I touched the railing, feeling the strongest sense of déjà vu I’d ever had.
“Mom. My dress is fine. What are you wearing?”
We stared hard at one another before she said, “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”
“Mom, we fought long and hard to get away from that church. If it were up to me we would not go back today, but I understand you want to go support Dad. I can do that, but I’m not changing who I am.”
She nodded, straightening her top. I could see the panic in her eyes. She didn’t want to go either but my father…damn him, he got under her skin. One week back and he’d wormed his way into our lives, showing up at the house, sitting at our table drinking coffee and reminiscing about old times. Then Friday he asked us to come to the church and support him on his first Sunday back.
I couldn’t believe my mother said yes.
She said yes and it was like the last seven years came crashing down.
Except, I thought, swallowing back, I had a week before leaving Allendale for school. If I worked hard and stayed focused, maybe I’d never have to come back here again.
“Hold
on,” I said, running upstairs. I grabbed a light sweater out of the closet and came back down. My mother saw it and sighed in relief. “I’m not changing for him,” I declared.
“I don’t want you to.” I believed her.
My only real concern was if my father would accept it.
Entering the church was like going back in time. The smell, the sounds, the people. Nothing had changed. The walls were the same wood paneling, and yellowing stained glass blocked out most of the sun. The sanctuary felt stuffy and I irrationally gulped for air before walking in. My father combed the aisles, greeting parishioners as they took their seats on the hard, wooden pews. These people filed in up the center row, dressed in the same dark, drab clothing as my mother. Straight hair. No makeup. Ankle-grazing skirts.
Now I understood my mother’s reaction to my sundress better. I wasn’t one of the sheep. I buttoned the cardigan and noticed the head minister, Preacher Billips, with his white hair and face with hard lines of judgement sitting in the ornate chair by the pulpit.
Daddy walked straight toward us, smile bright on his face. It didn’t travel to his eyes; no, that part of him was assessing, our hair, our clothes, our expressions. Did we meet his standards? Did we represent him properly? I knew I had too much eyeliner under my eyes, too many rings in my ears.
I smoothed the front of my skirt and plastered a nervous smile on my face.
“Hi, Daddy,” I said, wanting to please him. Why? Why did I do it? His judgment ceased and he smiled genuinely.
“Hey, baby girl, you look beautiful. Thank you for coming.” He took my mother’s hand and squeezed it. I felt the oppressive stare of every eye in the church on us.
And then he was gone—speaking to others walking in the door.
It was like nothing had changed. Like he’d never been sent away to repent for his sins. In my mind I’m transformed into a little girl, sitting on the same hard pew, listening as Preacher Billips droned on and on about hellfire and redemption. I didn’t know what it meant then, but now…my skin itched thinking of all the eyes on me.
Did they know about Justin? About me? About the lies and rumors that followed?
I swallowed nervously as the music came to a halt and Preacher Billips came down from his throne and told the story of the prodigal son. He rested his hand on my father’s shoulder and it was clear all was forgiven.
The church had taken him back. He bought his way in by saving souls, and god knows whatever shady scams he implemented along the way. I’d learned a lot in the last year about trusting my instincts, about looking past the exterior to the heart and soul of a person, and everything about my father set me on alert.
“Thank you for the warm welcome,” he said, smiling the preacher and across the sanctuary. “I can’t wait to share my experiences from outside this wonderful community with you all, but most of all I’m grateful to be back home with my family.”
The family he left.
The family this congregation shunned.
I plastered on a brave face, because that was who I was. My father’s eyes connected with my own, and I realized that I learned that skill from him.
“Heaven, it’s wonderful to see you again,” an older woman said as I stood outside the church in the sweltering heat. If only I could take off my sweater. Oh wait. I can. I did.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said to the woman I didn’t recognize. Her eyes skimmed over my bare arms and the faint scars that were still visible. I smiled tightly.
“I see you’re still a spit-fire, like your mother.”