Devoted by Jennifer Mathieu Page B

read them confidently, her voice booming, almost like a little pastor.
    And this Lauren with the dyed hair and the strange tattoos seems different, even frightening, but isn’t the Lauren of my childhood still this Lauren? And isn’t this Lauren still someone we should love? Someone who should know we haven’t forgotten her?
    I want to tell her somehow. Tell her I think about her. I care about her.
    But if I get caught.
    I remember Dad’s warnings about mixing with those who’ve abandoned Christ.
    I remember my punishment for getting caught with A Wrinkle in Time . Copying Scripture.
    If I get caught doing this, the punishment will be so great, copying Scripture for bad behavior will seem like a laughable consequence. I picture James Fulton paraded in front of us after being sent away to Journey of Faith. I consider Lauren’s words about what happened to him and to everyone who is sent there. Brainwashed. I’m not one hundred percent sure what that means, but the word makes me shiver.
    And then I think about sitting at my parents’ dining room table in a few years, responsible for a baby in my belly and a baby in my arms.
    And I can’t breathe.
    I stare at my hands, like they belong to someone else. Someone I don’t know but who lately seems intent on making herself known to me, whether I like it or not. They move over the keyboard and open up the email program for my dad’s work—the only email any of us are allowed to use.
    FROM: Walker Family Landscape and Tree Trimming
    TO: [email protected]
    Lauren,
    You probably don’t remember me. But I remember you from Calvary Christian. I found your blog, and I want you to know that I’m really sorry about what your dad did to you. And you’re not dead to me. You never were.
    â€œHe healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.” Psalm 147:3
    Sincerely,
Rachel Walker
    I hit Send. I look up and out the family room windows and imagine the message traveling through the ether and across the night sky, slipping around the twinkling stars on its way to its destination. I picture it floating through darkness until it finds Lauren Sullivan, who opens it and reads what I’ve written.

 
    9
    The next morning when I head downstairs to start breakfast, I see my dad on the computer.
    Dad hardly ever gets on the computer. He doesn’t like it, and he only agreed to get one when it became clear that running a family business profitable enough to feed a family as big as ours depended on one.
    The sight of him hunching over, his beefy fingers gigantic against the keyboard, makes my body go cold. Even though I cleared the history and erased my sent message to Lauren, my dad could be checking the company email. He lets me do it most of the time, but he could be checking it. He could be.
    What have I done?
    â€œDad?”
    He turns to look at me, and I catch a glimpse of what’s on the screen.
    It’s his list of appointments for the week. Nothing else.
    â€œRachel, I’m looking for the address of that new client? The one over in Dove Lake? I’ve misplaced the printout of the schedule you gave me last night.”
    I dart over to the computer, anxious to take control of the keyboard. Still in the chair, my father slides to the side, and I tap away, searching for the information he needs. My heart is still racing, my cheeks still pink. Forcing myself to focus, I print out what my father needs and hand it to him.
    â€œGood morning.”
    I’m still so on edge I jump at the voice and turn to see my mother walking down the hallway from her bedroom. For the first time in almost a month she has her hair styled carefully and pulled up away from her face. Her skin is still pale, but there’s a slight spark in her eyes that’s been missing these past few weeks.
    â€œMom!” I manage. “You’re feeling better?”
    â€œA little, yes,” my mother answers,