Devoted (17 page)

It's not very late at night, and I have no babies to wash or supper table to clean up. No Ruth to snuggle up with. Just an immense stretch of time in front of me until Lauren decides she's sleepy and goes into her bedroom and I make up my bed on the couch. This must be what people refer to as free time. Time to be free. What a strange idea. I've always wanted this kind of time to read or study, but now that I have it I can't even focus.

I glance at the front door to the apartment. I've barely been outside since I arrived. “I think I'll go outside and get some fresh air,” I say.

Lauren looks up, surprised. “Okay, but be careful on the wild streets of Clayton, Texas, at dusk,” Lauren says. I know she's joking, and I offer back a small smile.

The steps from Lauren's second-floor apartment lead down to a small garden in the complex's courtyard that no one seems to be maintaining. There are a few plastic lawn chairs that don't match and a small metal bucket filled with sand and cigarette butts. I push my sleeves up past my elbows and untuck my pale peach button-down blouse, letting it fall over my long, denim skirt, and I sit down in one of the chairs.

I try to imagine the house I'm going to tomorrow for this job. I rehearse in my mind how I'll knock at the door and smile brightly and say hello. I'm not used to interacting with people who aren't part of Calvary, and my heart starts racing a bit at the idea of being in such a strange place, charged with something I'm sure I'm not really experienced enough to handle.

The scent of hot tar on the streets and the whispers of fresh bread from the industrial Sunbeam bakery on the edge of town waft through the air. Live oaks and juniper trees dot Lauren's street. The sun has gone down just enough that it's almost pleasant out. I take a deep breath to try and slow down my heart, imagining the air entering my body from the soles of Faith's black boots, the only shoes I brought with me when I left. I exhale. Faith must be so ashamed of my behavior. She tried her hardest to help raise me into a godly young woman, and now I've done everything wrong. It's been a week since I've heard Dad's voice read the Bible or since I tried to pray. Lauren doesn't keep anything about Jesus or God in the apartment, not even one Bible or a single wooden cross.

I take another breath.
Breathe, Rachel. Breathe.

I remember the poem Lauren sent me, and I remember how I tried to pray the poem. I think about the final words over and over again. What will I do with my one wild and precious life?

God, guide me.

The words come to me suddenly. I haven't been missing services at Calvary Christian or Pastor Garrett's booming voice, even if not missing them makes me feel guilty somehow.

But I think I miss God. The idea of God.

I breathe and repeat.

God, guide me.

Breathe.

Repeat.

I keep breathing until I feel better. Until the anxiety relaxes its grip.

 

14

Lauren's little red Honda
is easier to handle than my family's ancient van. I follow the handmade map Lauren drew for me with blue ballpoint on the back of a receipt, and ten minutes before ten on Tuesday morning I find myself parked on Atwell Street, sitting outside a cute two-story home with green shutters and red azaleas planted out front.

I squeeze the steering wheel to prove it's real. To prove I'm real. A week ago I was living at home, not even able to use a computer. And here I am about to walk into a job. A job that will pay me money. My own money. I squeeze the steering wheel one more time, then spread my sweaty palms out over my skirt, straightening out the wrinkles. What would Ruth say if she was with me now? What would she possibly think?

Oh, how I wish I could talk to her. Cuddle with her. Does she hate me now? Does she miss me? I miss her. So much. Did she ever find my note, or did Dad find it first and throw it out?

I can't cry. Not when I'm about to have to go inside and introduce myself to Mrs. Treats. Lauren got me this job, and I can't mess it up or it might upset her. I take a deep breath and count to one hundred, then check the car radio. It's 9:58.

God, give me the strength to do this.

I get out and walk slowly toward the house.

“You must be Rachel,” Mrs. Treats says when she opens the door. She smells like vanilla and her smile is big and open. “I'm so glad Lauren set this up. She's such a doll, isn't she?” Mrs. Treats says, leading me into a sunny entry area with an umbrella stand and a painting of bluebonnets. “Can I take your purse?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Treats,” I say, trying to smile.

“Oh, you have to call me Diane,” she says. “Otherwise I feel about five hundred years old.”

She's wearing a cream-colored skirt and jacket that would last five seconds in our house before Isaac or Sarah dumped something on it or accidentally stained it with grubby hands. But Mrs. Treats—Diane—is impeccable. And beautiful. She's a little older than Mom—maybe in her early fifties—but her honey-brown hair is carefully styled and she wears high heels that match her suit. My mother is beautiful, too, I think, but she doesn't look as young as Diane. A thin, gold chain rests around her neck. She hangs my purse on a hook by the umbrella stand and click-clacks into a room to the right, off the front entryway. A small black cat bounds up to her and winds itself around her legs for a moment before bounding away.

“That's Boots, the dumbest cat in creation,” Diane says. “But we love him anyway. Over there's the kitchen, and you can help yourself to anything,” she says in a Texas twang that's stronger than most as she motions toward the back of the house. “Don't be shy for even a second, okay? Just help yourself. Now this…” She motions at the room. “This was supposed to be my summer project, but it's gotten away from me. I'm so grateful that you're so sweet and kind to help me out with it. For ten dollars an hour, of course.”

A large desk of dark wood holding a phone and a computer many years newer than the one back home sits in the center of the room, surrounded by plastic crates of papers and pamphlets with headlines that read, “Sweet Treats! Latest Listings! Find Your Dream Home!” and “Experience Has Its Rewards—Diane Treats, Realtor!” A few FOR SALE signs with pictures of Diane smiling eagerly lean against the back wall under several plaques that look like some sort of awards. Mountains of paper spill out of desk drawers and three black filing cabinets along one side of the room look like they're about to tip over from the weight of the papers barely stuffed all the way inside.

It's as though a bomb blew up and no one has bothered to call the police.

“It's a mess,” Diane admits. “You can say it. But I have faith you can help me. Please say I'm right?”

I stand there, not sure of what to say or do. I guess Diane isn't really looking for an answer because she just keeps talking. For the next twenty minutes she explains how she thinks I can make sense of the chaos, pointing to various piles of paper with fingers that end in shell-pink nail polish. I try to keep track of her instructions even though there are so many, and I'm grateful when Diane decides to hand me a pad and paper so I can take notes. She also shows me how to use the computer to input information into a database, including uploading pictures of houses for sale. Diane tells me she helps people buy and sell homes in towns all over the area—Clayton, Healy, Dove Lake—and business has been good, which means the paperwork is awful and her office work has gotten ahead of her. She also has several stacks of bright blue flyers that need to be stuffed into envelopes and a mailing list that needs to be updated.

“I'll be out with clients for a few hours, but you can call my cell whenever,” she says, scrawling a number on a notepad. “Oh, Rachel, I feel like I'm leaving you with a ridiculous task! It's ridiculous, isn't it?” She pouts a little.

“It's not so ridiculous,” I say. What I want to tell her is that it feels ridiculous that I have a job, but of course I don't say that.

A smile spreads on her face, and she reaches out to hug me. I freeze up a moment and then carefully put my arms around her and pat her back gently, scared I'll ruin her suit. The vanilla scent she wears is even stronger up close. Like cookies. It's a little unnerving to be hugged by a stranger, but Diane seems so nice it's comforting at the same time.

She lets me go and clicks around until she finds a large leather bag that she hauls over her shoulder.

“Oh, I almost forgot. My son went out for a run. He should be back soon, but then he'll probably disappear upstairs to the cavern he calls his bedroom, and you'll not see hide nor hair of him again.”

“All right,” I say.

After Diane leaves I sit down in the large, soft office chair. It tilts back unexpectedly, and I gasp and catch myself. This chair feels like it's made for giants.

I sort through the papers on the desk. While Diane's instructions made my head swim, as I look over everything, I realize that what she wants me to do is not that different from the type of work I did for my father's business. I might even be able to figure out a way to make sense of all of this. At least I hope I will because I know Diane is expecting it of me.

Boots the cat decides to join me, curling up in a small, purring ball by my feet as I start tackling the pile of paper closest to me, aware of every sound in the house. The whir of the refrigerator in the nearby kitchen, the ticktock of the clock on the wall to my right, the hot exhale of the computer on the desk. How peculiar that a house could sit alone all day long, with only a little black cat to keep it company. I think of my house, where there are always voices talking, bodies moving. Right now Ruth is probably helping the little ones with their lessons and my mother is busy preparing lunch.

No, Rachel, you can't think about home or it will take over your mind. You can focus. You need to do this.
Soon I've worked through an entire stack of papers and entered quite a bit of information into the computer. There's a small pleasure that comes with completing this task quickly and correctly—until I look around and realize how much more there is to do.

Just then I hear the sound of keys in the front door, the door opening, and then a slam that makes the windows rattle. Suddenly, a boy is standing there. A boy my age, covered in sweat and catching his breath.

“Hey,” he says matter-of-factly, standing there in the middle of Diane's office. “Don't I know you?” He has a towel around his neck which he uses to mop his face before tossing it toward the stairs without looking to see if it lands on the railing or the floor. It hits the railing, but only barely, then swings precariously for a moment or two.

“Um, I'm working for your mom? So…” I say. I can barely hear my own voice. He stares at me like he expects me to say something more, but when I don't, he nods slowly like something has just occurred to him.

His hair is hanging in his face. How does he even manage to see two steps in front of him? When he drags his hand through it and looks straight at me, I can finally see how dark his eyes are. Like two cups of black coffee.

“Oh, yeah, riiight,” he continues, still nodding. “She said something about someone coming over and something. I kind of stop listening after a while when she's delivering copious amounts of information in one sitting.”

He plops down on the love seat by the stairs and leans back, draping his entire body over the piece of furniture like a throw blanket. “So, what's your name?” It comes out, “Sowhatsyername?”

“Rachel,” I tell him. Guilt twists my stomach in two. It's the first time in my entire life that I've been alone with a boy my age. But this boy is acting as if it's nothing. As if we're not strangers.

“Wait,” he says, “I remember how I know you. You came by to talk to Lauren that one time. At my dad's office? I'm Mark Treats. The vet is my dad. Your boss is my mom. Small town coincidence number three hundred and twenty-nine. You know the deal.”

“Yes,” I say, not knowing at all. If I keep working, I'm afraid I'll look rude. But I'm so nervous I don't think I can do much else but sit and wonder if I should look at him or at the desk.

“I'm gonna go make a ham sandwich,” he announces as if there are more people than just me in the room and it's an urgent declaration. “Running makes me hungry, you know?” I nod. It's all I can think to do. “You run?” he asks. I shake my head no. He starts unlacing his shoes.

“You want one?” he asks. “A ham sandwich?”

He doesn't wait for me to answer. He just pulls off his running shoes and cracks his toes against the floor. “God, my feet are totally sweaty,” he continues. “I gotta start running earlier in the morning. But what's the point of summer vacation if you can't sleep in, right?” He gazes off, staring at some point in the distance like he sees something interesting on the wall behind me or somewhere beyond. I sit, still holding the same piece of paper I was holding when he first walked in. Suddenly he pops up and grabs his shoes, flinging them up the stairs to the second floor where they land with two quick thumps.

“So, ham sandwich?” he asks. “I make a mean one. I'm serious.”

The easiest response is to accept his offer.

“All right. I mean, if you don't mind. Thank you.”

“You got it,” he says, loping off to the kitchen. I look down and try to get back to filing papers, but he keeps hollering from the back of the house, asking if I want mayonnaise or mustard or lettuce or tomato.

“Just make me whatever you're making for yourself,” I respond.

“What? I can't hear you.”

“Whatever you're making for yourself is fine!” I repeat, louder this time. It's strange to raise my voice over a ham sandwich when I'm not used to raising it even in anger.