The Names They Gave Us(7)

“Do you remember freshman year?” I prayed without ceasing; I fasted like Moses and David and Esther. No one had more faith—more belief—than me.

“Of course I do, Luce . . .”

“And I still don’t drink or smoke or skip class or even do anything sinful with you.” I’d blush if my face weren’t already enflamed. “I trusted that God would heal my mom, and He did. Except He didn’t.”

Before he can stick up for Our Heavenly Abandoner, I add, “My mom is the best person I know. Why her? It doesn’t make any sense. She lost her parents when she was five, and then wound up in foster care. Hasn’t she been through enough? Seriously.”

Lukas’s mouth twitches into a frown. “Well, sometimes God’s plan doesn’t make sense at the time it’s happening. If we knew everything, it wouldn’t be faith, right?”

Normally, I find Lukas so helpful. His calm insights—about everything from the excellent success rates of lumpectomies to the most relevant scriptures for serious illness—kept me sane freshman year. But this question clicks something in me, and my blood rises to a simmer.

It’s just so patronizing. Like he’s talking to a particularly stupid first grader, instead of his honor-roll, pastor’s daughter girlfriend. I know how faith is supposed to work.

“Well, Lukas, it’s easy to say that when nothing bad has ever happened to you.”

He recoils from me as if dodging a punch. “That’s not fair.”

It actually is. All four of his grandparents are alive, even. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Can’t do what, Luce?” He sounds pained, his empathy muscles stretching to reach me. But he can’t quite get there.

“Church, this conversation.” I laugh, gesturing widely at the world around us. “Anything.”

I slam the door behind me, and the brass knocker handle slaps against its base—a bonus slam.

It takes less than one minute for the mortification to set in. When I peer outside, Lukas is gone. I yelled. I said the F-word. But what can I do? Go back into the service? That will only draw more attention to my freak-out.

So I do the logical things: still in my church dress, I schedule a few videos for LucyEsMakeup, reorganize my entire vanity, and google “stage iii breast cancer.” Two out of the three are emotionally healthy choices.

By the time my parents get home, I’ve removed the last of my winter clothes from my closet and drawers. While I’m at it, I figure I might as well pull some items for donation. Around me, K100 the Path blares a song’s chorus: “He is more, He is more.” More than what? More than fear? More than doubt?

I’ve never asked these questions of the radio before. I’ve just sung along.

My dad pops his head in, and I brace for the lecture of a lifetime. Instead, he asks if I’m okay (yes) and if I’m hungry (no). But later, when I step out into the hallway on my way to reorganize the bathroom, I hear my parents conferring. Deciding my punishment, I assume. I can’t hear the words—just the low rumble of my dad’s voice and the calm, higher octave of my mom’s.

It’s not until I smell dinner—the savory scent of roast chicken, herbed and with rice—that my mom knocks on my door. “Hey, Bird.”

I glance up and then back to the lines I’m ironing into a pair of khakis. Another sensible choice—eliminating wrinkles from my closet can only improve things. “I’m really sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again, I promise. I just had the worst stomachache.”

Honestly, at this point, Saint Peter can just put that lie in my filing cabinet.

“Lukas said you were very upset.”

That Judas. An excuse slithers out of my grasp, like so much else. I press down hard on the thick chino, steam huffing out of the iron.

“Luce,” my mom says quietly. “Look at me. I know this is so hard.”

“You know, I’m really fine,” I lie. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Can you put down the iron and talk to me?”

“Okay,” I say, though my hands are twitchy—desperate to grasp on to something.

“Surgery tomorrow is going to be fine. We already got you excused from school, so you’ll be there for everything. And remember, I’ve had surgery before. I’m pretty tough.”

“Ha,” I say, because it’s an understatement. One of my clearest memories is the first time I saw her go into nurse mode in public. How instinctively she ran toward that hive-covered kid at Cracker Barrel. Toward his mom, who was too panicked to act. All at once, my mom’s calm voice, the EpiPen, the soothing words as she popped the needle into the little boy’s leg. Like it was an everyday thing. Because it is.

“Luce?” she says, nudging me back to her.

“Sorry. I’m really fine, Mom. It was just a lot to take in, finding out last night and processing. I didn’t want the whole congregation looking at me.”

“Believe it or not, I understand that very well.” Her voice is quiet, almost penitent, but she doesn’t apologize. “Well, dinner in ten.”

I want to follow her out of the room, to put my head on her lap as we watch TV, to sit at her feet while she does the dishes. I want proof of her in my sight at all times. But if I want to be treated like an adult in this family, I can’t act like a child.