She’d heard all this before. Her mouth was dry, and swallowing made it worse. She flinched halfway through his speech as a result, and his eyes focused sharply on her face, his words becoming more clipped. She didn’t know what he was saying and she didn’t care.
When he was finished, he nodded to the women behind Summer, who stepped forward at once to collect her. Their procession would now move to the chapel. She kept her eyes on him even as they steered her toward the doors, twisting her neck as far back as it would go, conveying her hate and her weakness all at once. He stared back unmoving, the cold of his eyes reaching for her, as well.
She could hear singing as they turned down the hallway where the chapel was, the hypnotic hum of voices. It wasn’t so much singing as it was chanting, the men and the women holding hands, eyes closed, their mouths molding over the words holy, holy, holy.
Sara had left the procession at some point and had gone ahead to the chapel, because when they entered through rear doors, she saw the back of her friend’s head in the last row. They’d snuck in here together many times, using the key they’d stolen. Now her back was to Summer, her shoulders pressed forward; Sara wouldn’t look at her.
Look at me, look at me, Summer thought, focusing all her energy at Sara’s head. It was like Sara could sense her there, because she twisted her body away from Summer, toward the wall. And then they were past Sara, and she focused her attention ahead.
It all happened in one ugly moment, the moment that would burn into her memory with a hot, shocking pain that throbbed through her already depleted body. The song, the flowers, the glossy box ahead. She didn’t believe it right away, or maybe she thought it was someone else—one of the elderly. But there was the photo, the name. She still looked through the faces frantically with every step forward they took; when she slowed down, she felt Dawn’s hands on her lower back, moving her forward.
“Walk,” she said into Summer’s ear. Before they reached the front row, the row where they meant for her to sit, she started screaming. The wails of “Mama” shrill above the singing. She looked back at the faces behind them. Maybe she was sick, too, maybe she had what Taured had, and she was hallucinating. But then they were at the front of the church, near the place where Taured addressed them, and she could see it all.
She was at her mother’s funeral.
She didn’t stop screaming until they removed her from the chapel, Bob and Marshall hauling her down the hall, her feet dragging. Her breaths were ragged gasps. A boy—Ginger—was in the hallway. He looked to be exiting the bathroom; when he saw them coming, he flattened himself against a wall until they had passed. It was like the last time, just with a few different players, except now, she didn’t care what they did to her; in fact, she wanted them to kill her—she wanted to die.
They took her to her mother’s room this time and locked the door. She curled up on her bed, on the quilt with the tiny, embroidered roses, and howled as loudly as her vocal cords would let her, the grief growing heavier by the second. Eventually, her voice gave out to a skinned, gravelly sound, and she was only able to sob. When she woke, she remembered, and the pain started again, fresh, a billowing wound that was all-encompassing. She lay in one spot, refusing food or drink until they sent Sara to comfort her. But she didn’t want to see Sara, who had betrayed her. In the end, they left her alone with her grief.
On the third day, Taured came to see her. He was dressed in his nice clothes: black pants and a blue oxford rolled to the elbows. In his hands was a tray with what she assumed was breakfast. He set it down on the little table where Summer sometimes did her homework and turned toward her with a brilliant smile.
“Good morning, Summertime. I’ve come to keep you company.”
Her stomach clenched.
“I’ve made you breakfast. Will you eat?”
He motioned to the table and Summer froze. She had eaten very little, mostly drinking juice and eating pieces of bread rolled between her fingers into little balls. She’d pretended they were communion and she was eating her mother’s body and drinking her blood in remembrance. On the table was a plate, piled high with steaming yellow eggs and thick pieces of bacon. Her mouth was wet and her stomach groaned miserably. But then, out of her rolling stomach came a memory: another table covered in food...Taured leading her into his office...his smile as he closed the door. The vision ended as soon as it came, skirting something significant she couldn’t recall. When had that happened? Lifting her hands to her head, she cradled her own face. She was outside of herself, a coating on her own body like sweat.
She was hungry, but she did not want to eat. Eating would be disrespectful to her mother, who would never eat again. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, keeping her eyes low, and walked over to the table. She sat, smashing her toes into the rug and staring down at her hands.
“Eat,” Taured commanded. Still, she hesitated. He picked up the fork and placed it in her hand. Summer gripped the metal and scooped egg into her mouth. She chewed, staring straight ahead. The egg dropped into her stomach with a plop, she could feel it—all the while Taured watched.
“I know you’re in deep pain, Summer. We are all grieving Lorraine. She was a very important member of our community and we loved her very much.”
The eggs threatened to come back up. She held the back of her hand to her mouth and breathed in the scent of her own skin, closing her eyes. She didn’t want to listen to him talk about her mother. The fork clattered to the plate when she dropped it. Her hands moved to her eyes, palms open to cover them—a childish gesture, but what felt like the right one. A moment later, she heard the sound of a chair being moved. She dropped her hands to see him across from her. His knee brushed hers and she yanked it away, squeezing her thighs together.
“Your mother was not well these last months.”
“She was fine. She was the same as always.”
She saw a flash of annoyance in his eyes at being interrupted. “Parents shield their children from the ugly truths to preserve their innocence, Summer. You were not privy to all of the things your mother was moving through emotionally.” That was true, though it hadn’t been her fault, because Taured kept her mother away on his mission trips, and they barely had time to communicate when she was at the compound.
“And you were?”
“Well, yes, I’m her mentor and spiritual leader, and she confided in me when she was having a hard time.”
Summer shook her head; she didn’t believe a word he was saying. He went on speaking, anyway.
“She never got over your father. You know that. She lost her will to live.” His voice was low, like he was telling her a secret, but it wasn’t true—her mother had been fine. At the airport, she’s seen the signs of her old mother again, and then...
“What did you do to her in there?”
Her balled fist hit the table, rattling the orange juice in its glass. She registered the look of surprise on his face, but this time there was no remnant of fear on hers; he had killed her mother, and she was angry. He didn’t answer.
“I’m going to go to the police and tell them you killed her!”
His face changed, grew angrier with each word she said, but she didn’t stop. “You put her in that room and she died!”
The slap came like a whip, striking fast enough to bob her head and leaving a terrible sting.
She touched her cheek with her palm, trying to draw out the pain, staring at Taured not in shock but in anger.
“You can’t call the police, Summer, you can’t do anything. You belong here, to me. Especially now that your mother is dead. Where would you go? Do you know that her father molested her? That’s why she didn’t want to take you back. She knew that you were safe here.”