The Feathered Bone (41 page)

Here at the entry, an open Bible sits adjacent to a portrait of the Deroches and a porcelain plaque:
The Beatitudes of a Christian Marriage
. The words bring a sting, as I continue to struggle with the guilt of the D-word. For better or for worse, I was all in. I never considered any alternative.

I read the plaque to myself with a whisper, grieving the loss of my marriage.

Blessed are the husband and wife who continue to be considerate and affectionate long after the wedding bells have ceased ringing.

Blessed are those mates who never criticize or speak loudly to one another and who instead quietly discuss their disagreements and work toward solutions.

Blessed are they who thank God for their food and who set aside time each day to read the Bible and pray.

Blessed are they who love their mates more than any other person in the world and who joyfully fulfill their marriage vows in a lifetime of fidelity and mutual helpfulness to one another.

Near the plaque sits a basket of plastic rosaries and scapulars. I select one of each from the stash and walk the short length of the chapel, running my hands along the three parallel rows of hand-carved pews. Framed pictures of Jesus hang in mismatched frames across the paneling. They depict the story of Christ—his life, death, and resurrection. Because the small screened windows have been left open, a gentle breeze forms a cross flow. The battered air conditioner remains unplugged.

In just a few steps I reach the front of the chapel, where a life-sized Virgin Mary stands taller than me, resting against an enormous cypress trunk that has been crosscut to form the altar. The brochure explains how the men pulled this sunken beauty from the swamps and floated the majestic tree downriver before carving it specifically to fit this space. The result is a sacred iconic work of art.

Between the statue and the trunk a natural hollow forms around a knot in one of the cypress knees. Visitors have tucked handwritten prayers into the space, hoping Mother Mary will bless them with a miracle. Some claim she has done just that.

Today I pray she'll grant me one too.

I am not Catholic, but I have spent my entire life in Louisiana and am vaguely familiar with the finger rosary ring and the scapular pendant. I don't know the exact way to say the Hail Mary, but out of reverence for the devout Deroche family who built this holy space, I pray aloud, on my knees, in front of Mary.

I pray in the name of her son, the Jesus of my youth, the Christ I was taught to build my faith around. I know him now as a man born of humble beginnings, a man who dared to challenge the powerful authorities of his day. A man who performed miracles and taught a radical message of love and grace. A man who was killed for daring to offer such hope to a hate-filled world.

I think back to the Bible stories of my youth, most of which depict a dark and devious side to human nature. Is it so different now than in the days of Jesus? Have we managed to learn anything in these two thousand years?

“Mary,” I whisper. “You know this grief. This pain. If I'm to believe the history, you lost your own child. How did you survive it? How did you keep faith? Help me believe.”

Then I turn my heart to God and beg for mercy. For miracles. For grace. It's been a long time since I've been able to pray. At first, after Ellie's death, the words simply would not come. My spirit was so broken, I could only wail,
Help! Make it all go away!

After that I hit a wall. Every time I turned to the heavens, a swell of anger would fill me. How could I possibly pray to a God who had taken so much from me? My message turned from
Help
to
Why, God? Why?

But here, now, words come faster than I can speak them. I let them slide into the air, rising up from a clear, deep spring that has long been walled within me. Tears come with the words. Then anger. I breathe deeply. A part of me wants to toss a threat, shout to God:
You hurt me again, I'm done for good.
Instead, I try not to blame him for my suffering.

I stay here for a long time, my knees pressed hard against the wooden floor, the chapel door open wide behind me. Dawn is breaking fully into day. The room fills with birdsong and the wind moves between cypress needles, causing branches to creak. Above me, squirrels scamper across the roof, barking their signature warning calls.

There's something about the mix of the religious icons and the sounds of the swamp that convince me Martha Deroche was onto something when she insisted the chapel be built here. The site seems sacred.

Between birds and squirrels, wind and water, I listen for the voice of God. But once again I am left with no answers. No promises. Only my fragile faith, as I cling to the feet of Mary.

Like my daughter, Ellie, I was baptized when I was eight years old. With two pigtails and nervous eyes, I stood at the altar, chest-deep in lukewarm water, cloaked in a white choir robe with the pastor's hand placed firmly against my spine. My mother waited with a towel in the choir loft, smiling reassuringly as I offered a public profession of my Christian faith. Church members sat silently in padded pews while the pianist softly played “Just As I Am.” But truth be told, at eight years old, I wasn't thinking about the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit. My thoughts were focused on two things only, and as I sent God a prayer, it was to ask him:
Please don't let my underwear show through the wet robe, and please don't let the water go up my nose.

Before I could say amen, the preacher put his hand over mine and tilted me backward for the dunk. I pinched my fingers around my nose, held my breath behind tight lips, closed my eyes, and let my weight fall beneath the water.

In an instant I reentered the world of air and light, with my pigtails wringing wet and my mother standing in tears, waiting to wrap me in the warm, dry terry cloth. I hadn't expected to feel changed. But I had done it. I had proven I was no longer a little girl.

Standing there, I had an epiphany of sorts, if you can call it that at such a young age. With every Bible study and Sunday school lesson, every youth group meeting and choir rehearsal—it had all come down to this. I was loved. Not just by God but by these people, this community, this church. As they sang the hymn, they were telling me I mattered, that my soul was worthy of being saved, that I had a place to call home.

When I wiped water from my eyes and walked with wet feet
toward my mother's open arms, the congregation's voices rose in tune. Music swelled around me, and I promised myself I would never let them down.

But somehow I have done just that. I lost Sarah. I failed to keep my family together. I buried my child. And no matter how hard I try, I can't fix these broken parts of my life.

Now I remember that eight-year-old little girl, the one in pigtails whose faith could not be shaken.
I want to keep believing. You know I do. Please, God, show me how.

I move to the small collection of ruby-red prayer candles. I open the cardboard matchbox. “Please hear the prayers of all the people who have come here to pray. Mine too.” I strike a match.

First I light a candle for Ellie. I repeat the process for Sarah, taking time to focus my intentions. Then a third flame, lifting to heaven all the children across the world who are suffering. And another for the millions of adults who have somehow lost hold of their own souls, who prowl like predators, stalking every vulnerable heart.

As I place another burnt matchstick into the narrow chamber of sand, a sprawling shadow spans the chapel, and I turn to find a man in the doorway. Just shy of six feet, he stands against the cypress frame, a weathered camouflage cap in his hands. “You out here all by yourself?”

His accent is heavy Cajun-French, the clipped cadence that sounds like song. He doesn't threaten, but I've learned from years with my clients that eyes are the best way to get a true sense of someone's soul. With the sun behind his back and his eyeglasses blocking my view, I step forward to get a better look. Dark brown. Soft. Honest. I exhale.

“I was just about to leave,” I announce, trying not to show any fear. He steps away from the door, allowing me free exit.

“Don't let me run you off.” He sends a smile. Gray rubber boots reach his knees, with worn blue jeans tucked down deep into them. “I'm just doing my mornin' check. Where're you headed?”

I assume this must be one of the Deroche relatives. In these parts, it'd be rude to let on I don't know who he is.

“Just out lookin' around a bit.” I offer a vague answer and switch to a more informal code.

“You got the sheriff's boat?” He eyes the craft.

I tuck the scapular and rosary into my pocket for safekeeping. “Yeah, I'm staying down at Jay's place. I'm Amanda.”

He hums to acknowledge me as one of his own. As he shakes my hand, his suspicions seem to ease.

“My aunt and uncle built this place. My aunt Martha, she's got her a real deep faith. Talks about the Blessed Virgin nonstop.”

I smile. “You think she really had a vision?”

“Oh, I don't know. I'd say it's smart to believe whatever my aunt tells me.” Nothing sarcastic here. “She's got this unique way of thinking about it all.”

“Really? What's that?” I rest against the wooden frame. It holds the heavy bell.

“You know how people say Mary was a virgin, or whatever.”

I nod.

“Well, Aunt Martha, she likes to say God knew what he was doing putting that story in the Bible. Because it means a lot more than we think. God knew, if he really wanted to save the world, he'd have to rely on a woman. And he chose Mary because he wanted to make a point.”

“Interesting.” I chuckle a bit. “What point?”

“My aunt thinks God was trying to say that men had let him down too many times. So he turned to a woman. A virgin, who was
not under the control of any man. And he made her a mother for a reason. And he gave her a son for a reason too.”

I arch my brows, waiting for the moral to be revealed.

“It's so she could bring a new kind of man into the world, one who could teach men how to love again. We had forgotten.”

As I motor away from the chapel, I eye a small wooden cross. It has been nailed to a cypress tree, right here, in the middle of the swamp. I pull Jay's boat closer and kill the switch. Despite the fact that it is shadowed by thick gray beards of moss and banked by the bald knees of the trees, someone has indeed taken the time to attach a cross to this weathered trunk.

The Blind River is a dangerous place. Many have died here. So I suspect the cross serves as a memorial. A tribute to a life lost too soon. As I sit in Jay's boat, the sun leans long across the river bend and casts a warm glow atop the wooden marker.

Here, in one of the most misunderstood places on earth, where predators prey and perils pervade, where a loved one's life was stolen, this grieving survivor chose hope. I imagine a woman, pulling her boat through the murky waters. She reaches out over the thickest depths and nails a cross to this tree, reminding us all that even in the deepest, darkest pits of despair, there is light. We are loved.

I return to find Jay at his outdoor sink, cleaning a fresh batch of fish.

“Where else can people live off the land like this?” He leans against the porch and looks down at his own mud-caked boots.

Boudreaux runs to greet me. I give Jay's devoted Lab a pet, and he responds with a hearty tail wag, nearly knocking me from the deck. As I reach to grab a post, it shifts, barely holding. “You ever going to fix this place up, Jay?” I laugh.

“What's the point?” He shoves the post back into place. “Good enough for my grandfather; good enough for me.”

I can't hide my smile. “A man who doesn't want to toss the old, familiar parts of his life. Shows a sense of loyalty, stability. I like that.”

Jay blushes a bit, nailing the post back into position. Then he says, “I wanna show you something. Come with me.”

In less than a minute the two of us are paddling through prickly palmettos using strong, quiet strokes. It's a bit difficult to steer the pirogue along the shallow backwaters, especially with Boudreaux between us. I switch my oar from one side to the other, trying to maintain momentum. With each sway I fear we'll tip right over, and I am surprised by my own desire to stay afloat. I no longer want to sink to my death in the swamps. I want to paddle. I want to live.