the question. Bea suspected there was more to it than she could understand. Sometime after that, when Lo was much clearer, it happened again, but this time, her inquiry had changed slightly: Who is this?
Bea finally understands. As much as she didn’t recognize Lo after the accident, it never occurred to her that Lo would not recognize herself. Other things about it dawn on her so far after the fact: how Lo would touch her fingers against her face, her scar, or look down at her body, perplexed. How, when Bea inevitably answered, You’re Lo, it never seemed as if it was reaching her. Bea finally realizes that Lo couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept it. Eventually she stopped asking Bea the question, though Bea once overheard Lo quietly asking it to herself: Who are you?
Bea stands in the upstairs bathroom at the Garrett Farmhouse. She turns on the water, letting it run cold before splashing it over her face. She feels her skin tightening against the shock of it, feels her eyes open wide. She stares at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
You’re Bea, she says to it.
She can smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Bacon and eggs and slightly-burnt toast. She follows the scent downstairs and steps into the farmhouse’s morning routine. Chapman House has a different sort of energy to it, it’s more diffuse, free. At the Garrett Farm, there’s less space and because of it, the way members move around and support each other in their daily tasks strikes her as something of a dance. It’s so intimate, so personal, it takes her back to a time before the accident. Mom, Dad, her and Lo. The rituals they carved out in their small world.
How far they are from her now.
Good morning, Amalia greets her from the stove.
Bea moves to the kitchen window and looks outside. The ground is wet, muddy, the remains of last night’s storm. It got so bad she couldn’t drive home. The rain started moments after Foster kissed her. The sky opened up and she couldn’t figure out whether or not it was God’s command to her or a warning. She closes her eyes at the memory, how she could feel Foster realizing his mistake as soon as his lips met her own. How she could feel him slipping away from her for good. She had to make a choice.
Save him.
There was no choice.
When she opens her eyes, Foster has entered the room.
They sit at the table, ten of them in all, and hold hands ahead of the meal. Foster leads them in prayer. They bow their heads as he begins to speak. Bea keeps hers up and watches him. Halfway through, he senses her gaze, raising his head to meet her eyes.
We sacrifice ourselves in the name of spiritual service so that we may prove the perfect will of God, and blessed, he says to her, are we, who endure temptation, for we will receive the crown of life, which Lev has promised to those who love the Lord.
* * *
Who are you? Lev asks her that night, after she grasps him by the hand and leads him to their bedroom. She’s on top of him. She wants to feel him. She wants to feel him against every part of her because he is God. She kisses him hard because she wants to taste God.
He asks, again, who she is.
She doesn’t know how to respond. He likes it, he clarifies, but the woman who met him tonight is different than the girl who waited for him every night before; the one shyly seated on top of their bed, naked, her hair falling over her shoulders, tickling her collarbones, shivering with anticipation. Bea can’t explain to him that she’s more afraid now than she ever was when she was her. Who were you? suddenly feels like the more pertinent question.
Lev rests his hands against her hips and she runs her fingers up and down his arms, his strong arms, overwhelmed by how much his skin under her fingertips electrifies her, even still. He stares up at her. He sees no flaw in her. He quickly, carefully, puts her on her back and lets his hands roam her body, palming her breasts.
She thinks of Foster, his mouth grazing her neck, his skin warm against her, yielding to his weight on top of her as the storm shook the world outside. It had been beautiful that morning, before Lev made her listen to Foster’s Attestation, the sun a