Under the Light

Chapter 26





Jenny


THE CAINE HOUSE USED TO FASCINATE ME when I was little. Mrs. Caine collected figurines of angels, some of them salt and pepper shakers, some fragile blown glass; some of them were bells or made from sand dollars or walnut shells. They were shelved in deep racks with glass fronts so they were always in the dark. Now as I walked past the cabinet the angels seems like prisoners. I wanted to open the glass fronts and let them fly away.

My mother said the women’s group was going to hold a special prayer meeting for me. I guess because my father was picking me up that afternoon to take me to California. I agreed. My plan was to be completely cooperative. I was floating on a river of calm, a leaf on the current. It would be easy to go to church and be homeschooled and use a camera only to take pictures at birthday parties and Christmas. I might learn to be happy. As long as I didn’t care what happened to me next.

When girls visited women’s group, and I had several times, they sat in the least comfortable chairs, but when we came into the living room Mrs. Caine put me in a large recliner. It was right across from a glass cabinet of brass and wooden angels. They stood in a straight line in the shadows, a tiny army.

It did seem strange that there was no food. Usually they served nut bread or crackers and cheese. There was one small pitcher of water, but not even any glasses. No smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. That should have made me suspicious.

My mom sat on the sofa beside my chair. The quiet was creepy—even more than snacking, these women liked to talk.

“Jenny,” said Mrs. Caine. “We have come to realize you need help.”

I was used to agreeing with my parents when they said I needed prayers. I nodded. Of course I needed prayers.

“And your mother can’t deal with this by herself,” Mrs. Caine went on. “We love you, dear. That’s why we watch over you and notice when things aren’t right. For instance, we know that you’ve been having trouble remembering things lately, like what you did and said just a few days ago.”

That wasn’t the kind of sin I expected them to point out.

“And no one would disagree that lately you haven’t been acting like yourself.”

Why couldn’t they just pray for me and get it over with?

“You’ve lashed out in anger at your mother and at all of us. You’ve been secretive and disobedient.” Mrs. Caine paused. “You had sexual intercourse.”

I was startled by this. It hurt to come out of my numbness for a moment. My mother had confided in them more than I realized.

“In church, you behaved very strangely,” she said. “Almost as if being in the Lord’s house made you agitated. You repeatedly threw the Bible onto the floor.”

“I did what?” I asked. Then I realized she must have meant the way I was letting the pages fall open and reading quotes with Helen.

“I know,” said Mrs. Caine with an unpleasant tone of pity in her voice. “It wasn’t really you, was it?”

I looked down at my hands in my lap because glancing at the women around the room bothered me. They wore their matching sweater sets and modest makeup and reasonable shoes, and yet they held their crosses like they were expecting a vampire attack.

“You were screaming,” said Mrs. Caine, “that you were trapped when you were in the nursery changing room. You told your mother that there was a kind of spirit inside you.”

I didn’t have to look at my mother to feel her embarrassment. Maybe she’d told Mrs. Caine secrets that she didn’t expect to hear repeated.

“We’re going to help you,” said Mrs. Caine. “Let us do that.”

A Heavy Prayer Intervention. They’d lay their hands on me and I’d thank them and some of them would cry and we’d have tea and then it would be over.

“There are certain signs,” said Mrs. Caine. “You saw someone in the bathroom when you took sleeping pills, someone your mother couldn’t see.”

I did look at my mother now. Nerves pulled in tight lines around her eyes. She’d told them such strange details. It didn’t make any sense. What did thinking I saw someone by the bathtub have to do with dropping a Bible?

“You knew things that you couldn’t have known,” said Mrs. Caine. “Things about your English teacher.”

This must’ve been from Helen’s time. He was her host. Had she talked about him?

“At last week’s meeting you knew someone in the room was having an affair,” said Mrs. Caine.

Helen was me that night. “What did I say?”

“You don’t remember yelling at us?” Mrs. Caine asked. “Your mother tells us that even your handwriting looks different sometimes.”

Without a word, my mother put her hand on my arm. Did she wish now she hadn’t shared so many stories with Mrs. Caine?

“Cathy, it’s natural for you to be protective,” said Mrs. Caine. “Your instinct is to come to her aid. But you know in your heart that we’re not the enemy. We’re here to save Jenny.”

My mother took her hand away. “She was baptized in our church,” she said. “You were all there. She went through confirmation class and joined the adult congregation.”

“She invited it in,” said Mrs. Caine.

It? I felt an odd buzzing from one ear to the other.

“We’re not just dealing with Jenny anymore.”

My skin crawled like a swarm of ants. Why did they have to pull me out of my numbness? The sadness opened in me like a shattering window.

Mrs. Caine stepped closer, standing right in front of my chair. “Jennifer, you have to refuse evil and give yourself back to Christ.

“I do,” I said. I knew it was better not to argue. Just agree that you’re a sinful wretch and promise never to do it again.

“The Devil tricked you. That’s what he does. But you invited him in, didn’t you?” asked Mrs. Caine.

The word woke me up, made my ears taut. Devil.

“No,” I said. My face was burning. I wanted to throw up. “Not the Devil.”

“A demon, then,” said Mrs. Caine. “But Jesus Christ is stronger than any demon.” She stepped closer and nodded to the other women. “Just relax, Jenny. We’re going to lay hands on you.”

This wasn’t foreign to me. It happened every week in my house, but as Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Baum came over and knelt in front of me, they pressed my wrists down onto the armrests and held my legs against the chair with their bodies. I knew this was not really the laying on of hands in prayer. It was more like holding me down to be tortured.

“Don’t!” I tried to pull free, but the women held fast and whispered comforts to me like aunties who want you to stay still while they take out a splinter.

“It’s expected that she’ll fight,” Mrs. Caine said matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Garman and Ellen Woolcott came and each held one of my shoulders to the back of the chair. I wanted to scream and throw them off, but I didn’t want to look or sound like a possessed person.

Mrs. Caine lifted the little pitcher of water and dipped her fingers in it, then flicked the liquid in my face. A drop stung my left eye and another hit my lower lip. Salt water?

Mrs. Baum whispered, “It hurts her!”

Ellen Woolcott gasped, let go of my shoulder, and hurried out of the room and down the hall.

“It’s fine,” said Mrs. Caine. “If she’s scared, it’s better if she’s not in the room.”

Finally my mother spoke up. “I don’t like this.”

“Trust me,” said Mrs. Caine.

There was nothing I would’ve liked more than to run away, but I was sticking to my plans. Go along with everything. Let them think what they wanted. Just be passive and thank them afterward. But as they began to read aloud together, it hurt my feelings that my own mother didn’t stop them. They were treating me like a monster and she was letting them.

“Lord have mercy,” Mrs. Caine chanted, and the others, even my mother, joined her. “Heavenly Father, hear us. Intercede, O God,” they spoke in unison.

I wanted to slap their hands away. But that would be exactly what they’d expect a demon to do. “I’m not evil,” I said. But I felt like my body was weak and empty, my spirit was small and cowering—I was shrinking on the inside like a burned-up match. I said, “I don’t have a demon in me.”

“Don’t converse with it,” whispered Mrs. Caine.

I remembered the way my father would hold up one finger while I was trying to talk about my feelings or ideas and I would have to be silent. If I spoke again, my mother would hush me. In those moments I was nothing, less talkative than a sparrow.

Be a sparrow, I told myself. Be silent and fly away. No one will bother you if you disappear.