Page 122 of Sunday Morning
—Satan
I laughed through my tears as I set the note aside and opened the guitar case. Then I slowly cupped a hand over my mouth. It wasn’t his guitar; it was a shiny new white guitar with a silver strap and “Sunday Morning” stitched into it. When I lifted it from the case, I uncovered an envelope. Inside, there was cash—a lot of cash.
Why did he give me a guitarandcash? It made no sense.
After throwing on a nightshirt, I sat on the bed and played my new guitar. It wasn’t long before the arguing downstairs stopped, and Mom opened my door, peeking inside and eyeing my guitar.
I paused my fingers, staring at her for a few seconds while I returned the guitar to the case with the envelope of cash. “Are you fighting about me?”
Before she could answer, my dad stepped into my room, too, and closed the door.
“I should have died,” I said, latching the case.
“Don’t say that,” Mom said.
“It would be easier for both of you.”
“Why do you think that?” Dad asked.
When I lifted my gaze to him, he kept his emotions well-guarded, unlike the day I came home from Nashville.
“I’m a whore,” I said.
Mom winced as Dad’s jaw clenched.
“That’s what you’re going to think.” I blew out a defeated breath. “And I don’t even care. Not anymore. Trying to please you, Matt, his parents, and God … it’s all too much.” I closed my tired, swollen eyes for a few seconds. “My faith has been tested, and I’m not passing the test.”
“Sarah—” My dad started.
I shook my head. “You can’t fix this. Not you. Not anyone. I can’t pray my way out of this awfulfeeling that everything I’ve believed about God is wrong. Is He indiscriminate or calculated? Is everything part of a grand plan or by chance? Because I can’t wrap my head around the idea that I’m here by God’s grace, and Heather and Joanna are not. Good people die every day, and evil people live. Theonlyway I can imagine forgiving God is if I can believe that He did nothing. That Hedoesnothing but give us free will to live. To make mistakes, even if they cost us everything. But if you want me to believe He has a hand in it, then I’m out. I cannot worship that kind of god.”
“I know you’re hurting, but it’s no excuse to?—”
“To what, Dad? Act out? Question God? Drink? Have sex out of wedlock? Go to Nashville with my boyfriend’s brother while my friends die in a car accident?”
Dad’s expression hardened as Mom covered her mouth.
“I never signed up for classes at the community college. I’m not going to college. I’m going to sing songs. Songs about sex and love. And sometimes I might drink. And I’m going to have all the sex I want. And I’m eighteen, so you can’t do anything about it.” I felt strong.
I felt like an adult.
“Then get out. Pack up your belongings and get out of this house,” Dad said with his hands fisted at his sides and the vein on his forehead pulsing.
“Peter, no.” Mom stepped in front of him. “Sarah, take a shower. And?—”
“No shower.” Dad grabbed my mom’s arm and yanked her out of the way.
I had never seen him treat her like that, so I internally recoiled.
“Getoutof this house immediately!” He turned, dragging Mom behind him.
“Peter!” she protested. “That is our daughter. You’re not acting rationally. Just take a minute.” Her voice began to fade.
“If she’s going to disobey God and me, then she can suffer the consequence,” he said.
With shaky hands and tattered emotions, I shoved as much as I could into my backpack, quickly dressed, and carried my bag and guitar down the stairs.
“Sarah!” Mom chased me.