“No!” I repress a shudder at the thought—all the lights and cameras and attention focused on me. No, thank you. That’s Harmony’s forte, not mine. I’m not really a spotlight kind of person. I prefer to lurk in the background. That word always has a negative connotation—lurk—but I’m not sure why. It isn’t only scary things that prefer to stay hidden in the shadows. “I’m just going along to help with the kids.”
My uncle and aunt have eight children. The two oldest have already gotten married and moved out of the house; Harmony, the oldest one living at home, istwenty-two, a few years younger than me. Charity and Honor, the next oldest kids, are off at college and a mission trip, respectively, but that still leaves the three youngest siblings who need extra help sometimes. Plus there’s the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, and all the other household tasks that I’m in charge of.
“Helping with the kids” is the umbrella term that’s been used to cover everything I do for my family since I was a child myself. I know it sounds like a lot. Okay, maybe it doesn’t justsound likea lot—itisa lot. It’s a full-time job that I’ve never been paid for. And if I’m being honest, sometimes I do resent it. There are other things I used to dream about doing with my life. But at the end of the day, when your family needs help, you help your family. Especially when you owe them so very much.
The room falls silent, and I can tell everyone is trying to exchange glances without me noticing that they’re exchanging glances. I give them a moment to get it out of their systems, staring down at my lap. I’m used to this—all the meaningful looks that I’m not supposed to see.
Grady nudges me with his elbow. “Help me with some drinks, yeah?” He makes a show of looking around the room. “Beer? Wine? What’s everyone having ... ?”
As soon as we’re in the kitchen, I smile at him gratefully. “Is it just me, or have they gotten evenlesssubtle in the past few months?”
“Less chances to practice, I expect,” Grady returns easily. “With Matilda and Kimo living so far away now and all. Harder to exchange weighted looks over Zoom.”
As he gathers all the drinks, he glances at me sidelong. “You’re all right though?”
I like the way he checks in on me. He doesn’t try to talk around his concern, like I won’t notice, but he also doesn’t tell me what I should be feeling about a situation. He gives me the chance to ask for help if I need it, then lets it go if I don’t.
Because of that, I feel freer to talk to him than I do my other friends. I know they mean well, but sometimes they treat me like I’m so delicate I start tofeelthat way around them, too. Not with Grady, though. He’s become the big brother I never knew I wanted or needed.
I shrug in answer to his question. “It doesn’t make a huge difference to me, whether I’m stuck in a house in Tennessee or in Illinois.”
Stuckis maybe putting it too strongly. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. My uncle and aunt have done a lot for me over the years. My parents died when Iwas seven—a car accident. We didn’t live near any family, so for three months I was under the custody of child protective services, moved from foster family to foster family. To be honest, I can’t remember much from that time. I know, of course, that I was devastated about losing my parents, but I think the shock was so intense that it’s like there’s Bubble Wrap around those memories. I can’t get too close to them without popping something painful, so I usually just leave them alone.
Suffice it to say, there weren’t a lot of people clamoring to adopt an emotionally traumatized, practically mute little kid. Except for Uncle Aaron and Aunt Hope. They took me in when nobody else wanted me. And they took mebackafter I made a mess out of everything. It’s only fair that they expect some things in return, like keeping up with the daily grind of a house full to bursting with people. Of course, all of that stuff wears on you over time, especially if you have other part-time jobs you do to pay rent, but that’s just life, isn’t it? Real life, anyway. Not the stuff out of fairy tales.
I’m not being totally honest, though, about it not making a difference where I go with my family. At least here in Chicago, I have my book club group, even if our numbers have been dwindling lately. I have Tuesday night Pizookies with my friends (including Matilda over Zoom), and when my temp jobs are located in the city, I meet up regularly with Grady for lunch.
In Tennessee? I’ll have nobody.
Selfish, I chastise myself. That’s the second sin I’ll have to write in my sin journal tonight. Being selfish and lying.
Grady looks pretend thoughtful as he strokes his face. “You know, there’s a pub expo coming up in Knoxville. I was thinking I might drive down there and check it out. Turns out it’s not too far of a drive from Green Valley—if you’d like a visit from a grouchy ol’ fella.”
He’s trying his best not to smile, so I do it for him, launching myself at him and hugging him. “That’d be all right,” I agree.
Carrying Helen’s glass of wine and two bottled beers for Thad and Kimo, I head back down the hallway toward the living room. Grady sent me on ahead since he’s making a more complicated mocktail for Matilda and me; Matilda is trying to get pregnant, so she’s not drinking at the moment, and though I’m allowed theoccasional indulgence of a glass of alcohol, I’d rather use my splurging for the week on some of the delicious brownies Helen made.
Before I can reach the living room, though, I catch a fragment of the conversation that’s been going on in my absence. “... of course I’m worried! Those people are awful to her.”
It’s Matilda speaking—as usual, at ever too slightly loud a pitch for the size of the room—and I glean pretty quickly that the “her” in question is me. “Those people” must be my aunt and uncle. I guess it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that my friends discuss my family situation when I’m not around, but I’ve never actually overheard what they say. Despite myself, I’m curious.
“Don’t work yourself up, Mattie.” Kimo’s soothing voice is less piercing and therefore more difficult to hear. “But yeah, those people are definitely buttheads. Should we offer to let her stay with us again?”
“We’ve tried that, too.” Helen, now. “I don’t know if she wants to go to Tennessee, or if they just aren’t giving her an option.”
“I’ve run their backgrounds.” Thad is quietest of all, which is inconvenient since I’m most interested in hearing how that disclosure is going to continue. I take another tentative step closer, hoping the floorboards don’t betray me. “No arrests for the uncle or aunt, but something is fishy. They’ve moved around too frequently.”
Every two to three years, for most of the time I’ve lived with them. When I was seven, they were in North Carolina. Down to Georgia at age ten. Then Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. They were in Ohio while I was in the convent, then spent one year in Pennsylvania. Illinois is the longest they’ve stayed in one place, going on four years now. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so unfazed by the sudden relocation to Tennessee. A part of me has been waiting to pack our bags and start everything all over again, even as I desperately hoped this would be the time we stayed put. Chicago is the first place that’s really felt like home to me. It’s the first place I’ve had friends. It’s the first place I’ve hadanythingoutside of my uncle’s church.
“Maybe that’s normal for her uncle’s line of work?” Helen suggests, though she sounds uncertain. “I’m not sure how it works with the evangelicals.”
I realize I’m not sure, either, despite having lived with my uncle for all these years. I always assumed it was normal, how often we moved around from place to place, how frequently the name of my uncle’s church changed as he started anew congregation. The rules and practices have always remained the same, though; I figured it wasn’t too unusual to rebrand in each new place. Now, hearing the way they’re talking about it? I’m not so certain.
It seems like no one else knows, either, since a moment of silence briefly falls, only to be punctured by Matilda. “They’re creeps! I’m sorry, but it isn’t right how they keep her on that leash. We all know it isn’t right.”
“I understand, babe, but what can we do? Aside from being there for her, if and when she needs us. Until then, we have to trust her. Sheisan adult, after all.”
I expect a sharp retort from Matilda, but instead it’s Helen who gives an aggrieved sigh. “It’s just ... sometimes she feelssoinnocent. Our little fairy-tale princess ...”
