“Don’t worry, Rose,” my father insists. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
He called me Rose, I realize. It’s honey or hon, sometimes even Honeysuckle, but never Rose. Not unless I’m in major trouble.
“Seriously, Dad, thank you,” I reply. “I’ll see you soon.”
I pull the phone away to hang up, but in this split second my ears catch something that sets me on edge. It’s the beginning of a phrase, four words yelled to someone else as my father ends the call. I’m not sure what it means, but his tone is as different as night and day. He is shouting at someone, firm and sharp in his demeanor, just seconds after our gentle moment.
“Let me talk to—” he shouts, then silence.
I wait a beat, then finally pull back onto the road. I’m not sure what to make of this, but it’s not enough to turn around. Even if it were, where would I go?
For now, I only have one option. Stay the course and hope for the best.
I’ve gotta be more careful. No more close calls like this.
Ten minutes later, however, I start wondering how much of a close call it really was.
I turn onto my street and find my mother posted on the corner, tears streaming down her face and a duffel bag gripped tight in her hand.
I slam on the brakes, clumsily coming to rest in the middle of the road as the two of us gaze at each other through the windshield of my borrowed car.
The last time I had a standoff like this I was staring down a literal demon, but this moment is equally terrifying.
I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.
Dad’s words rip through me like a bullet, repeating over and over as the blood gushes from my heart and spills everywhere.
It’s instantly clear someone has tipped my parents off. They know their daughter isn’t satisfied with the answers she was given, isn’t ready to go back to the way things were and pretend none of this ever happened.
The way I acted with Ally was desperate, or maybe I wanted to get caught, to close the curtain on this awkward farce I’ve been struggling to maintain.
My mother’s expression is a lot of things, angry and frustrated and devastatingly sad. Her eyes are locked onto mine, somehow conveying an ocean of emotion without uttering a single word.
Finally, I creep forward, pulling up next to her and rolling down the window.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mom demands, fuming with rage as a shockingly rare curse word makes its appearance.
“Nothing,” I insist. “Just coming home.”
“You’re asking people about Camp Damascus,” Lisa continues, her expression faltering as devastating sadness overwhelms her. “Why are you asking about that camp, Rose?”
I consider denying this line of questioning outright, but I stop myself. I can’t keep this up any longer.
“You sent me there,” I retort.
“Because we love you,” she hisses, seething with rage. “Do you realize how much we spent to save your soul? Do you have any idea?”
“Half a million dollars,” I flatly reply. “Then three hundred a month after that.”
Lisa hesitates, struggling to maintain her composure as I reveal just how much I already know. I can see the quiet cadence of a desperate prayer dancing across her lips as she takes a moment to gather her thoughts.
Eventually, Mom points at a house to the right of my idling vehicle, a familiar blue rambler with a white picket fence circling the front yard. The Martinsons live here.
“Sexual deviance,” Lisa announces, her jaw trembling as she speaks. “The daughter thinks she’s in love with a whore.”
I know what she’s asking of me, but I refuse to play along.
“Sexual deviance,” Lisa repeats, her gaze burning a hole through my head as she struggles to stay calm. “What would you do to help her, Rose? What’s the right thing to do?”
I shake my head, lips sealed tight.
“Get out of here,” my mom finally blurts. She pushes the duffel bag through my window, the heavy canvas tote landing on my lap with a thud.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I stammer.
“Was it worth it?” my mother demands.
Now directly confronted, I decide to finally answer. I’m no longer conflicted in my response, no longer overwhelmed by any judgment-based household thought experiment.
“Yes,” I tell her bluntly, holding my mother’s gaze. “It was worth it.”
Mom stares back at me. She’s trying so hard to stay angry, but there’s simply not enough hate left to fill her veins.
She wants to see me as a heathen—a lost cause—but right now she sees her daughter.
“This was all for you,” Lisa groans. “Your dad’s waiting back at the house with some men from the congregation. They’ve got zip ties and duct tape. They’re gonna take you back to Camp Damascus whether you like it or not, and I can’t watch you go through that again. You might not remember it, but I will.”
I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.
“So don’t let them,” I demand.
Somehow a smile manages to break out across my mother’s face, Lisa briefly chuckling at this suggestion before sadness gradually creeps back in.
“It’s so far past that now, Rose,” she says, shaking her head. “You have no idea how hard it was to convince the congregation to step back after your crash, but you still couldn’t stop looking for answers. Well, now they think you’ve found some, so it’s not really our decision anymore.”
I open my mouth to speak, but the words catch in my throat. I’m not sure what to say.
Suddenly, Mom’s phone rings. She clears her throat and sniffles the congestion from her nose, stepping away from the car and picking up.
I hear the muffled sound of my father’s voice on the other end of the line. I can’t make out the words, but his tone is deep and frightening, the polar opposite of his casual tenor during our last discussion.
Our final discussion.
“No, I don’t see her yet,” Lisa offers, staring right at me. Her goodwill is barely hanging on by a thread. She listens for a moment, then loudly continues. “Sure, I’ll let you know when I see the car. Okay. Yeah.”
She hangs up.
“They’re waiting to take you back,” my mother reminds me. “You need to get out of here. Now.”
I don’t protest, rolling up my window and putting the car in reverse. I start backing away, but only get a few feet before a final thought surges through my mind.
I recall my mother’s favorite house from our walks, the one tucked back in the woods where nobody can see it. There are no bake sales or women’s worship groups there, just a quiet little cabin at the edge of the world.
I slam the brakes and drop my window once again, calling out to my mother.
“You should leave, too” is all I can think to say.
Lisa hesitates, her eyes burning through me. At first I think she’s chosen silence as a final goodbye, but at the last moment she opens her lips to offer a parting phrase. “You are so, so spoiled,” my mother says in disgust.
I continue my retreat to the main road. It feels as though my heart is connected to a string, this spiritual cable stretching like taffy as I back away. It battles to hold me in place, but the once-sturdy rope has frayed beyond repair.