Kindred (3 page)

After spring break ends and students fill the classrooms, dorms and cafeteria, nothing is the same. Tabitha’s photo is on the front page of the school paper, with the screaming headline
FREAK ACCIDENT KILLS TWO, DISFIGURES HONORS STUDENT
. I haven’t been there since before the accident, but I should have realized the paper would cover the story and tried to blunt its insensitivity toward Tabitha. I grab all the copies I can find and dump them in the recycling bin, but I know I can’t recycle every one on campus. For once, I’m not proud to be part of the paper. The article isn’t well written or kind; it’s simply juicy. National media have picked up the story, too, and for a couple of days, large vans with boil-like transmitters growing from their roofs dot the campus. Several students and administrators are blasted with bright lights as they try to sound intelligent in front of the cameras, answering a barrage of mostly trivial questions. The university president assures the public that there will be an investigation as to why the dormitory didn’t have a lightning rod as per state safety regulations and why the chemistry department was storing large containers of acetone, hydrogen peroxide and sulfuric acid in the attic. Everyone agrees that it would have been an unimaginable tragedy if the freak storm had occurred a mere week earlier or later. Hundreds of students would have been killed.

I overhear someone say, “Thank God it happened when it did.”

Students flip through the paper in the cafeteria, out on the quad and in halls between classes. Tabitha’s pain and suffering are put on public display. Every grimace, every sigh of pity, is like a stabbing finger pointing out my shame, her pain, everywhere I turn.

Damn paparazzi, I think. Then I clap my hands over my
mouth, because isn’t damning someone the same as taking the Lord’s name in vain?

I drift through classes, hardly hearing my professors, hardly caring about the lectures, not bothering to take notes or read the assigned chapters. I expect another visit at any minute. I look for signs from God in every wind gust, every bird that flutters up from the ground, startled by my passing. I develop odd cramps and unexplained bouts of diarrhea that come and go and have me running to the bathroom at the most inconvenient moments.

Two weeks after spring break, I start skipping classes altogether, spending my time deep in the bowels of the library, reading everything I can on angels, on celestial contact with humans, on miracles. There isn’t much. What there is, as with the example of Joan of Arc, isn’t very promising. Web sites are even worse. Frightening, delusional blogs; inaccurate retellings of historical incidents; cheesy graphics that mock my terror.

I have failed Tabitha. I have let down God Himself in high heaven. I don’t know where to take my shame, whom to turn to for comfort.

I’m not sure how long I would have continued to float in this purgatory, waiting for a word, looking for a sign. Fortunately, Mo comes in for his long-delayed visit.

“Sis,” he says after our usual big bear hug, “you look awful. What the hell have you been doing?”

Mo, my twin, is three inches taller than me. He is thin and wiry, with dark curly hair that tends to bush out if he waits too long between haircuts. We look startlingly alike, as
near to identical as brother and sister can be. Looking at his face, I see what I would look like as a man.

“I’ve had this nasty bug. I’ve lost a bit of weight,” I say.

He immediately takes a few steps back and makes a cross with his fingers. “And you hugged me? Jesus, Miriam, I don’t want to catch the plague.”

I laugh. He ducks, covering his nose and mouth so that his hands are like a gas mask.

“I don’t think it’s contagious, no one else seems to have it. Besides, I’m pretty much over it.”

“In that case, let’s get some food and put some meat on your bones. You look like death.” He walks out of my dorm room and I hurry after him. He is wearing jeans and a bright green and yellow Brazilian soccer jersey. I am wearing jeans and a green-and-yellow-striped polo shirt. We did not plan to wear the same colors, but it often happens. We no longer remark on it.

“You’re sweet,” I coo. “You know just how to flatter a girl. Are you sure you have a girlfriend?”

“Actually, we broke up.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Mo, I’m sorry.” But he dances away and grins.

“Don’t worry, there weren’t hard feelings. It’s not like I’m looking for a wife.”

“I liked Amber,” I say. Even though I didn’t, really. She was nice enough, but a little dim. Still, she was the first person Mo actually deigned to call a girlfriend, so no matter what his devil-may-care attitude said, she was important to him.

“Who broke it off, you or her?”

“Miriam, knock it off, okay? It doesn’t matter.”

It must have been Amber for him to be so touchy.

He walks faster, and I break into a trot to keep up. Ever since the accident, my energy has been sapped by worry, guilt and indecision about my future. Those odd bouts of stomach cramps haven’t helped. I didn’t realize how out of shape I’ve grown during the time. My legs feel rubbery and weak.

“Slow down,” I gasp. “I can’t keep up.”

He stops and looks at me, half irritated, half concerned.

“You’re running,” I complain. “You know I hate running.”

“For God’s sake, Miriam, you are in sorry shape if you can’t walk half a mile to dinner.”

I wince as he takes the Lord’s name in vain. I’ve started noticing how often people do that, carelessly. I want to tell him, to tell them all, to be careful.

Mo opens his mouth to say something else, but stops himself. He takes a breath as if to speak, but then thinks better of it.

For the first time since the angel’s visit, something other than biblical worries has caught my attention. There is something shimmering off my brother. I don’t know if it is the breakup or the mysterious reason he postponed his visit, but something momentous has happened to Mo and I finally notice that he is bursting to tell me.

He looks both ways as if checking for eavesdroppers, which is ridiculous on a Tuesday evening in the middle of campus. Then he shakes his head.

“I have to tell you something, but I can’t talk about it here. Let’s grab a couple of burgers and head to the trails, okay?”

The “trails” are a set of paths in the park near school. During the day, they are a favorite jogging path of the more athletically inclined of the student body, the would-be marathoners and athletes. They are secluded enough that you can almost pretend you are out in the woods, away from the town and the campus and civilization. They are also the site of an occasional rape or assault, pretty much for the same reason. I never go there at night. But Mo is with me, so after a short hesitation, I shrug and say okay.

After picking up some burgers and fries, we carry our bags, with their blooming stains of grease, and hike up a narrow path of trampled-down dirt. My breath is catching again, and the smell of fries growing cold isn’t appetizing. Nothing like congealing grease to ease stomach cramps.

“This is far enough,” I say. My heart is beating too fast, almost painfully thudding. I press a hand to my chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“You’re pathetic,” Mo says. But I notice with petty satisfaction that his lip is dotted with sweat even though the night is cool.

“
We’re
pathetic,” I correct. “Maybe we should take some sort of exercise vow.”

He ignores me, and we continue grunting and puffing upward. I point out a large, flat rock near the trail, and after a quick glance around, Mo agrees we’ve walked far enough.

“So, what’s the story?” I ask as we settle down. I make a show of unwrapping my burger but then let it sit in my lap. I feel nauseous from the smell.

“You’re going to have a really hard time believing me,” he
says, for once looking uncertain. “But no matter how crazy this sounds, I’m telling the truth and you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not anyone.”

“Okay.”

“No, Miriam.” He grabs my arm near the elbow, hard enough to make me jump. “I’m serious. You can’t tell anyone. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to tell you, but no one said I couldn’t, so …”

“What, Mo? What happened?”

But here’s the thing. I already know.

“I met someone.”

“A girl?” I know that isn’t it, but it’s what a normal person would assume. Right now, I’m fighting hard to be normal.

“No, not even close. Miriam, I spoke to God. Well, not exactly God, but basically, yeah, I did.”

“Really?” I don’t doubt him. Still, he doesn’t look shaken.

“Well, mostly I listened. He told me all sorts of amazing things, incredible things. He showed me things I never would have believed. Miriam, everything we learned, it’s true and not true. I mean, there is a God, there is heaven and hell and everything. But the Bible—our parents, they got it all wrong! Miriam, it was the most amazing night of my life. Everything fell into place—all the things I ever wondered about or thought about, I know. I know.”

“You know what?” My own visit had only left me with questions, with doubt, with fear, while his sounded like a blessing, a benediction.

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess.”

“What does that mean?” I feel my cheeks flush with anger.
Until this moment, I had thought that although my burden was heavy, I had been blessed. Maybe I had let God down, but I was special, I was chosen. Instead, I suddenly see that I suffered through a horrible, painful ordeal, but my brother, my naughty, mischievous brother, received the key to everything. It has been many years since I felt like stomping my feet and yelling “NOT FAIR!” but I feel like it now.

“So, what’s the big revelation?”

He looks at me with slight pity. “I can’t tell you.”

I want to smack him on the back of the head. “Excuse me?”

“Miriam, I can’t. It’s not something I can put into words. It’s just this feeling, this wonderful feeling.” He laughs. It should be joyful laughter, but there is something nasty there too.

“Anyway, I have a task to do, something really secret and important.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” I mutter, but he doesn’t hear me.

“I really can’t tell you about it, but I can’t get over that I was picked. I was chosen!” He whoops with sudden glee and hugs me roughly. I can’t help but catch his excitement. He is my brother. I hug him back, tightly.

“Don’t slack off,” I warn. “You’d better get this done, whatever it is. You wouldn’t have been asked if it wasn’t important.” I don’t know why I don’t tell him about my own experience. Maybe I am ashamed that mine was so awful, while his was glorious. Maybe I can’t bring myself to admit that I have failed God, while he seems set to succeed. I have always been the steady one, the reliable one. I want to tell him that, but I don’t.

“God, you think I don’t know that?” I wince at his curse. “As soon as I get back from visiting you, I’m on it. I have a plan.”

“Good,” I say. “That’s good. Are you sure you should be taking the Lord’s name in vain?”

“Chill, okay? Believe me when I tell you the Big Man is above such things. He doesn’t care what you call anything.”

The night has grown chilly, and I hug my light cotton sweater around me.

Mo says he’s leaving tonight, driving four hours back to his university even though he’d just arrived this afternoon. An eight-hour drive for a three-hour visit. But I don’t try to talk him into staying. I know the cost of procrastination where divine missions are involved.

As we make our way down the path in the rapidly fading light, I realize that I can’t face going back to campus. Going to my room, reading three chapters on the Constitution, writing a fifteen-page paper, preparing for a quiz—it all seems like meaningless fluff, a ridiculous waste of my time and a charade I can’t go through. With Mo beside me nearly glowing with zeal and excitement, I realize that after such a colossal mistake, I can’t go back.

“I have news too,” I say, hearing the words come out of my mouth and knowing suddenly what I am going to do. “I’m leaving school.”

“You mean you’re transferring? Did you change your mind about going to Tech?”

“No,” I say. “I’m dropping out.” It is the first time I have
thought about it, but I immediately feel better. I need to move on. I need to answer some questions.

“Holy shit, Mom and Dad are going to freak!” He does a little dance. “You know what this means?”

I shake my head.

“I’m the good one! I’m the good son and you’re the prodigal daughter. Hallelujah, who thought this day would ever come?”

“Glad it made your day.” I pretend to kick him and he dances out of the way. But sensing some of my despair, Mo settles down.

“Miriam, you’ve never done anything in your whole life without a good reason,” he says. “You don’t even sneeze without thinking about it first. If you’ve decided to drop out, then knowing you, you spent a month making lists of pros and cons. Am I right?”

How can I tell him I have literally decided to drop out this minute? “You know me,” I say tightly. “Besides, I’m only eighteen. I have time before I have to settle down.”

“See? I’m not worried about you. You know how to take care of yourself. Forgive me for delighting in my temporary role as the favorite—we both know it won’t last long. You’re probably going to write the Great American Novel and I’ll be the loser brother again.”

I feel a swell of love and exasperation.

“Mo, you’re full of it.”

We share a smile as we reach his car, a beat-up, rusty black Suburban.

“Be careful, okay?” I tell him. “Whatever it is you’re supposed to do, it might be dangerous.”

“Nah,” he says as he climbs into the high cab. He starts the truck with a roar and then rolls down the window. “You take care of yourself, and remember, I’ve got friends in low places.”

“Don’t you mean high places?”

“It’ll be high enough soon enough.”

“Wait, what?”

The taillights flash red as he shifts into gear. “Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out!” he says. “I talked to someone who has all the power and all the answers. Someone who
rewards
his followers. Who does that sound like? The one who, just for laughs, put Job through hell? I don’t think so. I met the guy with the real power. He’s gotten a hell of a bad rap.” He snorts at his pun. “He’s amazing and awesome. He’s everything I ever wanted to be—charismatic, brilliant, generous. I hope you’ll get to meet him one day. You’d love him.”