as many times as I have.
“Mother,” I say, getting ready to tell her everything, like how hard it is to cook dinner for so many. Like how I want to play the piano. Or read. Or see Joshua. But not cook another meal.
She looks at me, her face almost relaxed.
I close my mouth to the confession. She doesn’t need this information now. I’ll tell her later, when her baby’s here, maybe after the blessing. Maybe when I am sick with my own pregnancy. The thought makes my stomach turn over. I don’t want anything else to eat.
Carolina bounces on the bed. Her blond hair swings in its braid. Beads of sweat dot her forehead.
“Don’t bounce, baby,” I say, trying to make my guilt go away by being especially nice to Mother. “You make Mother’s tummy ache.”
Our mother nods in thanks. She eats a bit. Shares some more.
Carolina stops her bouncing and says, “Fan Mother harder, Laura. It’s hot.”
“I’m fanning fast as I can,” Laura says. She smiles. I can see she’s worried.
All around us, the hot desert air moves from Laura’s fanning and the big fan propped in the corner. If we only had air-conditioning like the Prophet and Apostles do, Mother would be able to be pregnant in comfort.
The Prophet.
Is Father still with him?
Thank goodness there’s a swamp cooler plugged into the kitchen window or I swear we’d all go up in a ball of smoke.
“It’s hot as hell in here,” says Margaret. Then she smiles.
“Margaret,” Mother says, her tone disapproving. “Your language is not fitting to that of The Chosen Ones.”
Margaret, her face crinkled, keeps smiling. I bet she likes it that she can say a naughty word. “It’s straight from the Bible,” she says.
Laura fans Mother Sarah harder and says, “Tell us about when you were little.”
So our mother tells us about Bible study, when times were easier because sin didn’t cover the world the way it does now. When The Chosen Ones were allowed out of the Compound more. How she used to go to the next town and eat Fudgsicles with all her brothers and sisters, before the chain-link fence, before, when Prophet Childs’s father was our leader.
We’re all quiet, thinking about those Fudgsicles. At least I’m thinking about them. And thinking how Father wasn’t so old when Mother married him.
“You were lucky to live then,” Margaret says, her voice a sigh almost. “And I’m sorry I said hell.” There’s that grin again.
Mother eyes Margaret and says, “You’re forgiven.” Then she breathes out. “I certainly was lucky.”
AT LAST I LEAVE the Compound the way I always have, slow like I always do, so no one will think any more of this walk than any other I’ve taken over the last I don’t know how many years.
Are they watching me now that I’ve been Chosen? Will they follow me?
My whole walk, all the way into the middle of nowhere, I keep checking behind me. I keep looking.
When I can’t see the Compound behind me, when I’m sure no one follows, I run, stopping when I grow out of breath. Down the two miles of road, to that dot of trees that makes just about the only shade out here not on Compound property. There’s the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels.
Parked right there.
“Hey,” I say to Patrick when he opens the van doors. He’s in his seat, just waiting.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kyra.” He nods. Adjusts that ball cap of his.
I want to tell him everything. I want him to know what’s happening at home. That I’ve been Chosen. But I can’t. The words get caught right in my throat and refuse to come out. Instead, I plunk down Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, turning it back in.
“I loved it,” I say, just getting the words out. “It was great.” There’s a rock in my throat. When I’m married will I ever be able to come here again? Will I still get books? Still read?
Patrick smiles and says, “My sisters love that book, too. It’s a series, you know.”
I make my way to the rear of the van and drop to my knees. I can’t even look at the titles, I’m so sad. Why did I think coming here would help me? Being here only makes me ache at the thought of never coming back.
“Looking for anything specific?” Patrick says from his seat.
I shrug, not even sure if he’s looking at me. “Not really,” I say. “Just hoping for something . . .” Just hoping .