Page 9 of When Sinners Fear
~
“Let’s take hands and say grace.” I hold Mother’s frail hand, gently cushioning hers in mine, and reach over to take Evie’s. Father starts as he always does and thanks the Lord for our bounty. He doesn’t have the flare for words Mother does, although she’s quieter at the table now. She used to construct such beautiful and considerate reasons to be thankful. We all felt blessed after hearing her, but she’s been quiet since I returned home.
The sceptic in me believes it’s because she struggles to remain thankful given the road before her. How could she still believe in a higher being – a God – when she is so ill? But I don’t want to question her faith more than my mind naturally does. I’ve given up trying to reason the merits of science over religion. It is an argument that I can see no logical explanation for, but I always come away feeling like the loser. Right now, I’m happy to take that loss if it means my mother feels better.
“Amen.”
“Amen,” we all repeat.
The gentle chimes of silverware brushing against the china plates signal the start of dinner.
“So,” Evie starts. “Who was the guy?” She picks up the conversation from earlier.
“Just a guy.” I brush off the intrigue and pass the beans.
“I’d like to know.” Mom turns to me. “He seemed very nice and a friend of Father Wells?”
“Yes, they are friends.”
“That’s good. And he goes to church?”
“Yes. That’s where we were introduced,” I repeat, trying not to be frustrated.
“He’s an excellent judge of character, Peyton. You should listen to Father Wells.”
“Listen to him about what?” I ask as I dollop the mashed potatoes onto my plate.
“You like him, don’t you?” Evie beams at me as Matthew hands her the plate of chicken.
“I’ve had one conversation with him. After church. I’m sure he’s a very nice man.”
“Then call him.” Evie’s words freeze the general motion of dinner, and all eyes look at me.
I stare around the table and land at Father. He’s looking at me as if I’ve just committed a mortal sin rather than prepared dinner for the family and engaged in discussions – about a boy.
My eyes snap away from his, and I finish serving up the rest of the food I’ve prepared.
The conversation dies, and we go about the task of eating. Nobody mentions Knox or church again.
Mother is tired after dinner and asks me to help her upstairs. I oblige while I watch Matthew retreat to his room and Father get up and go back into the den. The dishes and plates remain on the table, and I think back to when I was at home. We had chores. We all helped set the table, do the dishes, and help with the cleaning. Those things seem to have been forgotten since I’ve returned, and worse, Father doesn’t seem worried about enforcing them anytime soon, assuming I’ll step in as cook and cleaner.
~
After making Mom comfortable in bed, I walk across the hall and slam the door behind me. I sit down on my bed and stare up at the old periodic table poster that’s still on my bedroom wall before closing my eyes and running through the symbols.
There’s been little exciting conversation in the weeks I’ve been back and nothing remotely like the in-depth discussions I’d have with my friends in the faculty and research team. But the back and forth with Knox sparked something, and the card with his number on is burning a hole in my pocket. It makes his offer of coffee more than tempting.
My hand wraps around the card inside my skirt, and I draw it out, flexing the bonds of the fibres back and forth. Knox Cortez.
Grabbing my phone, I tap the digits and wait for the call to connect.
“Hello?”
“Knox? Mr Cortez? Hi, it’s Peyton. We met earlier—”
“At church. I’m glad you called.”
“If the offer is still good, I’d like to take you up on it.” I hold my breath, amazed that I got all the words out in the right order.