She came and sat down on my bed. I could smell roses and soap on her skin. She had bathed before coming home. Water still clung to her skin. Her long blonde hair, the same color as mine, tickled my arm as she leaned over me and kissed my forehead.
“There’s nothing so great that God can’t handle,” she murmured, tucking the blanket around me as if I were still a child. “It’s cold in here, we should start another fire.”
She got up to gather wood from the corner of the room. I loved her when she was like this. Attentive. Caring. Only mine.
It happened so rarely that I learned to cherish these moments.
“How was your meeting?” I dared to ask. Sometimes she’d speak to me about being an elder. About the burden of caring for the family’s spiritual wellbeing. She’d recite the words spoken by our leader in hushed tones. She’d share the things she saw and heard during her silent devotions.
I felt closest to her then.
“We spoke of recruiting new disciples. Of the importance of spreading Pastor’s teachings to those who need it most.”
I nodded, agreeing with this old discussion. Pastor didn’t do a lot of mission work. He felt that those who were fated to walk the path would find their way to us eventually. I knew there were videos on the internet though. That was how Mom found him. How most of the disciples found The Gathering.
But he did take his sermons tothe outsideonce a year. He spent two weeks visiting places he felt needed his word. They were usually areas affected by a downturn in the economy. Places experiencing depression and fatigue. He found the lost and sometimes he brought them home.
No one ever went with Pastor. He said it was his solitary journey. A road for him to travel alone. No one questioned him.
Why should we?
He knew what was best.
“Will he be leaving soon?” I asked.
Mom pulled on her floor length nightgown—a dowdy piece of clothing that hid all of her. She tied her hair up into a bun at the nap of her neck and got into the single bed across the room from mine. “He doesn’t share his schedule, Sara,” she chastised sharply.
“Of course,” I demurred, biting my tongue. Severing it in half before saying something to annoy her. I learned early on how to navigate her precarious moods. I had become an expert at tiptoeing through Daphne’s minefields.
The wind blew outside. It rattled the windows, indicating an approaching storm. Minutes later, rain splattered the glass. Lightning flashed. I pulled my blanket up to my chin.
“How long will Gabby be in The Refuge?” I asked and instantly wished I hadn’t. I pinched my arm. The same spot Mom had pinched many times before. Hard enough to draw blood.
I expected Mom to explode. To get out of bed and fly across the room in a fury. I braced myself, barely able to breathe.
Heavenly Father, forgive my sins…
“Gabby doesn’t concern you. She doesn’t concern any of us,” was all Mom said, rolling onto her side. “Not anymore,” she added.
“Not anymore?” I questioned. What did that mean?
“Some people are meant to walk the path. Some aren’t. Gabby would never be Awakened. Her soul would never be pure.”
I lay there, muscles rigid. Gabby’s soul wasn’t pure. But she was only a child.
“Did she and her family leave?” I asked, my voice sounding so, so small.
“They aren’tourfamily. They have to make their own way. It will be dark and it will be lonely, but we can’t have that kind of negativity here. This is our sanctuary. This is our haven.”
“Where did they go?” Why was I pushing this? Why was I pressing her for answers when I knew the outcome?
“Don’t you dare presume that you deserve to know the inner workings of things!” Mom screamed, her voice too loud. I felt it reverberating in my skull. So at odds with the silence we lived by.
If Pastor Carter could hear her he wouldn’t be pleased.
I curled in on myself. Waiting for an attack. Waiting for violence that I knew would come.
One minute passed.
