The Mothers(12)

We didn’t know then that the banged-up truck had knotted Nadia Turner’s future to our own, that we would watch her come and go over the years, each time tugging that knot a little tighter.

—

ON SUNDAY NIGHT, the Turners received a visitor.

Nadia had spent most of the weekend in bed, not because her stomach still hurt but because she had nowhere else to go. She wasn’t pregnant anymore but she had wrecked her father’s truck. What if it took weeks to fix? How would he stand it, no truck to turn to, no errands to run, only work and home? He loved one thing, her father, and she had ruined it. Worse, her father hadn’t even yelled at her. She wished he would rage when he was angry—it’d be easier that way, quicker—but instead, he coiled up tight inside himself, moving silently around her in the kitchen or avoiding her altogether. She felt herself disappearing into the silence until she heard two high-pitched notes stepping through the air, so light she thought she dreamed them. Then she heard three knocks and a brief stab ran through her. Luke. She jumped up, finger combing her hair into a ponytail, tucking her bra strap under her tank top, adjusting her shorts. She padded barefoot across the cold tile and opened the door.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

Pastor Sheppard smiled from the doorstep. She had never seen him look this casual before, not in his church robes or a three-piece suit but a polo shirt and jeans and black sneakers with special soles he wore, Luke said, because his knees were bad. She’d always imagined pastors as mousy old men in sweaters and glasses but Pastor Sheppard looked more like the bouncers she sweet-talked outside of clubs, tall and wide, his shiny mahogany head nearly touching the doorframe. He seemed even larger on Sunday mornings, stalking across the altar in his long black robe, his voice booming to the rafters. But in his polo shirt, standing on her front steps, he looked relaxed. Kind, even. He smiled at her and she saw Luke for a second, a fragment of him, like a vein of light through smashed glass.

“Hi honey,” the pastor said. “Is your dad around?”

“In the yard.”

She backed up, letting him inside. He filled the entrance, gazing around the living room, and she wondered what he made of her house. He probably visited so many homes, he could read them as soon as he stepped inside. Some houses filled with sickness, some with sin, others with sorrow. But hers? It probably just seemed empty. The silent, uncluttered rooms, the whole house open like a wound that would never scab over. She led the pastor to the backyard, where her father was bench-pressing on the concrete slab. He racked his weights with a loud clink.

“Pastor.” He wiped his face with his gray USMC T-shirt. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”

She slid the screen door shut and started back down the hallway. As she turned, she felt the pastor watching her and she wondered, for a second, if he knew. Maybe his calling had imbued him with divine knowledge and he could see it hanging off her shoulders, the heaviness of her secrets. Or even if he had no holy power, maybe he just sensed it. Maybe he could feel the once-connection between the two of them, and as soon as she’d turned, he’d reached up to touch its frayed edges.

She tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom and perched on the toilet lid, listening through the cracked window.

“I was in the area,” the pastor was saying. “Saw your truck earlier. Everything okay?”

“It’ll be fine,” her father said. “Just needs a little bodywork. Sorry about the picnic—I know I said I’d haul those chairs—”

“We’ll manage.” The pastor paused. “Folks are saying your girl crashed it.”

She gripped her knees tighter on the toilet lid.

“Were we that crazy when we were young?” her father said.

“Crazier, maybe. She okay?”

“She’s a smart girl,” her father said. “A lot smarter than me, that’s for sure. Going off to college soon. She should know better. That’s what worries me.”

“You know how these kids are—they just want to push the limits. Think they’re invincible.”

“She wasn’t like this before,” her father said. “Or maybe she was. Maybe I just didn’t know her before. Elise was always there to . . . they were so close, I couldn’t get between them and didn’t hardly want to. Mothers are selfish. You know she wouldn’t even let me hold Nadia at first? Not until the doctor made her rest. You can’t get between no mother and child. I don’t know, Pastor. I’m trying to raise her right. Maybe I just don’t know how.”

She eased back down the hallway. She didn’t want to hear more. She hated hearing her father blame himself for her mistakes, even though she knew she blamed him too. After all, she had been the one who held it together. She’d answered the door when the Mothers visited with food, while her father disappeared into the darkness of his bedroom. She had eaten the food the Mothers brought until she sickened of it, until she felt she could taste exactly who’d made what. Mother Hattie had brought the macaroni and cheese, so rich that butter pooled in the corner of the pan. Mother Agnes, rail thin, had made the apple pie, its lattices straight and ruler made. For weeks Nadia ate donated food, each bite soured by grief, until she grew tired of the old ladies, their kindly smiles masks for nosiness. So one day, she left their dishes on the front steps and ignored the doorbell. Then she drove her father’s truck to the grocery store and for dinner, she cooked meatloaf. It came out dry and brick-like, suspended in a pan of brown gel, but her father ate it anyway.