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The plot, you see, I think I’ve lost it
I need the grace to find what can’t be found
- Over the Rhine, “Long Lost Brother”

Day 1
Saturday, early August.

The whole world is wilting.

Shriveling. Giving up. Dying.

Maybe not the whole world. Somewhere, I guess, it’s not ninety-one degrees at four in the morning. I would like to be in that place. I would like to be somewhere, anywhere, that life feels possible and not smothered under a layer of heat and hopelessness. I’m tired of waking up every two hours in a puddle of sweat, and tired of every day discovering there’s something else that’s ruined or broken or falling apart. Yesterday it was the TV. Today, it’s the ceiling fan in my room, the brokenness of which I discovered when I woke up wondering where the air went. I slipped out the sliding glass door into the backyard hoping for a miracle of something below eighty, and I now realize I can add the yard to the list of minor tragedies that make up my life these days.

The solar luminaries my dad put in last summer give just enough light that I can see the disaster it’s become in this heat wave. Except I can’t completely blame the heat. Honestly, it’s looked like this for a long time. Dad’s momentary burst of involvement via the luminaries and also painting the lawn furniture was just that --- momentary. For about seventeen minutes last summer our family worked the way it’s supposed to. The problems with the yard are just a symptom, really.

Everything out here reminds me of something. I can almost see the outline of my mom crouched at the base of the apple tree, mulching the roots, her blond hair held back with a blue bandanna; the curve of her neck, elegant. Even just a few months ago, when she was passing-out drunk, she still had that elegance. Classy is the word for my mother.

The clothesline strung up between a fence post and the metal eyebolt my dad screwed into the tree makes me think of the way he looked at her, laughing, when he said, “I can just imagine your undies flapping in the breeze on this thing, for all of Pineview to see. Your bra size will end up in the church newsletter if you’re not careful.”

“That would be funny if it weren’t true,” my mom said, but she smiled, too, and I know she liked it, Dad teasing her that way.

“Dad,” I said, acting embarrassed. “Please.” But I liked it, too.

That summer it wasn’t too hot, and when the heat did climb there was iced tea on the back porch, my parents playing cribbage together after the sun went down, the game board balanced on my mom’s tan thighs and my dad laying cards down on the arm of the chaise. None of that lasted long. Probably all my good memories of the last year add up to three days.

I walk through the yard, making a mental checklist of what needs fixing. The two butterfly bushes have grown into each other and taken over the spot where my mom once had an herb garden, back when she still cared about things like cooking. The Mexican sage has completely run amok. The hollyhock plant that looked okay a few weeks ago has fallen over from its own weight, and lies across the flagstone path like a corpse. I step over to it, sweat trickling down the inside of my tank top and to the waistband of my pajama shorts. I try to get the hollyhock to stand up and stay up, but it flops back down over my bare feet.

I’m glad my mother isn’t around to see this.

Instead, she’s got the residents’ garden of New Beginnings Recovery Center, neatly xeriscaped with drought-resistant plants that never ask for more than you can give them. Her room is neat. The cafeteria is neat. The visiting area is neat. She’s been lifted, as if by the hand of God but in truth by the long arm of the law, out of this messy life.

I could make this yard look like the one at New Beginnings. All it would take are some supplies and time and maybe a book from the library telling me how to do it. Then, when she comes home, she won’t have to see the same dead and dying things that were here when she left.

Ralph is hunkered down in the kitchen sink when I come in, cool porcelain all around him, and meows at me as if there’s something I can do about the heat. I’d sit in the sink, too, if I fit. I lift him out and put him on the floor where he paces and meows and rubs his gray fur against my legs.

There’s no cat food. There’s barely any people food. I tear a few pieces off a leftover rotisserie chicken in the back of the fridge and toss them on the floor for Ralph, then pull an envelope from the stack of mail on the counter and start a grocery list on the back of it.

Soon I hear Dad up and moving around, and within a few minutes he appears under the archway to our open kitchen. I lift my head and he’s rumpled and sweaty, his thick hair sticking up every which way, and staring at me like he’s thinking of how to form the words that will make whatever it is not sound so bad.

“What,” I say. It’s not a question, because I know it’s something. Every day it’s something.

“Bad news.”

I wait for it, thinking of some of the information that has recently followed that statement.

Grandpa’s surgery didn’t go like we’d hoped.

We’re not sure if we can pay the tuition at Amberton Heights Academy next year.

Your mother’s been in an accident.

“The air conditioner is on the blink,” Dad says.

Of course.

He reaches down to scratch Ralph’s head. “At least, I can’t get it cranking. On the up side, the TV seems back in commission. I’m not sure how, but we’re getting a picture again.”

“My ceiling fan isn’t working, either.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. And we need to buy groceries today.” I hold up the envelope I’ve been writing on. “I’m making a list.”

He comes close, smelling like someone who lives in a house where there is no air, and takes the envelope, turning it over to look at the front. It’s a bill of some sort. “When did this come?” He rips into it.

“I don’t know. The mail has been sitting here . . .” For a while. “Don’t mess up my list.”

He pulls out the bill, looks at it for half a second, and stuffs it back into the envelope. “I guess I should go through all of this,” he says, looking at the pile.

“Yeah.” There are a lot of things around here I can take care of, a lot of things I have been taking care of for a long time, but being fifteen and unemployed, money isn’t one of them.

Dad searches through a pile of paper on the other end of the counter. “Doesn’t your mom keep coupons around here somewhere?”

“Mom hasn’t clipped coupons in at least three years,” I say. I know, because it was my job to sit at the counter with the Sunday paper while Dad was at church getting ready for the service. I’d scan the coupons and deals, while Mom had her weekly anxiety attack about what to wear, and what to make me wear. She hated Sundays. Eventually I realized she wasn’t even using the coupons, and I figured I’d be of more use helping Mom get dressed and ready and calm. “You look perfect,” I’d assure her. And she always did.

Dad, of course, was never here for any of that, so he has no idea. He stops rummaging through the papers and looks at me. “Well, what is all this, then?”

It’s stuff from the last four months that she was scared to throw away: old phone messages, flyers for events she was afraid she’d forget about, bank deposit slips. She used to like a neat house, everything in order, so the fact that she let that stuff pile up should have told Dad something. Obviously, he’d barely noticed the kitchen counter until right this moment.

“It’s Mom’s,” I say. “Just leave it.” I don’t want her coming home from rehab and feeling like we went through the house, erasing her. “Can we stop at the hardware store when we go out?” I ask. “I want to get some stuff for the yard.”

“Maybe I can find the part for your ceiling fan and get that working.” He stares at me in that meaningful, fatherly way I can’t bear anymore so I have no choice but to turn away and pretend to look in the fridge. “What else do you have going on today?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I move an almost-empty carton of milk two inches to the right and close the door. “Unless you want to start our driving lessons?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t today. I think you should make a plan. I think you should call Vanessa, or Daniel. Get out of the house. Go see a movie in an air-conditioned theater.”

“Maybe.”

“Sammy, it’s not a suggestion. Okay?”

I nod. We’ve discussed this. Me being home alone too much, a habit I developed when I started to get afraid to leave Mom by herself. But she’s not here now, so.

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” he says.

I nod again, and watch him walk away, through the airless living room and down the hall.

Main Street in Pineview has exactly six not-so-creatively-named businesses:

Petey’s Ice Cream
The Casa Nova Mexican Diner (only open three days a week)
Main Street Coffee
Main Street Gas & Garage
Main Street Bar & Grill (the “grill” part closed down years ago)
Main Street Hardware

We’re two hours south of Medford, six hours north of Sacramento, and a day west of Denver, which puts us exactly . . . nowhere. We have parades on Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Christmas. The Ten Commandments are still inscribed on a monument outside City Hall even after three lawsuits. Once a year people from all over the West come here for the Migratory Bird Festival. There’s one public school for all grades, one private school (where I go, or went, I guess), one post office that’s really a trailer off the pass, one library, and one grocery store where the whole town shops except for those who drive thirty-eight miles to the new Dillon’s Bluff Wal-Mart. And seven churches, including Pineview Community, where my dad is the pastor.

Everyone knows him. Everyone thinks they know us, me. Everyone is wrong.

Even as we drive through town now, people in other cars and kids playing near the road recognize us and wave. Probably a third of the town’s population helps pay the lease on our Taurus and the mortgage on our house, which gives them the right to say things to my dad like, “I see you got new tires there, Charlie. Are you sure the steel-belted are really worth it? They can’t be cheap . . .” or “The front lawn at the house is looking a little ragged — do you need to borrow a mower?” Whenever I get new clothes I can almost see some of the women at church calculating how much we spent.

Everyone knows exactly how much my dad makes, and they think it’s enough. Some think it’s too much.

One time I was out with Mom when we ran into a congregant who owns his own tech company and gives a lot of money to the church. Mom was holding on to her cell phone, which she’d just upgraded to one of those that does everything so that I could have her old one, and this guy, this congregant, made a comment about it. “I guess you can keep your grocery list on that thing, if nothing else,” he said. His big, jokey smile didn’t hide what he was really saying: Why does a housewife need a fancy phone, especially when the church basically pays the cell bill, and shouldn’t we use that money for new pew Bibles or an ad in the county yellow pages?

“Yes,” Mom said, smiling back, drawing a perfectly but modestly home-manicured finger through a piece of hair that had fallen across her face. “It does wonders with grocery lists.” But when the guy was gone, Mom said to me, “I guess we’re not supposed to live in the twenty-first century,” and tucked the phone into her purse, out of sight.

There’s a lot of stuff like that we deal with. Those are just examples.

Now Dad pulls the car right in front of Main Street Hardware, and as he turns off the engine there’s a little rattle coming from under the hood. I look at him. He’s pretending not to hear it. After Mom’s accident, and everything else, the last thing we need is car trouble.

The bells on the door of the hardware store jingle as we go in. A wave of air-conditioned air feels too cold at first, raising goose bumps on my arms, but then it’s like heaven.

“Charlie, hey.” Cal Stewart, who owns and single-handedly runs the hardware store, greets us. Or I should say he greets my dad and nods politely at me. “What can I do for you?” I like Cal, even though he never remembers my name. He’s got woolly dark hair that’s just starting to go a little gray, and wire-rim glasses that make him look smarter than most people in Pineview, and he’s a lot nicer than the old couple he bought the store from a few years ago.

Dad and Cal discuss the ceiling fan issue, and I take advantage of the chance to walk the aisles of the store, running my hand over the different-size chains that hang from spools, looking into bins of glittering loose nails in every size, examining a dozen kinds of spackles and glues. There’s something to make or fix or connect everything.

When he’s done talking to my dad, Cal walks by the other end of the aisle and catches sight of me.

“Can I help you find something?”

“I’m thinking about doing something different in our backyard.”

“Let’s go to the outdoor section. Near the front.”

My dad is up front, too, talking on his cell, something about the music for tomorrow’s service.

Cal asks me, “So you want to do something different. Different how?”

“It’s so hot,” I say. “Everything’s kind of . . . dying.”

He leads me to a spinning wire rack of thin gardening books, many of them dusty and with pages that are starting to yellow from the sun. “Here’s one on desert gardening. Technically, Pineview is high desert and not true desert, but it’s got a lot of info on plants that don’t need much water.”

“Xeriscaping.”

“Right.” He hands me the book. “Is this for 4-H?”

“No,” I say, surprised that he remembers. “Just for my house.”

The last time I came here was to get wooden dowels. I dropped out of 4-H before I finished that project, which was supposed to be me and Vanessa teaching crafts at the Dillon’s Bluff Senior Center, but my mom wasn’t doing so well the day she’d promised to drive us to do the setup, and my dad was busy with church, and instead of telling the truth I told Vanessa that I’d given my mom the wrong date and Vanessa got mad and I dropped out rather than let her down again. Anyway.

“You’ll probably need some of this,” Cal says, leading me through the store to a pile of black plastic sheeting.

“What for?”

“To smother those water-greedy plants you’re trying to replace.” He hands me a bulky, folded armload of it.

“Ready, Sam?” my dad asks, eyeing what I’ve got and, I’m sure, calculating the price.

I nod. Cal rings us up and Dad pays with a credit card. We both exhale and try not to look too surprised when it goes through.

In the grocery store, Dad doesn’t approve of my list. “Your mother lets you eat like this?” He puts a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels back on the shelf.

I stare at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Just that you sound like a weekend dad who’s been divorced for years, I think, not someone who allegedly lives in the same house as me.

He pushes the cart down the cereal aisle and throws in a box of cornflakes, the store brand that’s always on sale and is not so much cornflakes as corn dust. To stop myself from complaining I turn on my heel and go off to the pet supplies, where I run right into Vanessa and her mom struggling with a twenty-pound bag of dog food.

“Sam!” Vanessa drops her end of the bag to the floor and hugs me.

It’s only been a little over a week since I’ve seen her, but she looks like a whole different person to me. True, she’s gotten her hair cut, and maybe she’s a little bit more tan, but I mean she feels like a stranger --- her voice, her soft arms around my neck, like it’s been ten years, not ten days. I pull back, and wonder if she thinks I feel like a stranger, too.

“Didn’t you get my messages?” she asks.

“I ---” Whatever I say won’t be true. How do you admit to avoiding your best friend?

Mrs. Hathaway, still grasping her corner of the dog food bag, saves me. “We wanted to invite you over for dinner sometime this week, if that would be okay with your dad.”

She knows about my mom being gone, that’s obvious, because normally she would have said, if that would be okay with your mom. Which makes me wonder how many other people from church know and when Dad is going to officially announce it so that I can stop playing the “I don’t know if you know” game every time I run into church people, which is pretty much every time I leave the house.

“Yeah,” Vanessa says, bouncing a little bit on the balls of her feet, “you can spend the night.”

“I’ll make your favorite Chinese chicken salad,” Mrs. Hathaway coaxes. She always makes me feel like one of the family, as if she and my mom are still best friends and we all practically live at each other’s houses, even though that hasn’t been true for years.

“Come on, Sam.” Vanessa is practically begging. I could make both my dad and Vanessa happy by simply letting the word yes come out of my mouth.

But I don’t want to.

I don’t want to be with people. I don’t want to talk to people . I don’t want to answer questions or pretend to be interested in conversations or activities.

“I’m really tired,” I say. Which is true.

Vanessa’s shoulders slump. “So?”

“Maybe. I’ll call you.” It’s the best I can do. “I have to go find my dad.” I pile a dozen cans of cat food into my arms.

“Okay, sweetie,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “You let us know. Or just show up. You know our home is your home.”

The way she says that, so sincere and warm and nurturing, makes me start to tear up unexpectedly, and I turn as I say,

“Thanks,” before she can hug me and make it worse.

“Call me, Sam,” Vanessa says. “I miss you!”

“Me, too,” I say automatically.

I find Dad in the produce section, loading the cart with vegetables.

“There you are,” he says. “Grab anything else you need and then we have to scoot. I haven’t even started prepping tomorrow’s sermon.”

“Dad,” I say, staring into the cart.

“What now?”

“It’s all . . . ingredients.”

He stops in the middle of filling up a plastic bag with broccoli and gives me a questioning look.

“Who’s going to cook this stuff?” I ask.

“I thought . . .” Now he stares into the cart.

“It’s not like I know what to do with it. She never let me in the kitchen when she cooked,” I say. Cooking was the one thing she and I didn’t do together. Everything else — shopping, cleaning, watching TV or movies, looking at magazines, gardening, polishing our toenails, doing our hair, trying on clothes, going for walks or runs — was the two of us. But when she was in the kitchen, even I was banished. It was the one place in her life where she was totally in charge.

“Haven’t you noticed,” I continue, “that your meals have come out of a can or the microwave since, like, Christmas?”

I take the bunch of broccoli out of his hand and put it back, along with the mushrooms, the little red potatoes, the baby squash. I keep the bagged salad and apples. Then I wheel the cart to the meat case and put back the package of ground beef and the whole chicken in favor of some pre-seasoned, pre-cooked chicken breasts.

“I could cook,” Dad says weakly, but he knows I’m right. We’re not the kind of family anymore that sits around the table to a balanced and nutritious meal to talk about our days. We’re the kind that lives on stuff only requiring a person to work the microwave or add boiling water.

After filling our cart with stuff that meets these criteria, I pull Dad along to the checkout line. He’s still in a daze, like he’s only just now living in reality. I think of a line he uses in sermons sometimes: “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” Funny how talking about things safely from behind a podium in church is different from really getting them in real life.

The cashier, a squat fifty-something woman who’s worked here as long as I can remember, smiles big at us. Well, at Dad. “Hey, Pastor Charlie. Haven’t seen you here in ages!”

And instantly he turns on his Pastor Charlie charm, going from sad and dazed to warm and present, like our grocery cart tragedy never happened. “Come to church and you can see me every week,” he says with a grin. “You haven’t been since your niece’s baptism, am I right?”

I turn away, look at the candy shelf, and add some four-for-a-dollar chocolate bars to the conveyer belt. Meanwhile, the cashier and my dad are laughing it up. “Maybe I was hiding in the balcony.”

“And maybe you weren’t.”

She loves it. Because all women love my dad. He’s handsome enough even with the little soda-belly he’s grown in the last couple of years, has all his hair, is youngish, charming, kind, a good listener, reliable, attentive, there when you need him. Those last four only apply if you aren’t in his immediate family. Most of all he’s the kind of man who would never cheat, and --- as my mom pointed out to me once after a few drinks --- that’s exactly the kind of man women want to cheat with. “Ironic, isn’t it?” my mom said, kind of laughing and kind of not. And I wanted to tell her how that isn’t the sort of thing I want to know about or think about my own father, and please could we change the subject, but I don’t think she really realized it was me sitting there with her. I mean she knew it was me, but when she’s drinking she kind of forgets I’m her daughter and she’s my mom. So the definition of appropriate topics of conversation tends to . . . expand.

Dad pays for the groceries with a check, which will float a couple of days while he figures out how to get money into our account.

Back in the car, he’s still in his confident pastoral mode. “I’m sorry,” he says, buckling his seat belt. “The food thing ---”

“It’s okay,” I say, cutting him off. I turn up the air-conditioning full blast and lift myself off the seat a little to keep from burning my thighs on the vinyl.

“We’ll sit down and talk about this. We’ll make a plan for how to make sure we’re taking care of ourselves and each other while Mom’s away.”

He’s been saying this for two weeks now, been referring to this mythical conversation we’re allegedly going to have, in which everything will be ironed out and processed and prayed over and resolved, and yet we somehow never actually have it.

We pull out of the lot. The air blowing into the car finally begins to cool. “I just have to get through church tomorrow,” he says, “then on Monday we’ll figure it all out.” He glances at me. “Okay?”

The only response I can give is “Okay.” I know that church comes first, and I didn’t expect us to actually get five minutes to talk, and I guess I should be grateful we got groceries and went to the hardware store.

When we’re almost home, I say, “I ran into Vanessa in the store. I think I’m going to spend the night over there.” Because suddenly the prospect of conversation with other people doesn’t seem as hard as going into that house, our house, staying there with no AC while Dad holes up in his office getting ready for tomorrow.

He gives my knee a light and happy smack. “Good, Sam. Good. I’m glad. You need to have some fun.”

At Vanessa’s house, the air-conditioning works and the mail isn’t piled up and we sit around the table, all of us together, looking out onto a backyard where everything is under control.

“After dinner, you two can go out and pick some tomatoes,” Mrs. Hathaway says as we all pass her our shallow bowls, which she fills with mounds of Chinese chicken salad. “Sam, you can take some home. We’ve got a bumper crop out there.”

“Does this have onions?” Robby, Vanessa’s seven-year-old brother, scrutinizes his dish. He always inspects his food with a funny kind of thoroughness --- C.S.I. Dinner Plate.

“No, honey,” his mom says. “Just scallions.”

“I love scallions,” I say, trying to help, making my eyes big and excited. “They’re my favorite. Plus they make you super strong.”

He’s skeptical. “What are scallions?”

“Green onions,” Vanessa says. Mrs. Hathaway gives her a look.

After we’re all served, Mr. Hathaway extends his hands --- one to Robby, on his left, and one to me, on his right. I take it, and Vanessa takes mine, and Mrs. Hathaway takes hers, and then completes the circle by holding Robby’s. The prayer over the food is on the long side, as Mr. Hathaway covers not only the food but also each one of us as well as world events. His hand is rougher and bigger than my dad’s, calloused from playing the guitar, which he does almost every Sunday.

“Amen,” he finally says, giving my hand a squeeze.

This is what a family is supposed to feel like.

“How’s your mother doing?” Mrs. Hathaway asks, as if it isn’t the hardest question in the world to ask and answer.

“Fine.” I eat a bite of salad. It’s good. Mrs. Hathaway got this recipe from my mom.

“I know it’s hard right now, but it’s good that she’s getting help.”

“Mom . . . ,” Vanessa says, and glances at me apologetically.

Robby asks, “Why does Sam’s mom need help?”

I start to say that she had a little run-in with a fence post, which is true, but Mrs. Hathaway answers first: “She’s sick, Robby. It’s a disease. It’s ---”

“Like cancer?”

“Well, not quite.” She looks thoughtful. This is a Teachable Moment. “But you could say ---”

“We don’t really need to go into this right now, do we, Nance?”

Mr. Hathaway looks at Robby. “Sam’s mom doesn’t have cancer, bud. She’s going to be fine.”

“Yeah,” I say to Robby, who’s staring at me with eyes that are the same blue as Vanessa’s. “She’s going to be fine.”

Out in the yard the ripe tomatoes are almost jumping into our hands. It’s dusk, and the hummingbird moths hover and swoop around the lavender bushes while Daisy, Vanessa’s golden retriever, walks the perimeter of the yard over and over. The Hathaways’ yard is smaller than ours --- they live a little closer to the main part of town where the houses are packed in a little more tightly. But it’s definitely a better yard. They have a drip irrigation system, with a trickle of water constantly seeping out, just under the soil, and neat rows of summer produce. I wonder if I could do that without any help.

“My mom is so dumb sometimes,” Vanessa says, straightening up among the tomato plants.

“It’s okay. It’s just . . . I didn’t know she knew. And that you know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I move to another plant, but most of the tomatoes on this one are still a little green. “I was going to. You haven’t been back that long.”

Vanessa, along with almost the entire youth group except for me, went on a mission trip to Mexico. A lot of kids had to raise the money, but Mom didn’t want me to because of how my dad’s job already involves asking for money. When you stand there every week and pray before the offering plate is passed, people get funny about it.

I change the subject. “I love your haircut. It makes you look older.”

She reaches a hand to her neck. “Really? It feels so short. This one old lady in Mexico thought I was a boy. Ugh.”

“No, it’s cute. And with the highlights cut off it looks more cocoa-y.” I find a dark red tomato and pluck it from the vine. “Maybe I should chop my hair off, too.” Even though I’ve always had long hair, the same ashy blond as my mom’s, maybe short hair like Vanessa’s could help me feel less weighed down by . . . everything.

“I like your hair the way it is.”

We pick for a while, just listening to the crickets, before she says, “I wish you could have been there, in Mexico. It wasn’t the same without you.”

“Thanks. I wish, too.”

“Sam? Is your mom really going to be okay?”

I blink several times and bend low, pretending to be interested in the plants. “Yeah. It takes time.” That’s what they said in the family orientation. It takes time, and patience, and perseverance.

“Are you okay?”

She wants me to talk, as in really talk, about my feelings. And I know she’ll try again when we’re in our sleeping bags tonight, and in the morning when we’re getting ready for church. And every time, I know I won’t be able to.

“Mm-hmm.” I hold up my bowl of tomatoes. “Do you think this is enough?”

The outline of her head in the dimming yard nods.

Day 2
Sunday

There’s a poster in the youth group room that probably came from some youth group–supplies warehouse in Texas or Colorado that I imagine is filled with T-shirts and coffee cups and rubber bracelets with what are supposed to be inspiring messages for The Youth, as everyone who is not The Youth calls us at our church.

The poster --- now kind of curling and dusty --- shows a bunch of multicultural-looking teens in fashions from five years ago, falling all over each other on comfy couches, big smiles on their fresh faces, surrounded by pillows. One of them holds a Bible and a notebook in his lap. On the bottom of the poster are big yellow capital letters:

COMMUNITY HAPPENS!

Don’t forget the exclamation point. Everything for The Youth has exclamation points.

When I was in sixth grade, I’d come to the church on Saturdays to help my dad get ready for the next day’s services. I’d collect all the pencils from where they were holstered in the pew racks, sharpen them, and put them back. I’d restock the offering envelopes and make sure every pew had the right number of Bibles and hymnals. One time, my dad sent me down to the youth room to look for a missing communion tray and I stared at that poster and pictured myself in it, smiling, knee-to-knee with the other youth group kids, who would be my best friends. My community. It would be like having a whole bunch of brothers and sisters, and we’d know everything about each other. Because, as we’re reminded all the time at church, community happens through sharing. “Getting real.” With God. And with each other. Telling each other about the not-so-pleasant things that may or may not be happening in our lives. In theory, community ensues.

I believed in the theory, and expected that once I hit high school my life would be filled with all this understanding and friendship and spiritual bonding, and my faith would come alive, just like the poster promised. It hasn’t really happened that way.

Now I look around at our monocultural faces, which are sort of smiling, but not nearly as happily as the poster faces. Mine least of all. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to share. It’s not like I want to feel like this, live forever in this mood of resistance and suspicion and doubt. But I’ve been feeling this way too long to remember how not to. How would they react if I really did share, the way we’re supposed to, and said: My mom is in court-“suggested” rehab and my dad has no clue how to deal with it or even talk about it, and I think I might be depressed? What if I said that?

Maybe this morning my dad will finally say something, officially, to the congregation about Mom, and then everyone will know and I can exhale. Then tomorrow, he and I will sit down and have that talk he promised about how things are going to be, how we’re going to deal with it. And next Sunday, I can share, and finally make them all understand what I’ve been going through, alone, all this time.

For now, I sit with my lips pressed together while Vanessa, still touching the back of her neck every ten seconds like she’s looking for the hair that used to be there, shares. She shares about how on the Mexico mission trip she realized how lucky we all are to have indoor bathrooms and clean drinking water. And Nick Shaw shares his excitement about moving into the dorms in a couple of weeks and also his anxiety because he doesn’t know if he’ll like his roommate and also he’ll miss Dorrie. That’s Dorrie Clark, who lives up in Dillon’s Bluff and goes to a different high school but has been Nick’s girlfriend for ten months. Their success as a couple is a disappointment to nearly every girl who’s ever met Nick, me included. Not that I know him that well or sit around daydreaming about him. It’s just that Nick is the kind of guy every girl wishes would choose her. He’s a rare combination of tall and athletic and cute, and also sincere. He asked me to dance at a wedding once, and I just thought that was really nice, like he’d seen me sitting there looking bored and danced with me out of the kindness of his heart. I don’t know any other high school boys who would do that.

Then Allie shares that while in Mexico, she woke up early one morning and something told her to go outside, and she did, and saw the sunrise and even though all of the poverty and despair had her wondering if God really pays attention, the beauty of the red and purple sky seemed to tell her yes, God is there, and knows what he’s doing. “I really felt it.” Her pale eyes are damp. “It was like a personal message but at the same time something everyone in the world could see. At least, everyone in that village, on that morning. It was . . . I don’t know. Hope.”

I glance at Daniel to check his reaction. He and Vanessa are the only ones who really know me, and at least understand my family a little bit. Even they can’t totally get it, though, because no one can know what it feels like to be the pastor’s kid unless they are one. Daniel, who normally would roll his eyes at Allie’s personal messages from God, is staring at her, really listening, and nodding a little bit. He almost looks like he wants to say something, then notices my glance and doesn’t. Instead, he scoots lower into his chair and scratches at his round face.

Allie talks some more and I start to envy her Mexico experience. Right now I would love to have a personal message from God. I want to believe the way I used to, when my dad or mom or sometimes both of them would pray with me at night and I would picture God listening, kind-eyed and bearded. He was real to me, as real as my own parents. I don’t know when God stopped being someone I saw as my true friend, and turned into something I’m mostly confused about. But if I can believe that Allie believes, maybe that would feel close enough. Like if I can latch on to some third- or fourth-hand experience of real faith it will almost be enough to make up for what I’ve lost.

Through all the sharing, Erin, our youth group leader, leans forward with her elbows on her freckled knees while asking follow-up questions and making noises like “mm” and “oh” the way she does every week. The other thing she does every week, eventually, is turn her gaze to me and ask, “What about you, Sam? What’s going on?” I always have to be coaxed. Now that I know that life in youth group isn’t like the poster, I’d rather be helping out in the little kids’ Sunday school class where everything is simpler — just coloring in scenes from uncomplicated Bible stories, then moving on to juice and animal crackers.

This time, Erin says, “We missed you on the trip, Sam. How’d you keep busy?”

I’m not sure who all this “we” is, because no one else has mentioned or commented on the fact that I didn’t go. No one else seems to notice me at all, generally. I mean, at youth group stuff they do, because they have to, because Erin is vigilant about making sure everyone feels included. But a few of them go to my school and actively look the other way when they see me there, and more than once I’ve caught them all talking about some party or outing they obviously all had together without inviting me. Because I’m the pastor’s daughter, I guess. As if I’d take notes and run to my dad if one of them swore or talked about sex or sipped a beer. I wouldn’t.

Maybe it’s got nothing to do with being the pastor’s kid. Maybe it’s just me.

They’re waiting. What did I do to keep busy.

“I’m redoing our backyard. To make it more drought-friendly.”

“Oh, cool,” Erin says.

Thankfully, no one else has to come up with a reaction because Gerald Ladew, the organist and choir director, comes in to warm up the youth choir, a few of the junior highers — who meet in a separate group — trailing behind him. “Come on,” he says to the high school members of the choir: Vanessa and Daniel and Allie and Paul. The Franklin twins are in it, too, but they’re not here today. I can read music and sing a little, but I hate standing there in front of people so I faked not being able to carry a tune when Gerald auditioned us all in spring.

He herds them toward the old upright piano, warped and waterstained, another “just give it to The Youth” treasure, like our ratty couches and the coffee table with the one leg shorter than the others. The youth room is the dumping ground for stuff too ruined to be in congregants’ actual homes anymore. There’s still a pile of musty World War II–era pup tents in the corner some ancient church member thought we could use on the mission trip. No one had the heart to tell him no.

“Pretend that this is in tune,” Gerald says, plinking out some notes. “Where’s my soloist? Anyone seen Jody?”

Jody Shaw, Nick’s thirteen-year-old sister, treks in late, because now she’s the one who gets to help with the little kids’ Sunday school, like I used to. She drags her feet, complaining it’s too hot up in the sanctuary to sing, let alone put on choir robes.

“Don’t be a whiner.” Nick, whose hair is exactly the same shade of reddish-brown as Jody’s, gives her a playful little shove with his foot as she passes by the couches, where we’re sitting opposite each other, the only ones not singing — other than Erin, who’s writing something on the wall calendar.

I can tell he’s only teasing, because like I said, Nick is actually truly nice. But Jody whirls around, furious, and kicks out one skinny leg. Her foot makes contact with Nick’s shin.

“Hey,” he says, laughing. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

Jody’s mouth makes a funny shape, and it’s obvious she’s about to cry. “It’s okay,” I say quickly. I hate knowing that someone else feels bad. “He’s just kidding. And it is really hot. Don’t wear robes,” I say. “My dad won’t care.”

Jody nods and regains her composure. “I know.” She looks at Nick. “Just be nice to me.”

“I am. I will. Sorry, Jo-Jo.”

I’ve never heard Nick call her that. It’s sweet.

“Don’t upset my soloist,” Gerald calls, frowning in Nick’s direction and running a hand over his balding, sweaty head.

“Okay, okay.” Erin comes over and steers Jody by the shoulders to the piano. “It’s the heat. It’s making every one crazy.”

I study Nick’s face while he watches Jody and the rest of them do their vocal warm-ups. I’m always watching Nick and Jody, and Kaleb and Kacey Franklin, and Vanessa and Robby. I can’t imagine anything in the world better than having a sibling. Even if you fought sometimes, it would be worth it to always have that one person who knows what it’s like to be part of your particular family. Someone you can look at to see who you are. And if I had a brother or sister, I wouldn’t be the only pastor’s kid.

Specifically, I always wanted a little brother, like Vanessa has. She and I were around eight when Robby was born and for like a year after that I kept asking my mom for a brother, too. That never happened. As far as I know, my parents didn’t even try. I guess one was enough. Or too much.

Nick reaches to rub his shin and catches me staring. “It does kind of hurt,” he says, sheepish. “Don’t let Jody make you think I’m not nice to her. It’s her. Ever since she turned thirteen it’s like the sister I knew has been taken over by an alien. A very emotional alien.” Then he smiles.

It’s hard to explain how it feels when Nick Shaw smiles at you. Not butterflies or blushing. It just feels good. “I won’t,” I say. “Anyway, it’s common knowledge that thirteen kind of sucks.”

We hear the pre-service music starting upstairs.

Erin comes over and gathers her stuff. “That’s our cue.” Then she turns around and gives us a goofy grin. “And remember, this is the day the Lord has made.” She holds out her hand, palm up, as if to say, “Well?” It’s one of our little youth group rituals that’s corny and embarrassing, but Erin always makes us, no matter what.

Nick and I complete the quote together: “Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Nick pumps a fist on “glad” and Erin laughs, but while she does she looks at me with an expression I can only describe as worried.

I try to finish with an exclamation point.

The day the Lord has made is stinking hot. Throughout the service, people fan themselves with bulletins and offering envelopes and I can tell my dad cuts the sermon short so that everyone can go home and get on with life. Jody’s solo was beautiful, though, her pure, sweet voice floating out of the choir loft and almost visibly rising in the warm air. But I couldn’t focus on what she was singing, or on the rest of the music, or on the Old Testament reading, and I can’t do it now as my dad is wrapping up the sermon. Because I’m waiting, waiting for him to say it.

After three Sundays with her gone, people have to be wondering what happened to my mom, and making up their own stories about it. Dad must know that the gossip could wind up worse than the truth if he doesn’t tell them. And for a moment his mouth opens and his shoulders tense up and I know he’s about to confess. That we’re not perfect, that he’s not perfect, that our family has problems, too, and we’ve covered it up for too long and that’s not right when the church is supposed to be your second family.

The moment passes and he’s lifting his hands to give the benediction.

I stand with him by the open main doors, in the path of a hot breeze and the blinding white of noon sun. Normally my mother would be standing here with us for this part of the Sunday ritual, when the visitors and regular attenders shake my dad’s hand, hug him, tell him they liked the sermon, tell me I’m getting so tall, tell me I’m getting too thin, ask me what grade I’m in, and, now and most of all, ask us where Mom is.

“Oh, she’s just been under the weather,” Dad says over and over. “I’ll tell her you said hello.” He manages warm smiles when he says this, his straight teeth assuring every one that everything is a-okay with the Taylor family. Nothing to see here, move along and God bless.

I can’t stand to hear him anymore, so I step out of the glare of the sun and look into the sanctuary, where the light is coming through the small stained glass windows along the side that show different scenes from the life of Jesus. I can see the one of him turning water into wine, and half of the one of his baptism — just the corner of his shoulder with the dove about to alight. My favorite is out of view but I know it by heart: Jesus in a white robe standing next to a squinty-eyed Lazarus, who’s fresh from the tomb after being dead for a few days. Dead dead. As a doornail. If you believe the story. Mary and Martha, his sisters, stand nearby, watching the whole thing, their arms held out in a kind of scared joy at the sight of their resurrected brother, like they’re not sure if they should hug him or run.

I used to be able to picture myself there. Not just there with Lazarus but there for all of the miracles. There at the water/ wine wedding. There at the baptism. On the hillside when he stretched a small lunch into a meal for five thousand. Growing up with those stories all around you all the time, you sort of buy in. You can’t help yourself.

Now I think miracles are things that happen in stained glass, and on dusty Jerusalem roads thousands of years ago. Not here, not to us. Not when we need them.

In the car Dad pulls off his tie and strips down to his soaked undershirt. A half mile down the road, he says, “I know you’re mad.”

“You were going to tell.”

“The timing didn’t feel right.”

I don’t want to argue with him. All I want is to get home and eat something and have a cold drink and watch TV. If it works. I turn on the radio and find my favorite country station. “Did you fix my ceiling fan yet?”

“No. Sam . . .”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.” He takes my hand, stilling my fingers. “And I don’t
mean about the ceiling fan.”

For a second, I’m tempted to turn my hand over and let our palms meet, a small act of acknowledgment. Instead, I free it and hold it in front of the dashboard vent.

When I realize where the car is headed, I look at him. “Dad. Seriously?”

“It’s the first Sunday of the month.”

First Sundays mean brunch at the Lodge. Sometimes with Vanessa’s family, sometimes with other people from church, sometimes just us. Once in a while we go even if it isn’t the first Sunday. Exactly one month ago we went with Mom. She ordered a Bloody Mary, and then another, and then one more. Three drinks do not make Mom drunk. Three drinks keep her functioning, but Dad put his foot down about her drinking before church and maybe someone catching a whiff, so usually by the time church is done she’s not doing so great. The servers at the Lodge know when they bring my mom a Bloody Mary to put it in a regular glass without a giant stalk of celery sticking out, and for all anyone knows she just really likes tomato juice.

“We’re going to join Daniel’s family today,” Dad continues. “They invited us and I thought you’d enjoy that.”

If I’m going to have to talk to anyone, it might as well be the Mackenzies, even if Daniel’s dad can be a little bit loud. At least I know there won’t be any lulls in the conversation. And I haven’t spent much time with Daniel all summer, since he’s been busy with summer school and I’ve been busy not spending much time with anyone.

The Lodge is this log-cabin-ish building on the edge of town, off a two-lane state road and up a winding dirt drive. It’s kind of nestled up against the foothills and is the only place around here to go if you’re having a special occasion: birthday, anniversary, graduation, stuff like that. It’s also the only place open on Sundays, so people from all seven churches crowd into both floors of the restaurant and spill out onto the deck, which has plenty of shade and is rigged up with misters all around to keep it cool. That’s where Daniel and his parents are sitting when we get there --- at a table near the north corner of the deck. They wave us over.

As we walk to their table, people greet us. Well, they greet my dad. “Pastor Charlie,” they call out, “enjoyed the sermon!” “Pastor Charlie! The new landscaping at the church building looks terrific!” “Pastor Charlie, are you here to poach my congregants again?” That last one comes from Pastor Egan of the Methodist church, and he says that every single time we see him. Every time. He’s about seventy years old, and that’s probably average for the other churches here. Pineview is the kind of town pastors come to when they want to retire but also want to still feel useful and make a little money. They pack up their empty nests (meaning: no other pastor’s kids like me) and bring them here, so they can lead a rural church into its final years. That’s what makes my dad and our church different --- he’s young, and the average age of our church membership is a lot lower than the other churches’, and ours is the only congregation that’s growing instead of dying. So Dad is Mr. Popular here at the Lodge, and he always turns on
the charm.

“That’s right, Bill,” Dad says now to Pastor Egan, clapping him on the shoulders. “Bringing in the sheaves. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Har har har.

I take the seat next to Daniel and say hi to his parents while Dad makes the final rounds of the deck.

“Samantha,” Mr. Mackenzie says, taking a gulp from his coffee mug. He’s already red and sweaty, even with the misters. “How’s every little thing?”

My name isn’t Samantha, but I’ve corrected him so many times it’s getting embarrassing. “Fine.”

Eventually, Dad makes it to our table and we order. I can tell Daniel’s mom wants to ask about my mom: where is she, how is she, when will they be seeing her again. She doesn’t, though. That’s how you can tell people know something they aren’t sure they’re supposed to know, and how they know something is wrong. If they really had no clue about Mom’s problems, they’d ask. Also, they would look at me, which Daniel’s mother doesn’t do.

“Danny Boy,” Mr. Mackenzie says after we order, “tell Sam and Pastor Charlie all about your experience in Mexico.”

“Sam’s already been forced to sit through all that in youth group,” Daniel says.

I look at him. “You didn’t really say anything.”

“He didn’t ? Tell Pastor Charlie,” his mom urges. “Tell him . . . you know . . . what happened.”

“Mom. It’s kind of personal.”

I keep staring at him. What could be so personal he won’t say it in front of me?

His dad laughs and reaches across the table to grab Daniel’s forearm and give it a jiggle. “It’s Pastor Charlie. If you can’t tell him, who can you tell?”

Dad smiles and says in his I’m-a-hip-grown-up-not-like-the others voice, “You don’t have to tell me, Dan. Or, we can talk about it later.”

Daniel picks up his glass of water. There are giant sweat spots under his armpits. I try to think of a way to rescue him from this conversation, whatever it’s about, but I don’t try that hard because I’m just glad we’re not talking about us.

“It’s no big deal,” Daniel says, “it’s just ---”

“No big deal?” his mom says softly.

Now I really want to know. “What?”

Daniel opens his mouth to speak but his dad interrupts. “Danny got a call while he was in Mexico,” he says, looking at my dad, proud. “From the Lord.”

“I’m thinking about maybe,” Daniel glances at me, almost apologetic, “becoming a pastor. Maybe.”

“Oh.” I can’t believe he didn’t say anything to me.

“Hey,” Dad says, “that’s great.”

“What’s this ‘maybe’ business? You told us it was a calling, clear as day. There’s no maybe in a calling.” Mr. Mackenzie looks at my dad. “Right, Pastor Charlie?”

The food comes just as Dad is about to answer. Eggs and ham and hash browns for Daniel and his dad, pancakes for me, a poached egg on dry toast for Daniel’s mom, who’s always on a diet, and the French toast special for Dad. If Mom were here she’d get the two egg breakfast with sausage, and toast with lots of butter. After a big greasy breakfast and three drinks and the relief of church being over, she’d be in her best mood of the week. Sometimes she’d get out a pen and start making lists on a stray piece of paper from her purse, or on the back of a church bulletin. Lists of things she planned to accomplish that week, like organize the garage or return phone calls. Lists of things that never actually got done.

I wonder if she were here now, what she’d say to Daniel’s plans for following in my father’s footsteps.

Dad positions his fork and knife over his food and then looks right at Daniel. I know he’s about to make his pronouncement about Daniel’s “calling.” It’s obvious that’s why Daniel’s parents invited us here in the first place. No matter what Daniel and his family think God said to him about his future, it’s what my dad says that really matters. You can see it in their eyes as they wait for him to speak.

“Working in church ministry is a great privilege. What is it they say about the military? It’s the toughest job you’ll ever love. When you sense God’s calling, it might not be specific, like being a pastor.” I can almost see Daniel’s shoulders sag with relief, and I realize maybe the reason he didn’t tell me is that he’s already changed his mind. “Probably what you felt down in Mexico is the knowledge that your life has a purpose, and somewhere in that purpose you’ll be serving God. Maybe as a pastor or missionary, but maybe not. You can serve God as a biologist or a literature professor or . . .” He glances at the guy refilling Mr. Mackenzie’s coffee cup and smiles. “. . . as a waiter.”

Mr. Mackenzie laughs. “Let’s hope not!” And then Daniel laughs, and we all laugh, even the waiter. Dad’s done it again. Said all the right things. Made everyone feel good. Spoken on God’s behalf.

He blesses the food and I cut into my pancakes, staring at the foothills through the warm, misty air, wondering what God might be telling Dad about how we’re going to fix our family. And if either one of them plans to finally relay that information to me.

When we get home, Dad tells me he’s going to take a nap, like he does every Sunday after church stuff is over. Sometimes Mom naps, too, and so do I. We turn off the phone, turn off our cells, and escape into sleep. Right now, though, the last thing I feel like is lying alone in my quiet room with nothing to do but think. I plop down onto the living room sofa while Dad lurks in the hall like he wants to tell me something. As usual, the second we’re alone, words don’t come so easy for him.

“The ceiling fan in my room works,” Dad says from behind me. “I don’t mind taking the sofa if it’s too hot out here for you.”

I shake my head and pick the TV remote up off the table. Ralph yowls at me. I turn so that I can see my dad. “Did you remember to feed him this morning?”

Dad smacks his head. “Shoot. No. I’ll do it right now.”

“Never mind. I’ll do it.” I should have left him a note before I went to Vanessa’s yesterday. “Go take your nap.”

He follows me partway to the kitchen, then stops. “Okay. Come get me if you need anything.”

He goes to his room and I collapse onto the sofa with the remote. The TV still works, for now. Cycling through the channels doesn’t take long since we don’t have cable. I can feel the last few weeks of summer stretching out in front of me, a hot expanse of days filled with . . . this. TV and Ralph. One of the things Dad and I need to talk about is whether or not I get to go back to Amberton Heights. Unless a pile of money falls from the sky in the next couple of days, I don’t think so, especially now with Mom’s expenses. And honestly, I don’t care about school right now. Where I go, or even if I go. If I dropped off the face of the earth, that might be okay, too.

I put the remote down and lie back onto the sofa. I’m getting sleepy after all, pancakes heavy in my stomach. I doze off for a while, but then cheering on the TV wakes me. Golf. I cycle through the channels again and stay on a nature show, then fall back asleep. When I next wake up, it’s nearly six, and I’m in a cramped position, sweaty. I sit up and move my neck back and forth to loosen it up, flipping through the channels again. While I’m doing that, I pass something that makes my heart skip, even before I really know what it is. I go back to it.

It’s a screen-size picture of Jody Shaw.

I sit forward.

Jody, who just kicked Nick in the shin this morning. Jody, whose high, confident voice filled the church.

I put together the picture, the words on the screen, what the TV voice is saying.

Jody Shaw was taken off the street while walking to Petey’s Ice Cream after church, wearing her favorite orange T-shirt. No one saw what happened. She was there one second, and gone the next. Gone.

Something rises in my throat --- a sob that I’m scared to let out. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

I get up and move closer to the television. Mr. and Mrs. Shaw are on the screen now. And Nick. Mrs. Shaw crying and asking anyone who knows anything, anything, to call the police. Mr. Shaw
says, “She needs us. And we need her.”

Nick’s face is blank, like someone has taken an eraser and rubbed out everything that was him.

The picture of Jody comes back up. She’s in braids and braces and underneath her smiling face is Amber Alert information, phone numbers, website addresses. This is real. The rift in the world --- the edge of which I’ve been teetering on for months --- splits wide open, and I’m falling. “I know her,” I say to the TV, then look around the room like there might be someone else to tell it to, but there’s only Ralph, on the coffee table cleaning his paw.

“Dad?” My voice is too quiet to wake up someone sleeping in a room down the hall behind a closed door. I try to say it louder, because I don’t want to move away from the TV. “Dad?” But it comes out even quieter than the first time. I back out of the room on unsteady legs, keeping my eyes on the TV as long as I can before I turn and stand outside my dad’s room. “Dad.” I push open the door. He’s fast asleep, snoring lightly, the ceiling fan whirring above him. “Dad.” A whisper now. I walk right up to the bed, where he’s lying exactly on his half as if Mom is napping right beside him.

“Someone took Jody Shaw,” I whisper. I lay one finger on his chest
and prod him. “Daddy. Someone took Jody Shaw,” I say again.

His eyes flutter open. “Sam? Are you okay?”

I can’t think of the right answer to that question.

“Did you just say something about Jody Shaw?”

I nod, and swallow hard.

“She’s gone.”

Excerpted from ONCE WAS LOST © Copyright 2011 by Sara Zarr. Reprinted with permission by Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved.

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