something she used to do when she was Emma's age—bite her lower lip until it bled. For
years she'd had a scab there, which she could never keep from biting or fingering long enough to let it heal. It had driven her mother crazy, that scab. She'd slap at Diana's hand every time it went near her lip. She'd grab her chin and say, "Stop it!" whenever she caught Diana biting it, which was about a hundred times a day. Still Diana hadn't stopped until she was in seventh grade and a boy she liked pointed at the scab and said, "Gross. What's that?"
Diana inhaled. She reached over and patted the dark dust on her daughter's knees, but Emma moved away from the touch and pulled the plaid skirt down over the dirt.
Diana inhaled sharply and put her hand back on the steering wheel. "Young lady," she said, "you'd better tell me right this minute what's going on."
The outburst was a damp explosion. "No!" Emma screamed, burying her face in her hands. "You can't make me! You can't make me do
anything.
"
Emma started thrashing so violently that Diana was afraid she might grab the door handle and throw herself out of the minivan. It wasn't until that moment that Diana noticed that Emma's seat belt wasn't buckled.
She reached across her daughter, who fought, thrashing, against her, for the silver buckle of the seat belt. It was cold as a little gun in her hand. She pulled it across Emma, but Emma reacted to this as if her mother were trying to put her in a straitjacket or slip a noose around her neck. She kicked at the glove compartment with the heel of her white canvas shoes until it finally snapped open and spilled its contents—a map, a tampon, an owner's manual—onto the pile of Emma's things that she'd thrown onto the floor.
Diana glanced down at the map, which had fallen open to
what looked like a limb—broken, veined, tangled with freeways and highways.
California.
The map had been in the glove compartment since their trip out West the summer before.
Diana let the seat belt's silver buckle slip from her hand, and she gripped the wheel tightly again, staring straight out the windshield, steering home....
Death Valley. She'd always remember that...
The long shadowless drive through its blond dust, and the eerie sense she'd had that she'd been there before. But who wouldn't feel that way? How many movies had been filmed there, and how many of them had Diana seen whether she remembered them or not?
It was a hundred and twenty degrees outside, but they'd had the air-conditioning on, and inside the minivan they were wearing sweaters. In the rearview mirror mounted at the passenger's side window (Paul was driving) Diana could see the Funeral Mountains sinking blackly into the desert behind them.
She'd loved Death Valley—the sweeping grandeur of it, the way even the most vivid imagination could not have invented it, not even come close. And as they traveled closer to the ocean, and California began to shift gradually into its moss green lushness, Diana had felt homesick for the endless, soulless expanse of what they'd left.
One of the girls has never had a boyfriend.
But years before, she had a vision of Jesus while she was sitting in a pew of the church to which her mother took her. Jesus was kneeling at the altar with his hands folded. His hair was
reddish brown, and it hung down his back. He was wearing a torn white robe. The reason she knew it was Jesus was that he appeared out of nowhere and then became more and more translucent as she watched him until he disappeared.
Not long after diat her mother quit taking her to that church. She didn't like that her daughter was spending so much time with the youth group. She walked into the basement of the church one Saturday afternoon to pick her up and found her with seven other teenagers weeping and clinging to one another on a gym mat on the floor. One of the older girls was speaking in tongues, and her eyes were rolled back in her head.
But lately she's begun thinking
years she'd had a scab there, which she could never keep from biting or fingering long enough to let it heal. It had driven her mother crazy, that scab. She'd slap at Diana's hand every time it went near her lip. She'd grab her chin and say, "Stop it!" whenever she caught Diana biting it, which was about a hundred times a day. Still Diana hadn't stopped until she was in seventh grade and a boy she liked pointed at the scab and said, "Gross. What's that?"
Diana inhaled. She reached over and patted the dark dust on her daughter's knees, but Emma moved away from the touch and pulled the plaid skirt down over the dirt.
Diana inhaled sharply and put her hand back on the steering wheel. "Young lady," she said, "you'd better tell me right this minute what's going on."
The outburst was a damp explosion. "No!" Emma screamed, burying her face in her hands. "You can't make me! You can't make me do
anything.
"
Emma started thrashing so violently that Diana was afraid she might grab the door handle and throw herself out of the minivan. It wasn't until that moment that Diana noticed that Emma's seat belt wasn't buckled.
She reached across her daughter, who fought, thrashing, against her, for the silver buckle of the seat belt. It was cold as a little gun in her hand. She pulled it across Emma, but Emma reacted to this as if her mother were trying to put her in a straitjacket or slip a noose around her neck. She kicked at the glove compartment with the heel of her white canvas shoes until it finally snapped open and spilled its contents—a map, a tampon, an owner's manual—onto the pile of Emma's things that she'd thrown onto the floor.
Diana glanced down at the map, which had fallen open to
what looked like a limb—broken, veined, tangled with freeways and highways.
California.
The map had been in the glove compartment since their trip out West the summer before.
Diana let the seat belt's silver buckle slip from her hand, and she gripped the wheel tightly again, staring straight out the windshield, steering home....
Death Valley. She'd always remember that...
The long shadowless drive through its blond dust, and the eerie sense she'd had that she'd been there before. But who wouldn't feel that way? How many movies had been filmed there, and how many of them had Diana seen whether she remembered them or not?
It was a hundred and twenty degrees outside, but they'd had the air-conditioning on, and inside the minivan they were wearing sweaters. In the rearview mirror mounted at the passenger's side window (Paul was driving) Diana could see the Funeral Mountains sinking blackly into the desert behind them.
She'd loved Death Valley—the sweeping grandeur of it, the way even the most vivid imagination could not have invented it, not even come close. And as they traveled closer to the ocean, and California began to shift gradually into its moss green lushness, Diana had felt homesick for the endless, soulless expanse of what they'd left.
One of the girls has never had a boyfriend.
But years before, she had a vision of Jesus while she was sitting in a pew of the church to which her mother took her. Jesus was kneeling at the altar with his hands folded. His hair was
reddish brown, and it hung down his back. He was wearing a torn white robe. The reason she knew it was Jesus was that he appeared out of nowhere and then became more and more translucent as she watched him until he disappeared.
Not long after diat her mother quit taking her to that church. She didn't like that her daughter was spending so much time with the youth group. She walked into the basement of the church one Saturday afternoon to pick her up and found her with seven other teenagers weeping and clinging to one another on a gym mat on the floor. One of the older girls was speaking in tongues, and her eyes were rolled back in her head.
But lately she's begun thinking
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