A Family Matter

Papa always said I was the splitting image of Mama. We share the same square jaw, flat nose, thin lips, pale skin which crinkles and burns in the sun. Papa says my eyes glimmer like Mama’s too, says they look like two blue pearls. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a pearl, or a clam, or the sea. Papa says one day when I’m old enough, he’ll take me there—somewhere where I can dip my feet in water, feel the waves catch between my toes. It’ll be just the two of us, far from this little town. 

Mama thinks I daydream too much. “This town,” she likes to say, “needs you.” She says the same thing to all my siblings, so I can’t care much. There’s not much to care about in this town, but I sure like the ash tree besides the chapel. I like to rest my back against the trunk, close my eyes and listen to the chirps of the finches that rest on the branches. Papa didn’t mind when I was young. Mama always has, but she’s too busy dealing with my siblings to bother. 

In the autumn, the leaves turn a pretty yellow, sparkling and flapping like thin sheets of gold. Papa tells me the leaves are a small picture of the kingdom of God, where gold lines the streets and the riches of the Father are evident for everyone in heaven to see. Papa likes to talk about heaven. Papa is the pastor after all.

Church is every day, every moment, every second. We whisper scripture through mouths of mashed potatoes, read scripture with hunched backs at the crack of dawn, bleed scripture when our older folks get angry, dream scripture when we know we’ve done something wrong. Papa strokes my hair when it hurts too much. “Just bear with it,” he’ll say. “Keep on bearing.” Our bodies are temples; they must always be positioned before the Father.

No one likes to leave town. No one speaks of it either. Papa says it’s only us, only this town. Beyond the wooden fence which surrounds the cabins are just trees and trees, and at the end of it all is water, where there's a line that divides the land and the sea. Us kids still imagine, though, what life could be like outside. Imaginations which get squashed by Mama. “There is nowhere else,” She’ll grumble, so low her voice seems to shake the dining table. “This town needs you. Outside, they won’t.”

The town is family. We may not always sleep under the same roof but somehow we are connected, through the Father, through Papa. I don’t really understand it, this “connection” Papa likes to talk about, but Papa tells me I don’t need to. Papa has a gift, after all. He can speak to the Father, sometimes he claims he is the Father. He's essential to this town, and through his wisdom the town continues to prosper. 

I’ve got to be perfect for Papa, Mama says. Keep my back straight, always smiling, always dressed proper, always kind. “I tried my best to be perfect for him,” Mama will often say, longingly and bitterly. “You’d do your best to do the same.” I never really understood what she meant by that, why she related herself to me, why I was and would be so important. Papa doesn’t really say anything in response, just a small smile, maybe a quick glance. He’d look at me with those eyes, the way I’d look at an apple or the last slice of pie. Mama says it’s because he cares about me. He cares about everyone, after all.

In the winter, we work hard to stay warm. Snow piles outside our doors, on the crops, on the roofs, on the porches, on the gravel. Papa says the weather is God’s test. Our faith is measured in our ability to contribute to the town, to keep everyone warm, to keep everyone alive. The boys of the town go on trips to collect firewood, sometimes late at night when things get rough. The eldest boys like to spook the youngest, spreading rumors of kids who get lost in the trees, the endless trees, wasting away to dirt and worm food in the bitter cold.

On the harshest winter days, Papa smells of sweat and dirt. He likes to wrap his arms around me, tight, and tell me how much he loves me. Mama says it’s because he cares about me, about everyone. Mama hits me with her slippers if I squirm. I want to escape from Papa’s harsh grasp. But this town needs Papa, she says. And Papa needs me.

No one ever leaves.

The tune of the town changes in spring. Spring is about abundance, about the renewal of life, the renewal of the soul. Our throats dry and crack as we sing, sing as long as we can, sing as a testament to our faith, to the temple within us. We celebrate with roasted vegetables, served with steaming potatoes and roasted pork. Food helps us unwind, forget, remember. There are things I want to forget. Things I can momentarily stuff down with mashed potatoes and pork ribs. 

“Good girls eat well!” Papa will say, shoveling food onto my plate. “We need more kids! Wouldn’t we all like more kids?” I’m too afraid to say I don’t, that I hate him for pushing it on me, that I hate the box this town has put me in. Then I’ll think about resting at the ash tree, when Papa filled me with wonder. I wonder if Papa is still Papa, still the one who cares about me. Cares about everyone. 

But Papa never changes. He just can’t. And the town needs Papa. So maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’m wrong. 

Church is everyday, every moment, every second.

Something’s wrong with me. I need to fix...me. 

People here love the spring for another reason too: marriage. Papa says everyone should get married in the spring, some sort of tradition. He's important in all of them of course, at least I’ve been told. I’ve never seen a marriage in town, not of anyone else. Papa told me once he’d make sure I’d be marrying someone special, someone like him. At the time I was happy. Now, I’m not so sure.

It’s my wedding this year. Never thought I was old enough, not then, not now. Papa says I’ve bloomed nicely, like some sort of rose, tender and precious. Mama just huffs when she hears him say that, crosses her arms in front of her chests and turns away. I never understood why Mama got so huffy. About me, anyway. It was always about me. 

Just bear with it. Keep on bearing. 

Mama took me once to look at her wedding dress. Mostly satin, with a lace bodice, and an awfully long train. Mama told me I’m wearing this, when I walk down the aisle, when I take her spot. I looked at her, confused, thinking she was going to pass away. She crossed her arms across her chest, the way she always did—does—and her face fell to the ground. Mama never looked so sad, so defeated, so hurt. I put my hand on Mama’s shoulder, and she swatted it away. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, like it was some mantra. Some mantra she practiced before. Like she was letting go of something important.

I’ve got to be perfect for Papa.

Now I’m wearing that dress: mostly satin, with a lace bodice, and an awfully long train. The satin feels cold. The lace feels scratchy and itchy. The train is hard to walk in. When I look in the mirror I feel like a child, unprepared and anxious. Mama didn’t help me with this dress. Papa didn’t help me with this dress. I’m alone, in the bathroom, wondering why I’m wearing this dress, wondering why I’m here, wondering why I didn’t get a say, wondering who I’m going to marry.

Papa says I’m a rose.

Scripture. Papa always says to think about scripture. But when I think about scripture, I think about Papa, and I…

Well I…

I see Papa and Mama outside. Mama’s crying, real crying, not like pearls but the entire sea, and Papa’s holding her, kissing her cheeks, telling her he’ll still love her, brushing her hair back like he does mine. Mama, the mama who hated me, with the same square jaw, flat nose, thin lips, pale skin which crinkles and burns in the sun. Papa’s dressed in some fine suit, ironed and fitted, a flower pinned on his collar, face freshly shaven, hair greased back. And then he’s kissing her, really kissing her, the way I look at an apple, or the last slice of pie. The way he looks at me. 

Papa smells of sweat and dirt.

I remember in the winter time how he’d hold me so tight I felt like I was drowning. Papa always talks about a metaphorical drowning, the way a disciple drowns in the glory of God, but it’s not that type of drowning. It’s like I want to break free, I want to breathe, but Mama’s got a slipper in her hand and Papa’s breath is on my ear, and I think about how he smells like sweat and I feel his breath bristle on my ears and I want him to stop, just stop, just stop…

It’ll be just the two of us.

And suddenly, it clicks in me. Everybody’s just fine with this because it’s Papa, because he’s the Father, because he speaks with God, because he cares about everyone, because he cares about me. And everybody doesn’t mention it to me, because he’s Papa, and I’m his daughter, and oh...oh Jesus...I have to go. Not there. Just...out there. Somewhere. Anywhere but this town. 

There’s a knock on the door. Then two. I lock the door, and the knocking gets louder. Wafts of sweet tarts and cakes drift in my nose from the window besides the mirror, the hymns of the town are shameless and suffocating. I can smell the roses laid outside for me, so tender and precious. Everybody is welcoming me into the kingdom. The kingdom of the Father. But I want to run. Run far away, beyond the wooden fence, into and through the trees, and run past the line where the land meets the sea.