Devoted (25 page)

“Well,” I say in between bites, a little nervous and not entirely sure how Lauren might react to my news, “I'm going to church with Mark Treats and his parents this Sunday.”

Lauren swallows and looks at me. “What?” she says. From the steady tone of her voice, I can't tell if she's concerned or angry. Or both.

“I said I was going to church,” I say, my voice small. “With Mark Treats and his parents.”

“Oh,” she says. She takes a big bite of her supper and chews slowly, like she's keeping track of the number of bites in her head. After she swallows she takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “You actually want to do this?” She makes me going to church sound like I'm about to go camping in the wilderness by myself for a week.

“I don't know.” I shrug. “Diane asked, and I didn't want to be rude. Plus, it might be sort of interesting to see a church that's not like Calvary.”

“Interesting?” Lauren answers. “Well, that's laughable.” She looks me dead in the eyes. “Rachel, you cannot go back there.”

“Go back where?” I ask, and irritation starts to build inside. “I'm not going anywhere I've been before. Like I said, it's not like I'm going back to Calvary.” I didn't think Lauren would be thrilled at my news, but I mostly thought she would just roll her eyes in her Lauren way and forget about it. Instead, she's furious.

“Calvary, the Treatses' church, St. Patrick's down the street,” Lauren continues, dragging her hands through her hair in frustration, “it doesn't matter. Church is church. It's all just a bunch of guys trying to sell us the same exact crap. You don't get it.”

“But you're the one who said Dr. Treats and his wife are such nice people, and they've helped you out so much,” I manage. “You even said Mark was so lucky to have them as parents. So now they're horrible people because they go to church?”

Lauren crosses her arms and shakes her head. “They're not horrible people. They're just … They don't get it.”

I stare at my food, uncomfortable with what's happening between us. I hate the idea of fighting with Lauren. Because I hate the idea of fighting with anyone, period.

But at the same time, I can't help but feel annoyed at the idea that Lauren thinks she can tell me what to do.

“What do you mean they don't get it?” I say, my voice just above a whisper.

“Religion brainwashes you, Rachel!” Lauren taps her temple twice, hard. “Haven't you figured that out by now? You're doing so well here. You're not just buying their Jesus God crap all the time like some Christian robot.”

I squeeze my eyes tight for a moment, trying to figure out the words I need. Trying to decide if it's even worth it to fight back. “I'm pretty sure I can … make my own decisions about what to think about this,” I tell her, still avoiding eye contact.

“I'm not telling you what to think, I'm just trying to protect you!” Lauren replies, her voice growing louder.

“Protect me from what? From God?” My voice rises suddenly, and it takes me by surprise as much as Lauren. I finally manage to look at her. “You know I still believe in Him, right? And I still pray?”

Lauren just huffs and rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she mutters.

We both sit there, silent. We're two messed-up girls who will never have enough words to explain ourselves. Not ever.

“Okay, fine,” says Lauren, her voice still frosty. “I'm going to bed.”

“It's seven at night,” I answer, fighting the lump in my throat.

“I know,” Lauren answers. “Good night.”

Even the cats go with her, leaving me by myself on the couch.

In the moment, telling Lauren how I felt seemed like a good idea. Like a release. But now I just feel terrible. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. But that didn't feel right either. I burst into tears, loud enough that I think Lauren might come back. But she never does. I cry myself to sleep on the couch.

*   *   *

The next morning is Saturday, and Lauren goes to work. I'm not sure if she's scheduled to or if she just wants to get out of the apartment, but from my spot on the couch, hidden under blankets, I see her slipping out the front door dressed in her work scrubs well over an hour before Dr. Treats's office opens. She doesn't even eat breakfast. Or glance in my direction.

When I finally get up, I pour myself some cereal and eat it on the couch.

Maybe Lauren is right. Maybe all churches are the same. And I don't have to go to church to keep talking to God in the way I have been.

But I can't possibly know if all churches are the same if I've only ever been to one in my whole life.

Eventually, I have to get out of the apartment or I'm afraid I'll go stir-crazy, so I go for a walk with one of the only mystery novels in the apartment that I haven't read, making sure to head in the opposite direction from Clayton Animal Hospital. I have nowhere to go, really, so I spend most of the time in a park with my book. It's so hot there aren't any other people there. It's so hot I can't even concentrate on my reading.

But it's probably not just the heat that's making it difficult to focus.

First my father wanted to protect me and now Lauren does. When I didn't want to live as my parents wanted me to, I had to leave their home. If I don't want to live my life like Lauren thinks I should, maybe I'll have to leave her home, too. And then I'll have nowhere to go. I take a shaky breath or two and feel sorry for myself.

Mosquitoes are feasting on my ankles and forearms, so I head back to Lauren's apartment. When I get there, I pull out some paper from my pile of unsent letters to Ruth and consider what I want to say to Lauren.

At least I'll be able to get this letter to where I want it to go.

Lauren,

I don't want to be in a fight with you. You mean too much to me.

I remember in your very first email to me you asked me why God gave us brains if He didn't want us to use them to learn about anything we wanted to learn about. And later you sent me a poem that said it was all about me asking myself what did I want to do with my one wild and precious life? I don't think you know how often I've thought about that question since you sent me that poem.

I'm not totally sure why I'm going to church with the Treatses, but I do want to feel like I can decide whether or not I can go. I feel like that has to be up to me. Like I can make that kind of decision about my life.

You've done so much for me, and I don't want to make you angry at me. But I also think it's important that I try to figure this out for myself. I don't know if this is making any sense, but I hope you read this and know I care about you so much, and I hope you understand what I'm trying to say.

Love,
Rachel

I've never told Lauren I love her, but signing the letter this way seems right. I do love Lauren for her spirit and energy and kind heart.

I hope she loves me back. Even after yesterday.

I leave the letter on the table where she'll be sure to see it, and then I curl up on the couch. All of a sudden I'm exhausted, even if I haven't done much but take a walk and write a letter.

The next thing I know, I feel a gentle shake on my shoulder, waking me up. When I open my eyes I see Lauren, dressed in her work scrubs with her blue hair piled up on top of her head in a ponytail.

“Hey,” she says in a quiet voice. I can see she has the note I've written to her in her hand.

“Hi,” I say, trying to read her face.

“I just wanted to say…” she starts, holding up the piece of paper. “Oh, hell.” She falls down next to me on the couch, and I can see her eyes are wet with tears, but she's holding on to them and not letting them fall. “Rachel, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.” I know from Lauren's rants that she loves to be right. So I know the words “I'm sorry” are a big deal for her. They don't come easily.

“You read my note?” I ask.

Lauren nods. “Me freaking out about you going to church,” she says, “that's my own issue. You should go with the Treatses if you want to. I mean, I can't say I get it. I don't ever want to go to church again. But you're not me. You're you.”

My chest lightens, grateful for this truce we seem to be forging.

“Thanks, Lauren,” I say softly.

She nods toward the kitchen.

“I think I need a Diet Coke,” she tells me. “And a huge piece of cake.”

“You mean that weird vegan cake you made the other day?” I ask her, anxious to feel back to normal as soon as possible.

“Yes, that weird vegan cake,” she says, getting up. “You know you love it.”

We sit together on the couch, and when we're finished eating, there's comfortable silence for a little while. Lauren picks at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions.

“Rachel,” she asks gently. “Do you really still pray?”

“Sort of,” I answer. “I never felt very good at it before. At home, I mean. But now I do this thing where I focus on a few words instead of trying to remember Scripture. It sort of helps me, I guess.”

“I couldn't pray without hearing my father's voice in my ears,” Lauren says. “So I just stopped doing it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes I hear my dad's voice, but lately not so much.”

“That's good.”

“If you saw your dad now, do you still think you'd tell him that you hate him?” I ask.

“I used to think so,” Lauren answers, tugging at the loose thread now, wrapping it around her finger until the tip is beet red. “But now I think I would just walk away. He's not worth it.”

Lauren's answer makes me so sad. I picture kids all over the planet—kids in Mongolia or France or Peru—sitting at home with their families. Talking. Arguing. Growing up.

And we don't get to be those kids.

“I don't love my parents anymore…” Lauren continues, “I mean, I don't think it's wrong if you still love your parents. I think it's so hard to put into words, Rachel. I've been gone a lot longer than you. My dad beat me up. My dad was … he was awful. For a really long time. And your parents…”

I close my eyes for a moment. They haven't always been awful. I can't even say they're awful now. They're only doing what they think in their hearts is right.

I exhale and look at Lauren again. “I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's just overwhelming.”

Lauren smiles. “I get it. You want to numb out on TV and watch, like, three episodes of
Law & Order
with me?”

“Definitely,” I say. “But let me put on my nightgown first. Hey—where's my bag that I brought with me?” I usually keep it in the living room.

“Oh,” Lauren says, her eyes on the television. “While you were napping, I cleared out a drawer in my dresser and some space in my closet. And I put your clothes in there. I hope that was okay.”

“Sure,” I say, and there's a familiar lump in my throat again. But if I let myself cry this time, I think the tears would be happy ones instead of sad ones. “Thanks. A lot.”

“No problem,” Lauren says.

As I head back to change, Lauren stops me.

“Rachel, I'm really sorry.”

“Thanks,” I answer. “And I'm sorry if anything I said hurt your feelings, and just because I'm going to church tomorrow doesn't mean…”

“Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“Go get your nightgown on. I want to watch
Law & Order
.”

“Okay.”

I go back to the bedroom to change.
God
, I whisper when I get there,
thank you for Lauren
.

 

20

Mark is wearing
knee-length khaki shorts and a pale-blue collared shirt and he smells like soap and something minty.

And I'm sitting two inches from him. If either of us shifted just a bit we might touch.

“Want a Tic Tac?” he says to me, sliding a small plastic case out of his pocket.

“Sure,” I say.

“Hey, I'm not saying your breath smells or whatever,” he tells me, knocking a few tiny mints into my open palm. “I'm just offering. I always think people are going to think I'm telling them their breath smells when I offer them a Tic Tac.”

“Well, thanks for reassuring me that my breath doesn't smell,” I answer, popping one of the mints into my mouth. Mark smiles at me—his warm, takes-up-half-his-face smile—and I bite down quick on the Tic Tac, my heart picking up speed just a bit.

“We're so glad you're with us, Rachel,” Diane says in a loud whisper. She's sitting on the other side of Mark, and she leans over him and squeezes my forearm. “I think you'll really enjoy the service.” She smiles at me and so does Dr. Treats from the end of the pew, his big bushy moustache curling up along with his grin.

Mark slides the Tic Tacs back into his pocket. “What I really think you'll enjoy about this service is the pastor has it down to fifty minutes flat,” he says, loud enough for his mother to hear him. She glares at him, but he just shrugs.

Peace Lutheran is certainly physically different from the wooden, airless structure that houses Calvary Christian. Peace is a big, modern building with large windows that let in lots of sun. An enormous felt banner with a picture of corn stalks and pumpkins hangs to my left. It reads
Give Thanks to the Lord for He Is Good!
Another on the right reads
Let Everything That Has Breath Praise the Lord!
A big flat-screen projects the word
WELCOME!
along with an animated white dove flapping its wings. At Calvary, sometimes the women bring fresh flowers from their gardens and put them at the front of the church, but Calvary is too poor to even afford pews, so we use folding chairs. The pews at Peace Lutheran are padded and covered in dark green fabric.