours.” Rachel was impressed with herself. She wasn’t usually this articulate. God must be helping. “Zoe, you are beautiful. And you need to claim it, own it, walk in that beauty.”
Zoe studied the sign, her body as stiff as a board.
“I am confident that God has a husband in store for you, and if he doesn’t, then he’s got something even better. Zoe, God made you who you are. He has—”
Zoe’s head snapped in her direction. “If there’s a God, and that’s a big if, then he is a huge jerk for making me like this.” She dropped her brush into the can, and paint splashed onto the grass. “I’m going home.” She stooped, picked up her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and started to stomp away.
But then she stopped. Without turning back, she let the backpack slide off her shoulder and drop to the ground. Then she slowly turned. “I’m sorry.” Leaving the bag behind, she headed back toward the paint. She knelt beside the cans, gently removed the brush, and started to scrape all the excess paint off it. “I didn’t mean to be a ... you know. But can we please not talk about this anymore?”
Relieved she hadn’t left, Rachel sat back in her chair. “Sure. What do you want to talk about instead?”
“I don’t know. Let’s try and figure out who broke the window.”
