Tanya smiled and held out a hand. Lindsay took it, let herself be pulled up and out of bed and back where she belonged, anchoring the Love family. Which she did, but from a different perspective, and at somewhat of a distance, managing everything she could and praying over the rest.
Part Two
Chapter One
Angelique’s Story
Lucasville
Seventeen Years Later
I’m not sure of the exact moment I realized my mother hated me.
The fact could easily have been absorbed through my skin over the course of my life. Perhaps my brothers talked about it and I overheard them at some point when they thought I wasn’t listening or couldn’t understand them. I know no one ever actually said anything about it to my face.
In our small town, our family’s circle of friends was tight, collected mostly from the few remaining small business owners and church—Sunday mornings, Wednesday evening youth group, youth retreats, and outings. The crap I stopped attending the second I realized my mother wouldn’t fight me if I rebelled against it.
That was probably the moment.
My senior year of high school, I lay in bed on a Sunday morning, furious, seething … over what, exactly, I’m not sure anymore. It was a seething time of my life. When my mother knocked on the door and gave me the usual “Up. Church,” good morning message, I raised both my middle fingers at the closed door, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over my head.
She came in once to check on my progress. I said I was sick. She left the room without a word.
I was up by the time everyone got home from the weekly ritual—and by “everyone,” I mean her and my daddy, because all my brothers had flown the nest by then, and little AliceLynn, my brother’s kid who’d moved in with us a few years ago, was at her other grandparents’ house.
Skulking in the kitchen, feeling mildly guilty, I’d made fresh iced tea out of sheer nervousness. Mama dropped her purse on the counter and poured herself a big glass, put it to her flushed forehead and sighed. Daddy gave me a one-armed hug and peck on the check.
“Feeling better, Angel?”
“Yeah,” I said, observing Mama to gauge her reaction. “Sorry. What was the message today?” I asked, not caring, but knowing it for a good move.
“Honoring your parents,” Mama said with a chuckle. I frowned. “No, child, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. It really was that, which seemed appropriate, considering.”
“Linds,” Daddy said in a soft voice.
Mama gave a dismissive wave of her fingers. I tensed up. “So,” she said, sitting down and fanning herself with the church bulletin. “We need to talk about this school.”
“What’s to talk about?” I poured myself a glass of tea and stared out the kitchen window. “I got in. I got the necessary scholarships. I’m going.” It was a big deal. I had wanted into the New York Performing Arts College since I first learned about it. I’d made it, and I wasn’t about to let her spoil it for me.
“I’m fully aware of those things, Angelique,” Mama said, her voice pinched in a way it seemed to get only with me. I glanced over at Daddy. He was busy pulling leftovers out of the refrigerator. “It’s—” She stopped. “Anton, if you would give me five minutes to collect myself I’ll put out dinner.”
“I’m fine, honey.” He stuck a couple of plastic containers in the microwave. “I need to eat and get over to the garage. Antony’s having trouble with that old lift, and I told him I’d work on it with him today.” He kissed Mama’s head. She leaned into him. The guilt suffused me again, but I knew if I didn’t say it now I never would.
“I’m not going to church again. Ever.”
The two of them looked at me with identical expressions of horror. I slid into a chair, observing them. Mama with that deep auburn hair I so envied, lightly freckled nose, and high cheekbones. Her porcelain skin had plenty of lines, from worrying about kids, she claimed, and from too much time spent on horseback in the sun. She protected it now with huge hats while she rode her horses and gardening gloves while working outside. Daddy’s smoother olive skin, coal black hair, and deep brown eyes were closer to mine.
I resisted the compulsion to run to him, to let him protect me from this silly, unnecessary declaration. But it was out there now, lying on the table between us like a steaming pile of dog shit.
“Young lady, that is blasphemous and disrespectful. Not to mention ridiculous. As long as you live under this roof, you attend church. Your brothers did. Some of them still do. What makes you any different from them?”
“I’m guessing it’s because they never had the guts to say this to you.” I pressed my sweaty palms on my knees under the table to stop them from shaking.
Daddy took the food from the microwave and grabbed a fork from the drawer. Mama blew out a breath. Her lips compressed, nearly disappearing. The furrows between her eyebrows deepened.
“It’s that boy, isn’t it?” She stood up and yanked the plastic bowls right out of Daddy’s hands, leaving him hanging, fork in the air halfway to his mouth.
“We don’t eat like barbarians in this house, Anton. Sit.” She pointed to the chair she’d vacated at the wooden table that had, at one time or another, accommodated five babies, toddlers, adolescents and teenagers.
Daddy only hesitated a second. I knew he and his sons let Mama rule her kitchen as she saw fit. They had other projects and chores, and their dreams were never interrupted for lack of a warm meal, lovingly prepared by Lindsay.
“He’s trashy,” Mama muttered while she pulled out three plates, three sets of flatware, and three of her ironed fabric napkins, plunking them in front of me with a glare. I got up and set our places carefully, unwilling to get into a no-win argument over my boyfriend. It was a moot point now anyway.
Daddy and I sat in awkward silence while Mama put our plates together and heated them up individually, all the while mumbling under her breath. But I steeled myself against it. I didn’t care what she thought of me anymore. I would be out of here soon enough. It would take all four apocalyptic horsemen plus a few extra to get me to return once I escaped this two-bit town.
By the time she’d slammed our food down in front of us, consisting of warmed-over chicken, rice, and mushroom casserole, green beans, and fresh sliced tomatoes with plenty of salt, she’d apparently reached some kind of conclusion. I let her stew a bit longer, taking tiny bites of the tomatoes, trying to sort out how to avoid eating the creamy, fattening glop covering the chicken breast.
“Anton,” Mama said, placing her napkin in her lap. “Blessing.” She shot me a look fit to kill. I dropped my fork onto the plate and took their hands.
“Dear Lord,” Daddy said, “bless this food for the nourishment of our bodies. Thank you for this glorious day, thank you for family, health, and happiness. And bless the Cincinnati Reds. May they kick righteous tail in today’s game against the heathen Detroit Tigers. Amen.”
“Oh, Lord,” Mama said, gripping me so I couldn’t let go. “Please bless our only daughter Angelique Brianna with the light of Your holy wisdom, so she may make the correct choices for herself as a young woman.”
I opened one eye to peer at her, but she had hers tight shut. She kept going. “Give her father and me the strength to weather the storms of her rebelliousness, so we can all come out on the other end of her teenaged years intact. Give her the strength and courage of her convictions to be proud, strong, and virtuous when she moves to the wilds of New York City next year. Amen.”
“Mama,” I croaked, ready to get up and run to her, to beg her to hug me longer than a few seconds, to hold me and croon soothing nonsense the way she did for my brothers. Daddy was the one I usually had to turn to, based on past experience—on all of my experience, I suppose.