I wanted to be annoyed, I really did. I didn’t want to encourage my bratty sister to waste my time. But also, catching her and tossing her around? It was a little fun. I bit the inside of my cheek to hide that, well … I was enjoying myself.
I pretended to drop Mallory, setting her down carefully and checking her balance before releasing her. I schooled my face to serious, pointed to the ground and commanded “Stay” like she was a dog. Her mouth curved up mischievously.
I was secretly grateful that Mallory didn’t follow directions, yelling Marco Polo to flush Grace out. I found her slinking between the pines, laughing as she padded closer. I crouched until she was close, gripped her wrist and tugged.
She lurched, and my hand steadied her waist. Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide with alarm. She opened her mouth as I bent at the waist and wrapped my arms around her legs, lifting her using the same fireman’s carry I’d used on Mallory. A surprised wail escaped as I shouted, “I’ve got her, Shrimp! Meet by the barn.”
But instead of squirming, Grace’s body went limp.
Her limbs trembled as her breathing sped into pleading whimpers.
When I tried to place her feet down, her body crumpled. I dropped to my knees, cupped her cheeks and said her name. Her glassy gaze looked through my chest.
I screamed for Mallory, my voice panicked.
My sister tore through the trees at top speed. She froze at the sight of Grace on the ground, arms tight around her knees. “What did you do?”
“I carried her out, same as you.”
“Over your shoulder?” I nodded. “Shit.”
Mal knelt in the dirt, removed my hands from Grace’s face, and murmured in a soothing voice. “You’re safe, sweetie. This is your friend Mallory. It’s Saturday night. We’re at a tree farm in Saratoga.”
Panic rose in my chest. “Mal, I didn’t — I carried her the same way …”
“I know,” she looked at me over her shoulder and said somberly, “but I don’t have flashbacks from PTSD.”
Chapter 16Grace
“Where’s Isaac?” I asked on Christmas morning after church, stealing a bite of pie crust. I used to feel so comfortable in this house, the wafting smell of apples, cinnamon, and Mama’s gardenia perfume.
But not this year.
I hadn't been home since summer break when Elijah and I came home for Nanna's funeral. I'd sat between him and Isaac, biting my cheek and clenching my fists to hold back my tears. If Dad saw me crying I'd get chastised for being too sensitive. But college had taught me that stoicism wasn't a mark of strength.
College taught me more about myself than I ever expected.
I’d woken up before dawn to drive four hours straight from Syracuse to church. Arriving a few minutes early, I'd expected my oldest brother Isaac to slide next to me in our family's front bench, but he could have gone to the earlier service. So I'd sat alone and then chatted with familiar families to delay as long as possible, not wanting to spend a second longer in this house than necessary.
Not with this secret burning inside me.
Not with Elijah in Tokyo for six more months. I needed to tell him first, and this wasn’t exactly news you drop into a Skype call.
So I planned to use Isaac as a shield from Dad … but his car wasn’t here.
“He got into a huge fight with Dad last night,” Levi said in a bored tone. “Dad overheard him tell Mom he went to his girlfriend Rachel’s house for Hanukkah and forbade him from dating a non-Christian. He stormed off after dinner, who knows when he’ll come back.”
Isaac wasn’t here. Isaac couldn’t protect me.
Ok, I would be ok. I’d adjust my plans. Stay in the kitchen with Mama until I had to face Dad. Keep my mouth shut. Stay quiet, stay small. Wait for Elijah.
“I don’t know why he’d bother with a Jew. Christian girls are better at everything that matters," Levi said with a lewd expression. I stifled my reaction, dodging his hand as he reached over to ruffle my hair, which I hadn’t cut in a few months. “Tell me you’ve found some pretty college girl to take care of you.”
I heard a muffled voice, almost unintelligible, like it was coming from underwater: “Honey, it’s me, your friend Mallory. You’re in Saratoga now.”
“Merry Christmas, Leviticus, Jeremiah,” Dad said, and my given name felt like a slap as he entered the kitchen from the garage, still in his crisp shirt and festive tie from church services. Mama plated his lunch then retreated to the kitchen. I desperately wished I could follow her, but I knew that would trigger a lecture about “a woman’s place.” That fight felt too close to the surface right now. Better to stay and shut up.
“After all,” Levi drawled, as if Dad had interrupted a debate about Scripture instead of sex, “the Bible says that’s what women are made for: taking care of their men. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
“Of course, Leviticus,” Dad said, proud of his son for asking a religious question since Levi barely paid attention during services. “Ephesians 5: ‘As the church submits to Christ, so wives should submit to their husbands in everything.’”
“Hear that? Submit in eeeeeeeverything.” He poked me in the ribs.
“But you can’t expect —”
“Sweetie, it’s Mallory. It’s all over, you’re here with me now. Listen to the sound of my voice, and nod if you can hear me.”
A wave of nausea rose, and I squeezed my eyes tighter.
“You can’t, what?” Levi said.
“You can’t expect women to submit everything to their husbands.” I turned to my father. “If you had a daughter, you’d want her to make her own decisions, right?”
Dad leaned back in his chair. “If your mother had given me the girl I wanted, I would have shepherded her to remain pure until she had a good Christian husband to guide her.”
That should be it. I should shut up. The plan was to shut up.
