I rack my brain, struggling to connect the dots.
I know you weren’t a part of that scene, my mother said, but for the life of me I can’t imagine what scene she’s talking about.
The crash? Of course I was there. It was my car.
There’s a hidden layer of anxiety in my father’s voice, a hint at his intention with this particular line of questioning. After all, going through an interview checklist isn’t usually the first thing parents do when their daughter is in a horrible car wreck. Even the nurse had a better bedside manner.
I get the distinct feeling there’s something he wants me to say—needs me to say—and my job now is to parse exactly what that is. I tread carefully.
“I hit a tree,” I offer.
My father nods.
“Must’ve fallen asleep,” I continue. “Driving back.”
“That’s it?” Dad pushes. “Didn’t see anything else out there?”
“Bad dreams,” I reply, my heart rate leveling out again. I take a moment to focus up. “Gotta make some changes. Gotta get right with the Lord.”
My father’s gaze intensifies. “Some people say there’s a trick to ending your nightmares when you’re in them, did you hear? Folks would pay a lot of money for something like that. That’s a million-dollar secret, right there.”
Despite my best efforts, my heart monitor is speeding up.
“Imagine that,” Luke continues. “Nightmares have been around for a long time, and suddenly there’s a cure! You’d probably get some real trouble from the folks selling chamomile tea!”
My father forces a laugh, glancing back at my mother as if she might also find this hilarious, but Mom doesn’t react.
The key to making a good joke is subverting expectations, and the easiest way to do this is through the element of surprise. To spark that involuntary laugh, you’ve gotta tickle a part of someone’s nervous system that’s expecting one thing and is presented with another.
Personally, I don’t even try doing this.
My dad makes a lot of jokes, however, and while I love to hear them, I can attest that these little nuggets of humor are not exactly funny. I always know what’s coming next, because I spot the setups—the little white lies.
I stare at my father for a long time, mustering up all the fake sincerity I can manage with what little energy’s left in my battered body.
“Dad,” I groan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Unfortunately, I do have some idea, and the implication of this causes a wave of nausea to bubble up at the pit of my stomach.
The sparkle I catch in my father’s eye is undeniable, however, a sign I’ve hit the correct response. His body language immediately changes, relaxing as he settles in.
Moments later, Dad takes off his glasses to reveal that he’s crying. He wipes his eyes. “I’m so glad to hear that, honey,” he gushes.
I tightly squeeze the man’s giant hand.
“After they’re done at the crash site, some folks from the church are gonna come and ask you similar questions,” my father continues, his speech staggered and broken as he navigates this welling spring of emotion. “Just tell them exactly what you told me. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
Why is anyone from the congregation at my crash site?
My father takes a moment to fully calm himself, and during this time a deep emotional ache starts blossoming within me. Lying, withholding the truth, bending the facts; whatever you wanna call it, I’m not used to this kind of relationship with my parents. As far as I’ve come, and as devastated as I am by their possible involvement in something nefarious, it still hurts like hell.
I consider what might happen if I told my father I knew there was another body in the wreckage, and I knew that body belonged to a demon. What if I informed him Dr. Smith and Kingdom of the Pine were likely a part of all this?
“Rose,” Lisa suddenly chimes in, breaking through the haze of my chaotic thoughts. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I confirm.
My mother smiles. “You were under for hours. We’re just so glad to have you back.”
But I’m not back. They don’t realize it yet, but I’m a completely different person.
6
LATE-NIGHT SECULAR PROGRAMMING
You think you know yourself, but you don’t really know yourself until you’re laid up in bed for three weeks with absolutely nothing to do, rebuilding your strength and slowly healing minute by minute.
Plenty of time to read and learn, you might think, and you’d be absolutely correct had my parents not confiscated my phone.
“You need to focus on getting better,” Dad told me.
I’ve requested books, but all I’ve received is my Bible and a handful of celebrity gossip magazines that a particularly kind nurse snuck from the waiting room. At least there’s a TV.
The first few days were the worst, my body so stiff that just tilting my head up to eat or drink caused surges of immense pain, but gradually my limbs loosened up and the doctors weaned me off my painkillers.
A breakthrough came once I could walk around my floor of the hospital, hanging IV bag in tow as I traversed the giant loop I’ve dubbed “going out to lunch.” There’s a vending machine at the other end of this wing, and while I typically wouldn’t be allowed to munch on sweet treats at home, here at the hospital there’s rarely anyone to stop me.
My parents swing by once each evening to see how I’m doing, and congregation members make pop-ins to ask me about the crash from time to time. Fortunately, as distance grows between that fateful night and the present day, they come around less often.
It appears they can live with my answers, and over time I grow better and better at reciting what they want to hear.
Yes, I’ve been having nightmares about demons, but they’re not real.
No, I wouldn’t know how to kill one if they were real, but prayer is where I’d start.
Yes, I’m ready to reaffirm my commitment to the church and live without temptation.
As I continue to bob and weave through these bizarre verbal tests, it becomes very clear the word temptation holds extra weight. Every interviewer will reach this part of the process and hesitate for a moment, their eyes struggling to convey something the rest of their body is clearly not entirely comfortable with.
I answer exactly how they want me to, while maintaining a casual vagueness regarding exactly what these temptations are. Still, the thought lingers in the back of my mind: What is it they need me to turn away from?
It’s late in the evening and any visitors have long since returned home, leaving the hospital eerily quiet. The only sound is the gentle pulse of heart monitors and the faint drone of one or two televisions left on in this wing while their corresponding patients slumber.
After alternating between aching for sleep and staring at the ceiling, I finally climb out of bed, careful not to tangle my permanent companion: the rolling metal hanger and plastic IV bag that connects to my hand.
“Late night snack?” I ask the hanger, to which the piece of medical equipment says absolutely nothing in return.
I nod for a moment, pretending to listen, then slowly climb to my feet. I shuffle my frail, gown-clad body into the hallway.