I Know You Remember Page 10

  Tears suddenly spring to my eyes. I pull over to the side of the road. I cover my face with my icy fingers.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” I whisper into the darkness. “Help me, Starmaiden. Send me some kind of . . . some kind of sign. Help me find you.”

  If this were our book, there’d be a glimmer of stardust before me. A rune or a compass or some kind of pathway would open up in brilliant light.

  But it’s not. It’s the real world. It’s the same ugly stupid place I’ve always lived, where people vanish, where sick sad things happen, and where I am completely powerless to do anything about it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WE SEE, BROTHERS AND sisters, that blood is connected to sin from the beginning of time.”

  It’s Sunday—a week since I got back home. If you’d told me then that I’d be sitting in church today, in the middle row of the biggest fundamentalist congregation in Anchorage, I would have laughed in your face. But here I am, perched on the end of the pew next to Ingrid. Dad and Brandy are on the other side of her, sitting ramrod straight and looking attentively at the lectern, where a middle-aged white man stands with a carnation in his lapel. His face is flushed with excitement.

  “We see it in Genesis three twenty-one, after Adam and Eve become aware of their nakedness. ‘Unto Adam also and to his wife did the Lord God make coats of skins, and clothed them.’” He slaps the podium with a bare hand. “Can you imagine, brothers and sisters, the smell of that first slaughter? Can you imagine the blood, red and hot and stinking of sin, when that first creature was killed for its hide?”

  My best friend’s grandfather. It still boggles the mind.

  “Eve, in particular, is punished with blood. Her blood, like her sin, is unclean. Leviticus fifteen makes that abundantly clear. ‘And if a woman have an issue, and her issue in her flesh be blood, she shall be put apart seven days: and whosoever toucheth her shall be unclean until the even. And everything that she lieth upon in her separation shall be unclean: everything also that she sitteth upon shall be unclean . . .’” He draws out the word unclean every time he says it. “When we fell from innocence, brothers and sisters, when we ate of the apple, we learned of birth and death. We learned of suffering. It was a high price to pay. A very high price.”

  It’s hard to picture easy-going, quick-to-laugh Charity coming from a background like this. It’s even harder to picture Zahra taking an interest in it. I think about what Ron said—how, suddenly, in the middle of her freshman year, Zahra went to live with her grandparents. With this man, currently waxing eloquent about the menstrual cycle and its relation to sin. I imagine her sitting through this sermon, stifling her giggles. She couldn’t have stayed here long—no matter how much she’s changed, that much is still true.

  “And yet it is through blood that we are purified and given our path to eternal life!” The pastor slaps the podium again for emphasis. There’s a quick squawk of feedback on the mike. “It is through the blood of the Lamb, pouring hot and red from His living body.”

  I glance at my dad from the corner of my eye. He’s on the other side of Ingrid from me, his expression earnestly rapt. I know a lot of people find religion when they get clean, but I wonder how he landed here, with this particular church. I get the appeal of a higher power—but you’d think he’d be more in line for a message of hope, or forgiveness. Not whatever the hell this is about.

  But then, he’s not alone. The church is packed. The congregation is mostly white—though there are a few very large families of interracial adoptions, children from around the world squirming in their seats. In front of us there’s an impossibly young mother with a duckling row of toddlers she keeps shushing. There’s a bunch of teenagers, too—I met them all in the youth group meeting before church proper, when Devon, the “hip” young youth pastor in chinos, introduced me around. They’re all clean-scrubbed and earnest and at least superficially nice.

  My thoughts wander as he drones on, turning in anxious circles, fidgeting over every scrap of information I have. I avoided Ben for the rest of the week, eating lunch with Ingrid and her friends in the choir room. I wonder if he’s told Tabitha or the others about me following him. My guess is no. Tabitha’s taken to texting me pretty regularly since lunch that day, and she hasn’t mentioned it.

  I can still remember how it felt to have that gun trained on me. Can still feel the strange, flat calm that suffused my body. But it hadn’t been Ben holding the gun. He’d come out to save me. To be honest, he’d seemed almost as freaked out as me at the rifle. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But it does sort of complicate the idea of him as a cold-blooded murderer.

  Ingrid nudges me, and I open my eyes. The congregation is getting to its feet. I stand up, too, blinking to clear my head a little. Does this mean we get to go home? Church is over?

  No. Ingrid’s picking up one of the heavy red hymnals, flipping it open as the music starts. I glance down at the lyrics and sigh. Would you look at that? They’re about blood.

  “What can wash away my sin?” Ingrid croons. She’s got a sweet, bright voice. “Nothing but the blood of Jesus!”

  There are other parts to the Bible, right? I seem to remember something about loaves and fishes. Or maybe a nice story about a rainbow-colored coat. I’ve seen the musical and it definitely focuses less on carnage. But even though nineteenth-century American religious music isn’t quite my scene, I can’t help but sing along, finding the alto harmony to complement Ingrid’s soprano. I’ve always loved singing duets. Something about the movement of two voices together, the way they make space for each other, the way they hoist each other up and strengthen each other. Our eyes meet for a moment, and we smile.

  The organ gives a few wobbly final chords. Everyone’s still as the echoes die away. And then, by some unspoken consensus, the spell is broken. It’s all over. People begin to stretch and move, turning to talk to their neighbors, giving awkward side-hugs. Dad and Brandy get caught up in a conversation with an older couple in front of us. Ingrid turns to look at me.

  I frown, looking up at the pulpit.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks.

  “I just think it’s odd that he didn’t say anything about Zahra,” I say. “His own granddaughter’s missing, and he doesn’t say anything about it? Doesn’t pray for her?”

  “I mean, I’m sure he prays for her privately,” Ingrid says. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about his personal life.”

  Maybe. But it’s still weird to me.

  “Does he come out to, like, mingle after a performance?” I ask suddenly.

  Ingrid turns to look me fully in the face, her brow furrowed. “You mean a sermon? Not usually. I think he usually heads to one of the offices after.”

  “I kind of need to talk to him,” I say. “Is there some way to . . . you know, go find him? Could you introduce me to him?”

  She gives a short laugh.

  “I mean, it’s not like I know him personally.” She gestures around. “It’s a big congregation.”

  “Yeah, but what if I have questions?” I say. “About . . . my unclean menstrual issue? Or something spiritual?”

  She purses her lips. “Well, you could talk to Devon. That’s who you’d usually go to.”

  I try not to make a face imagining Devon answering questions about any part of my body. Ingrid glances around the room, then seems to give in.

  “But if you really want to talk to Pastor Worthen, I can show you where his offices are.”

  * * *

  —

  THE OFFICES ARE DOWN a narrow, indirectly lit hallway lined with carpet so thick our feet make no sound. Most of the art is predictable: white, blond Jesus knocking at the door; white, blond Jesus sitting with the white, blond children. I wonder if it bothered Pastor Worthen to have a black grandchild. But maybe that’s not fair—blond Jesus is a staple with people like this. That
doesn’t mean he’s racist. Necessarily.

  The door to his office is rather grand, with molding around the edges and a brass nameplate. DALE WORTHEN, D.MIN. Without hesitating I knock, three quick raps. Ingrid gives me a nervous look.

  Behind the door, a murmur so faint I didn’t even register it at first suddenly goes quiet. A moment later, the door swings open.

  The woman who stands there is middle-aged, as bony-thin as Dale Worthen is stocky. Her ash-blonde hair is twisted at the nape of her neck, and she’s dressed in pale cashmere. It gives her the impression of being strangely washed-out, almost ghostly. But then I meet her eyes—and I can see the faintest flicker of Zahra, there in her deep-set hazel irises.

  “Hello there,” she says, and her tone is softer than I expected. She gives a fleeting little smile. “How can I help you girls?”

  Behind her, I can see Worthen at his desk.

  Ingrid fidgets with the hem of her cardigan. “Hi, Mrs. Worthen. I . . . I’m Ingrid Bell, and this is my stepsister, Ruth Hayden. She’s new to the church, and she wanted to . . .”

  “I wanted to talk to Pastor Worthen. About . . . about Zahra. I’m a friend of hers,” I say.

  “Ah.” Her lips press together tightly enough to go pale. She shifts her weight, almost as if she’s trying to shield her husband from our view. “Girls, that’s very kind, but I’m afraid . . .”

  “Let them in.”

  Pastor Worthen’s voice comes from behind her, not loud, but firm. It’s almost strange to hear his normal tone of voice after hearing his sermon boom and echo around the chapel.

  The woman’s eye twitches, ever so slightly. She opens the door wide and gestures for us to step in.

  The room is covered from floor to ceiling with theological books. A Quiverfull of Blessings. A Woman’s Place. Spare the Rod, Ruin the Child. The walls have rich wood paneling, and fresh flowers stand in a tall vase on an end table. The sofa and chairs are all brown leather. Pastor Worthen is sitting behind a large oak desk, hands clasped in front of him.

  His eyes are blue, almost flat in color, as they flicker between me and Ingrid. Just behind us, his wife smooths her skirt with quick, nervous movements.

  All at once, he breaks into a grim, toothy smile. It reminds me of a shark. Or maybe I’m projecting, after the gory sermon.

  “Welcome to Victory Evangelical,” he says to me. “Ruth, you said? And Ingrid. I remember you. You were the angel of the Annunciation last Christmas, weren’t you?”

  Her cheeks flush pink. “Yes, thank you, pastor.”

  He nods toward the chairs across the desk from him. “Take a seat, girls, take a seat.”

  We both sit down. I sense rather than see Mrs. Worthen, still standing off to one side, making small rustling movements like a bird beneath a hedge. She’s all nerves.

  “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” I start, but he shakes his head impatiently.

  “No, no. We were, in fact, just talking about our granddaughter. Weren’t we, Grace?”

  His voice is calm, but there’s a note in it I can’t quite place. Something hard and sharp. I glance back at Mrs. Worthen and see her drop her eyes to the carpet.

  “I’m . . . I’m very sorry,” I say. “That she’s missing. I just wanted to find out if there’s anything I could do to help.”

  Here comes the smile again, quick and almost aggressively white.

  “Thank you, Ruth. I thank you.” He clasps his hands together on his desk. “Please just keep us in your prayers for the time being.”

  I nod. “I will.” I pause for a moment, to see if he has anything else to say. “Are you—either of you—going to be at the search party later?”

  “No,” he says bluntly. And then, seeing my surprised expression, he shakes his head a little. “No, I find it’s better to keep my distance from my daughter and her family,” he says. “They have chosen to live their lives outside the biblical values I tried so hard to instill.”

  I don’t know why that means he can’t go look for his own granddaughter. But it does make me remember something else.

  “That’s not always been the case, though, right?” I ask. “Mr. Gaines said Zahra lived with you for a little while. That she wanted to be saved.”

  There’s a soft gasp from off to the side, but when I look at her, Mrs. Worthen is still studying the carpet. Next to me, Ingrid’s gone very still. I think she’s even holding her breath.

  God, have none of these women ever asked a man a direct question before? I turn back to face the pastor. A ruddy patch has swept up his neck, across his cheeks. There’s a large picture window behind his desk, with a view of the school grounds below—the playground, the sports field—and beyond that, a line of trees. He swivels to one side in his chair and looks out.

  “My granddaughter wasn’t ready for what the Lord required of her,” he says.

  His voice is so even that it takes me a moment to really understand what he’s saying. To hear the anger, missing from his tone, but implicit in the words. The ownership: not Zahra, but my granddaughter. What, exactly, had the Lord required?

  What had Worthen?

  But before I can frame the question in my mind, he bows his head. “Let us pray.”

  Next to me, Ingrid drops her gaze. It takes me a moment to follow suit.

  “Heavenly Father, we ask that You aid our sister in Christ, Zahra Gaines, in this hour of greatest need. We ask that You open her heart to Your Word so that she can be saved. We ask that she be given Your Spirit so that she can live forever at Your side. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  “Amen,” murmurs Ingrid.

  I echo it a half second too late.

  He stands abruptly. “I’m sorry to say I have a meeting with the church officers that I need to prepare for,” he says. “But please, come by any time if you have any spiritual concerns,” he says, shaking my hand with both of his. There’s a subtle stress to the word spiritual.

  “Thank you for making the time to speak with us,” Ingrid says. She turns and starts toward the door.

  I turn to follow her, my brows knit in frustration. As I pass, I meet Grace Worthen’s eyes. For a second I feel like she’s trying to tell me something, urgently and silently, with her gaze. But then she smiles that same tight smile and opens the door for us without another word.

  Back in the hallway, the potpourri smell is almost stifling. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go out front and wait for the parents.”

  We make our way down the hall, back to the chapel. “What a lovely man,” I mutter. “I can see why you guys come here.”

  “It’s complicated,” Ingrid says softly.

  I just shrug. I can’t stop thinking about that prayer . . . about the fact that he’ll pray for her soul, but not her safety. If God’s real, he should just bring Zahra home safe and sound . . . not play some cat-and-mouse game with her salvation. Maybe that’s why Charity doesn’t want anything to do with him. He’s the kind of person who’d rather have a granddaughter who’s saved than safe.

  Back in the chapel, the crowds are starting to dissipate. I wonder what it’s like to stand at that pulpit, to have so much attention directed your way. Not just attention—faith. Belief. It must feel so powerful, to wield that kind of influence.

  So why wouldn’t he want to use that power to help find Zahra? Is it just a petty family grudge?

  Or some rift deeper, and darker, still?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BY SUNDAY AFTERNOON THE sky is chalk white. Everything looks stark underneath, the bare trees gnarled like claws, the undergrowth dying in thick brown tufts. There’s a muted hush over everything, even though the parking lot is packed with people.

  There have been a few other, less official search parties earlier in the week—people out combing the trails for her. But this is the first big organized search. It seems absurd that it’s taken over
a week for them to organize it, but everything about Zahra’s disappearance has been murky. There’s no clear timeline, no real sense of when she vanished or who last saw her. So I guess it makes sense for the search process to be a mess, too.

  Ingrid and I walk through the Goose Lake parking lot, the meet-up spot for the search party. Half the school’s here, and the trailer park, too. There are news vans lined up on one side of the lot, reporters in windbreakers smoothing their hair and talking into microphones. I see a girl whose name I don’t know weeping for a camera.

  “Everyone’s got to have their fifteen minutes of attention,” Ingrid says under her breath.

  “Yeah.” But I don’t mind. I’ve never been so glad that Zahra’s popular—it means she’s getting coverage. It’s like Marcus said. Not all girls get this kind of press—especially black girls.

  Ron stands at center of a shifting mass, people moving in and out of orbit. There are faces I recognize from the trailer park, and other people who must be friends or family. There’s a stocky man with a low fade who has to be a brother or a cousin or something—his features are so like Ron’s.

  When Ron sees me, he smiles and opens his arms for a hug. Ingrid hangs back a little, giving us some space.

  “Ruthie,” he says. I can feel his arms tremble around me. “Thanks for coming.”

  I can only nod as I pull back to look at him. He looks awful—like he hasn’t slept all week.

  “Where’s Charity?” I ask. “And Malik?”

  He gestures across the lot. “Malik’s over there with his cousins. Some of my family’s up from Texas, to help out. Charity . . .” He hesitates. “She’s in bad shape. I made her take a Xanax and she’s finally getting some sleep.”

  “Good,” I say. “I bet she needs it.” I bite the corner of my lip, wondering if I should say anything, and then I plunge on. “Went to church with my family today.”