The Names They Gave Us(5)
Without her, who would call me Bird because of the way I squawked as a baby? Who would listen to every detail of my dates with Lukas? Who would have movie nights in and girls’ nights out with me? Who would make faces at me from the choir loft when no one was looking?
Don’t cry?, I command as I peel the spandex off my body. Do not.
In the bathroom, I scrub the makeup from my face. I scrub until it hurts, until my skin is pink and clean. And when the warm water hits my hands, I think up at God: We had a deal. How could you?
How could you?
CHAPTER TWO
The morning after bad news is the cruelest of them all. In the first, still-sleepy moments, I think of prom and smile dreamily. My mind lingers on the memory of Lukas’s arm around me as we posed in the garden. As my mom beamed, teary-eyed.
And, like that, last night comes back over me like a collapsing roof—shards of slate and plaster dust crumbling down on my bed.
Taking a shower does nothing to wash the grime of dread away. As the water hits me, my brain starts reciting a gratitude prayer: Dear God, thank you for Mom and Dad, Lukas and Aunt Rachel, for—. It’s automatic, and I stop myself. No. Not today. It’s a childish and possibly blasphemous impulse, to give God the cold shoulder out of anger. But I’m just too mad—too betrayed—to pretend like nothing has changed between us.
I tense up, waiting for the lightning to hit me. There is nothing but the sound like falling rain.
Being a Christian kid and slightly neurotic besides, I used to worry I wasn’t praying enough. Somewhere around second grade, I decided I’d thank God every time I washed my hands—that would be my reminder, the cold water on my hands. Then I found myself praying at the drinking fountain. When I got into the bath. It became habit, this ritual: water touches my skin and I send up a prayer of gratitude. But not today. Not now.
My mom is in the kitchen, pushing a spatula across the griddle. She’s wrapped in her flannel robe, humming to herself. Could the doctors be wrong? It’s a dangerous thought, and I know better. She just looks so healthy.
“Scrambled eggs sound good?” she asks, even though she’s already piling them onto a plate for me.
“Perfect!” My enthusiasm is an overshot. I am an alien wearing Lucy skin, trying to mimic her usual behavior so her mom won’t worry.
Eggs are one of the few things she can make with reliable success—plus some chicken recipes and casseroles. For church events, she always volunteers to bring the beverages. Sometimes my dad cooks, or—if he’s at the church late—we order in, gleefully. If he’s not home, we eat on the couch in front of the TV. My dad always walks in and pretends to disapprove. Well, looky here, he says. The Takeout Twins ride again.
As I sit there stabbing at my eggs, I start to wonder: Did I actually wash my hair in the shower? Or did I stand under the water, staring into nothing?
I dry my hair on autopilot, vacant eyes staring back at me. My mind hasn’t done this—gone hypnotically empty—since my mom got sick. The first time, I mean. Since my mom got sick the first time. How long will it take me to internalize that it’s happening again?
“Hey, kiddo,” my dad says, ducking into my room as I finish my makeup. “I just got a call from Miss Rosa. She’s under the weather. Would you mind heading over early to play some prelude music?”
“Oh. Sure. I’ll head over there.” In light of my unconvincing portrayal of someone who is fine, I’m relieved for an excuse to leave the house. Besides, it’ll be nice to reconnect my hands to the piano. Until I was fourteen, I played competitively. Somewhere along the way, swimming nudged it out of place. But muscle memory is a funny thing, saving skills beneath your skin.
Alone in the church, I sit at the piano and press the keys gently, feeling out the resistance. Piano keys and pedals are like car brakes—they all do the same thing, but sometimes the necessary pressure differs from model to model. This piano is second nature to me. When my dad accepted the call to be White Hills United Methodist’s pastor, my mom was still working at the hospital. Some nights, if my dad had to work late, I’d hang out here with him and practice. That was before my mom got her job as a school nurse so she could have summers off with me.
By the time Mrs. Edelman—our congregation’s earliest early bird—is settled in her pew, I’ve decided on a lineup of hymns I know by heart: “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” “Abide with Me,” “How Firm a Foundation.” The first is my hope, the second my prayer, the last a personal failing.
Lukas waves at me from the third pew, where I normally sit with him. He’s early and by himself, which means he drove separately from his parents—probably in case I needed him. He’s always thinking of things like that, always making himself available.
“You okay???” he mouths.
I nod, a quick jerk of my chin telling the lie for me.
Playing the prelude, it turns out, is a godsend. Since I’m up here, people won’t approach me to say hi, so I don’t have to pretend to be okay. Lukas gamely chats with them in my stead, doing a convincing everything is great routine, as usual.
As I move through my selections, the words scroll in my mind. What the heck is a bulwark anyway? And I wonder if every pastor’s kid knows that Martin Luther himself wrote “A Mighty Fortress.” It’s something my dad likes to announce proudly, as if Martin Luther is his son instead of a forebear. The hymn always makes me think of Psalm 46: God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.