sleeves of my T-shirt, trying to warm them as Grandpa climbed into the driver’s seat, the entire truck leaning to the left as he sat down. We drove in silence all the way to church, which turned out to be smaller than I thought it would be, but prettier than I thought it would be, too. I expected Grandpa to march us right up the aisle to the very front of the church, but he didn’t. Instead, he led us to the middle of the church and off to the right. I sat down on the hard wooden bench as he lowered the kneeler. I watched him carefully out of the corner of my eye. I expected him to be some kind of Holy Roller, but he wasn’t. He sang, though, clear and loud. He sounded even better than the choir director we had at my school in Revelation.
Mom never took me and P.J. to church in Revelation. I never asked, but always wondered why. P.J. asked, though, just a week before the fire. We were sitting at the little table in our breakfast nook, eating the chicken and rice that I made for supper that night.
“Why don’t we ever go to church?” he asked while he shoved an enormous piece of chicken into his mouth.
If you didn’t know our mom, you’d think that she was completely ignoring us. The way she took her time eating a slice of French bread, took a long drink of water, wiped her mouth with her napkin, stood and took her plate over to the sink. This was our mother’s way of carefully thinking through what she was going to say before answering us.
“My father made me go to church every Sunday for seventeen years, P.J., and it didn’t do me any good.” She dropped her silverware into the sink and turned back to face us. “I think a person doesn’t have to be in a church to feel close to God. The desert works just as well.” I sat at the table, silently saying, Shhh, don’t say things like that . Feeling guilty for her. “God doesn’t take attendance and even if a person goes to church every single day, that doesn’t make him some kind of saint.”
I watched her standing over the sink, scraping rice down the garbage disposal, the same sink she would stand over a week later, her burned skin sliding off her arms and swirling down the drain. Sometimes I wonder if the burn was a punishment for what she said, even though deep down I knew that didn’t make sense, that God couldn’t be so mean.
I look up at the clock on the wall; we’ve been sitting here for less than an hour, but it feels like forever. Mr. Ellery slides off his desk, reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, looks at it for a minute and then puts it back into his pocket.
“Why hasn’t anyone called?” Beth asks suddenly. “Why hasn’t anyone come for us?”
Mr. Ellery shakes his head. I’m wondering the same thing. I can’t believe we haven’t heard police sirens or heard a helicopter or something. Back in Arizona our school had lockdowns at least once every few months but nothing bad ever happened. It was always some incident somewhere in the neighborhood, no one ever came near the school. I’m also wondering about P.J. He’s such a weenie. He’s probably cowering underneath his desk right now.
When Mom got burned, instead of helping, P.J. ran into his room and hid underneath his blankets. Which I kind of understand. It was incredibly freaky seeing our kitchen curtains going up in flames and Mom ripping them down with her bare hands, the fire streaking up her arms until it looked like she was holding a ball of flames. It was bad enough trying to get Mom out of the house; I had to pull her away from the sink and push her through the front door as she cried, “P.J., P.J.!” But to get P.J. out was nearly impossible. He wouldn’t come out from beneath his covers and I finally had to grab the ends of the blanket and drag him like he was a sack of garbage. The smoke was thick and black; my lungs felt squeezed and every breath I took felt like I was swallowing crushed chalk. My arms ached from lugging P.J. through the
Mom never took me and P.J. to church in Revelation. I never asked, but always wondered why. P.J. asked, though, just a week before the fire. We were sitting at the little table in our breakfast nook, eating the chicken and rice that I made for supper that night.
“Why don’t we ever go to church?” he asked while he shoved an enormous piece of chicken into his mouth.
If you didn’t know our mom, you’d think that she was completely ignoring us. The way she took her time eating a slice of French bread, took a long drink of water, wiped her mouth with her napkin, stood and took her plate over to the sink. This was our mother’s way of carefully thinking through what she was going to say before answering us.
“My father made me go to church every Sunday for seventeen years, P.J., and it didn’t do me any good.” She dropped her silverware into the sink and turned back to face us. “I think a person doesn’t have to be in a church to feel close to God. The desert works just as well.” I sat at the table, silently saying, Shhh, don’t say things like that . Feeling guilty for her. “God doesn’t take attendance and even if a person goes to church every single day, that doesn’t make him some kind of saint.”
I watched her standing over the sink, scraping rice down the garbage disposal, the same sink she would stand over a week later, her burned skin sliding off her arms and swirling down the drain. Sometimes I wonder if the burn was a punishment for what she said, even though deep down I knew that didn’t make sense, that God couldn’t be so mean.
I look up at the clock on the wall; we’ve been sitting here for less than an hour, but it feels like forever. Mr. Ellery slides off his desk, reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, looks at it for a minute and then puts it back into his pocket.
“Why hasn’t anyone called?” Beth asks suddenly. “Why hasn’t anyone come for us?”
Mr. Ellery shakes his head. I’m wondering the same thing. I can’t believe we haven’t heard police sirens or heard a helicopter or something. Back in Arizona our school had lockdowns at least once every few months but nothing bad ever happened. It was always some incident somewhere in the neighborhood, no one ever came near the school. I’m also wondering about P.J. He’s such a weenie. He’s probably cowering underneath his desk right now.
When Mom got burned, instead of helping, P.J. ran into his room and hid underneath his blankets. Which I kind of understand. It was incredibly freaky seeing our kitchen curtains going up in flames and Mom ripping them down with her bare hands, the fire streaking up her arms until it looked like she was holding a ball of flames. It was bad enough trying to get Mom out of the house; I had to pull her away from the sink and push her through the front door as she cried, “P.J., P.J.!” But to get P.J. out was nearly impossible. He wouldn’t come out from beneath his covers and I finally had to grab the ends of the blanket and drag him like he was a sack of garbage. The smoke was thick and black; my lungs felt squeezed and every breath I took felt like I was swallowing crushed chalk. My arms ached from lugging P.J. through the
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