Page 3 of When Sinners Fear
“I doubt that’s plausible, Michael. You have idiots and pretty things here. Both encourage misbehaviour.”
“Knox, no.”
I walk around him, amused further by his attempt at blocking me. “I think yes.”
Whatever slight huff he throws my way bounces off my shoulder, and I take a seat at the back of the church to continue my musings of the people in here. There’s only one I’m interested in in reality. She’s early twenties. She’s blonde. She’s the sweetest damn creature I’ve ever seen, and she sings like an angel. My angel. Porcelain skin. Luscious pink lips. Eyes that bat constantly. I’m hoping she’s a virgin, too, because the thought of fucking that piece of skin from her drives me mad with need. Let’s not discuss the sordid imagery I’ve been playing with regarding her swallowing my dick from her knees and learning how to worship something real. Actually, maybe I should think more on that. It could happen here. At that altar, so I can prove something to myself about something I haven't thought through yet.
My tongue rolls over my lips, and I search the pews for her. She’s a row back from the front, sandwiched tight between her mother and father, I assume. Light pieces of hair fall from the clip holding her hair up. They trail gently, wisping about on her neck every time she moves. No exposed skin other than that, that I can see. Just her pale, fragile hands reaching for her Bible. Beautiful. Angelic.
Ripe as hell.
CHAPTER TWO
PEYTON
Itap my thumbnail with the pad of my other thumb, spelling out ‘help’ in Morse code. Tap tap tap tap, tap, press, tap tap tap tap tap. Repeat. Over and over as I gaze up with a presentable and neutral expression on my face. After all, a respectable daughter wouldn’t interrupt the priest in the middle of his sermon, now, would she? And isn’t that what I am? A respectable woman? A dutiful daughter?
My eyes glance to my mother, and I observe her attentive faith. She clings to every word spilt from the priest’s mouth as if they might offer some rare cure or antidote.
They won’t.
Faith can’t heal.
Medicine, drugs, and surgery do that.
Our cells fight off the invading disease until we’re well. More white blood cells are created–antibodies set to work. T cells and B cells fight off infection. But our immune system isn’t infallible, and if the cells of the disease contain our own DNA, how do they know to fight? And, when you finally realise something is wrong, your immune system is compromised due to the very treatment that’s meant to eradicate the invading disease.
Since my mother’s diagnosis, I’ve scoured the research and information at my disposal to find an answer – a cure – but it’s all been in vain. Immunotherapy, adoptive cell transfer, monoclonal antibodies, none of it will work for her late stage. It’s the one and only time in my life that I’ve questioned my academic pursuit and wished I went down the biology route to study human anatomy, biological sciences, and even medicine rather than physics.
But even armed with irrefutable truth, I doubt I’d be able to shift the direction my mother has chosen. She’s put her faith in God as she and my father have always done. Have they even considered how or what God could possibly do to help her given what she is facing? No. They’ve blindly gone down this one avenue to provide their answers as a comfort to them. They haven’t looked ahead and considered the immense burden that their decision will add to their children. Matthew and Evie are too young to lose their mother. Although, does reaching a certain age prepare you for that?
My thumb pauses, and I try to tune back into the words of faith that are so important to my mother. It should be admired, in a way. To have so much faith against such harsh truth and fact.
It’s been the biggest riddle I’m still unable to answer. Even as a six-year-old, sitting in the same pew as we are now, I remember internally questioning the words being spoken. Science over religion. The science was easy. Religion was shrouded in good will and gesture, cryptic in a way that I couldn’t translate or understand. Something about the words seemed so alien to my mind. The concept of creating the world is logical when you consider the natural development around the big bang theory and further evolutionary theory, but that is not what was so fervently pressed upon me through Sunday church and bible readings.
Maybe now is the time to open my mind to the possibilities of faith since there are no other alternative avenues to consider in our present time. If it will bring my mother comfort, should I not pursue this for her? It could give her a sense of peace that I know has eluded her, given my academic pursuits.
My thumb takes up the old habit of tapping, this time other words spelled out in the almost redundant communication method. The irony is not lost on me – a scientific mind shouting for help in a house of God by talking to oneself in code.
“Let us pray.” I catch myself as the priest instructs us, and the rustling of bodies as they bow heads and clasp hands reverberates around the space.
He’s not the same priest as we had when I was growing up. I believe I remember he passed away after I’d gone off to Caltech. This new, younger priest has certainly drawn a few new members to the congregation. His voice is deeper, more melodic when he speaks, making it easier for me to divert my attention to subjects more taxing of mind. But he has a kind smile. A knowing smile that seems older than his years, given the look of him.
Since I’ve been back, we’ve been here every Sunday, joined in after the service, and taken lemonade on the lawn outside the church while visiting with other members of the congregation—everyone dresses in their best, a real community show.
Mother is often fussed over by many of her friends. Her prognosis isn’t a secret here, and I’m glad that while I can provide physical support at home, she and Father do not rely on me for everything.
Coming back was like stepping back in time, without the excitement of exploring Einstein’s theory of relativity or closed timeline curves.
My identity that’s always struggled to be nurtured here – at home – could finally breathe and grow when I left. Now, I’m sucked right back to where I was only a few years ago. Only now I know the taste and shape of what I could become if I’m allowed the freedom of my own choices.
This is my sacrifice.
I’ve abandoned my career and my pursuits, albeit temporarily, to come and look after my family.
It’s noble. It’s the right thing to do, and I do so willingly because wishing to return to that life would also mean wishing an end to my mother’s life, and how could I do that?
Despite our opposing views, I love my family dearly.