Camp Damascus(7)

“With Isaiah!”

I can’t help laughing. “At the falls today?” I question. “It was fun, but that wasn’t a date. We’re just friends.”

The cold chill I’d felt earlier immediately surges through my body, causing my hand to seize up and my body to shift awkwardly in the hard wooden chair.

My parents exchange glances again, as though passing some unspoken relay baton between them. My father clears his throat for a moment, ready to take over.

“He’s a handsome guy, don’t you think?” Dad suggests.

I shrug. “I mean, sure.”

Mom butts in, unable to wait longer than a single question and answer before leaping back into the fray. “You don’t like that?” she demands to know. “You don’t want a boyfriend?”

I can’t help the barely audible scoff that escapes my throat.

We all love Jesus in the Darling household, but my parents are typically the ones who hoist this flag the highest and elevate my faith on a daily basis. I’m thankful to have two spiritual warriors consistently by my side, and through their pious diligence I’ve come to carry my own innate parental severity.

The idea of them actually encouraging me to have a boyfriend is shocking. I suppose my recent twentieth birthday could be the marker that set them off, but the turn they’ve taken is so alarming I’m left wondering if it’s a trap.

“I think I should be focused on school right now,” I offer, hoping this is what they want to hear.

My mother reaches out and places her hand over mine, causing me to return a fresh spool of spaghetti to the plate.

“Honey,” she begins softly, “the Lord wants you to start a family. You’re a woman now, and finding a partner is a very important part of His plan. I know we’ve been a little … strict about this before, but you should know it’s okay.”

I’m not sure how to react, staring down at the table before me.

My father clears his throat, a sign he’s about to launch into a brief diatribe of religious theory. “You know, when Tobias Cobel established the Four Tenets he did so in a way that was pretty genius. A lot of people see him as a man of faith and entrepreneurship, which he was, but he was also a family man.”

“Tenet number four: Excellence,” my mother chimes in. “I will persevere when my body does not.”

I already know where they’re going with this, but I honor the moment and listen respectfully.

“To live on,” Dad continues. “That could mean your spirit ascends to heaven, or a business you’ve built keeps turning a profit. It could also mean your family line lives on.”

I nod. “Understood” is all I can think to say.

“You like Isaiah, don’t you?” my mother pushes, repeating her initial question. “Bill and Anna tell us he’s really into you.”

I now realize any denial regarding this supposed date will promptly be discarded and we’ll be taking another spin around the maypole. Clearly, there’s an answer my parents want to hear, and if I hope to enjoy this plate of spaghetti I’ll have to give it to them.

Still, I refuse to lie. That’s a sin.

“Today was good,” I reply, stretching my enthusiasm as far as it can possibly go. “Isaiah is really … nice.”

Immediately, the tension in my mother’s hand softens. She releases her grip as both of my parents sit back in their chairs, finally allowing me a moment of rest.

I don’t look up as I eat, but from the corner of my eye I see them watching with absolute satisfaction. They’re not even touching their food, just allowing the gratitude to wash over them as though I’m a toddler who finally learned to walk.

Eventually, the evening kicks back into gear and my parents plunge into their food. It seems my simple answer was just enough to satisfy whatever they were looking for.

Still, a host of questions continue to linger in the back of my mind. Why were they talking to Isaiah’s parents about our day at the falls? Everyone in Neverton is pretty closely knit, especially members of the congregation, but as far as I knew Bill and Anna didn’t have a strong rapport with my folks.

I try letting it slide and moving on, but the circumstances of this meeting remain firmly planted in my mind, unable to budge no matter how diligent my attempts to slip past.

Finally, I turn back to my mother, my curiosity getting the better of me.

I open my mouth to speak, but instead of any coherent words spilling from my throat, I find myself erupting with an unexpected cough.

Instinctively, I reach for the tall glass of water on the table next to me, swiftly downing the cool liquid and trying again. However, this time I’m met with the same result at an even larger scale.

Something’s tickling the back of my throat, flooding me with frustration as I struggle to speak or even breathe. I begin to cough harder as expressions of grave concern wash across my parents’ faces.

“Are you alright, hon?” Dad asks.

A sudden, final cough unblocks my throat as air pumps forcefully from within, blasting forth the seed of my discomfort in a singular heave.

I gag slightly, struggling to collect myself as my father pats me on the back with loving grace. “Something go down the wrong pipe?” He chuckles.

I nod, taking another long sip from my water glass. I gaze down at the plate of spaghetti before me, hoping to find the culprit, and gasp abruptly—nearly choking all over again.