“Benny,” I say softly. “What’re you doing?” He holds a photograph out in my direction. His face is blank as a sheet. I take the photograph out of his hands and stare at it for a minute. It’s of Dad and Lillian, taken years ago. Even with her flowing red hair and enormous belly, Lillian is unmistakable. Her left hand is resting lightly on the swell of her stomach and the other hand is around Dad’s waist. She is smiling dutifully for the camera, but her eyes are turned down and her eyebrows are furrowed. Dad isn’t smiling at all. His posture is erect and rigid, both arms firmly at his sides. I turn the picture over, looking for a date. There, in Dad’s handwriting, are the words: “Isaac and Naomi, Mount Blessing.”
Naomi? Who’s Naomi? The only Naomi I’ve ever heard of is Honey’s mother. This is Lillian. I’m sure of it. I turn the picture back over and study the face. Except for the long hair and the pregnant belly, the woman’s features are definitely Lillian’s. Why would the picture say …
Naomi?
“Where’d you get this?” I ask.
Benny points to the pile of pictures scattered around him.
I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed and pick up each one, studying them carefully. There is one of Honey and me sitting in our nursery crib, wearing diapers and nothing else. No more than two years old, we are huddled together over a book like two old women sharing a secret. I snatch another one, studying it closely. It’s one Nana Pete took just last summer. We are standing in the bicycle ring in our summer shorts and T-shirts, smiling for the camera. I remember that day vividly. It was a month after I received The Saints’ Way. Honey and I had argued just a few minutes earlier; she was angry with me because I would not race with her down the length of the field. My explanation for not wanting to run anymore wasn’t good enough, she’d said; in fact, it was downright crazy. She had conceded bitterly, but in the picture her arm is flung around my neck, her cheek pressed against mine as if nothing had happened.
I grab the picture of Dad and Lillian back from under the pile and hold it next to the picture of Honey and me. My eyes flick back and forth between the two so rapidly that my head starts to hurt. There’s just no way. It’s impossible. It has to be.
After a while, I throw the pictures down and run into the bathroom. Curling up into a little ball, I fit myself in the space between the tub and the toilet and stare at the white porcelain, trying to clear my head. I think back to the conversation Lillian and I had at the motel, when she asked me about Honey and Winky. Now, suddenly, I understand. Or do I? How can this be happening? What would it mean? The fear is overwhelming, like a heartbeat all its own, a new blood pulsing through every vein in my body.
I reach around and pull my little book from inside my waistband. Opening it to the story of Saint Agnes, I start to read. She went to her execution cheerfully, knowing that she was to meet her Beloved Jesus soon. I read the sentence again, trying to decipher the words behind my tears. Suddenly I close the book and hurl it as hard as I can across the room. It doesn’t have far to go, and when it hits the opposite wall with a smack and then slides down against the floor, a sob breaks out of my chest.
My whole body begins to shake as I think about the punishment we will receive upon our return to the commune.
Dad’s answer—One thing at a time, Agnes. Let’s get you home safely and worry about the rest later— had not been comforting.
In fact, every time I run it through my head, trying to search for hidden clues, I’m filled with dread. Why is it that he can never come right out and say what’s really going on? Why does he always present things under some sort of shroud, where in order to get to the truth I have to pull back layer after layer in hopes of finding it? Is he not who I think he is, either? Has everything been a lie?
“Help me,” I whisper. “Someone. Please. Help me.”
HONEY
The only thing running through my mind as I bolt out of the house is finding Lillian. If I can just find out where King’s is and get her to come home, maybe we’ll all still have a shot at this. Dawn is just breaking as I lunge through her front gate and run down the flagstone path. The air is pulsing with new, frail light. The sky is the color of an eggshell. I look around wildly, trying to determine which direction I should go.
And then all at once, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. A Zebra Longwing. She settles delicately inside the spiky fern for a few moments, collecting nectar with her nose stem. Her gossamer wings, elongated at the tips like fat teardrops, shudder every few seconds. The sun glints off the black-and-white stripes. I hold my breath. I’m afraid she will fly off if I breathe, and I don’t want her to go anywhere. Not after waiting for so long.