Revival Season - Monica West (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📗

“Maybe we can just go home.”

Later, the house was claustrophobic with the laughter and suited bodies of a dozen deacons and elders. They always came over for dinner after the first post-revival Sunday service. It was my duty to help Ma in the kitchen. I stood, waiting for her marching orders, until she handed me the foil pan of lasagna and directed me to bring it to the table.

As I carried the steaming tray in, I overheard Deacon Farrow saying they’d had the biggest crowd in years. A few elders estimated that a thousand people had attended service—a new Sunday record. Their cackles swelled as I placed the foil pan in the middle of the table and let my fingers linger on its crimped edges. This world of revivals and faith healing was a small one, so I waited for the conversation to shift to Bethel and what they’d heard from the deacons who’d been in attendance there, but no one said anything. The briefest glance at some of their laughing faces was proof that they hadn’t heard the news. Or that Papa had spun a narrative to explain whatever they might have heard. I knew not to listen in for too long: Children should be seen and not heard. And as Papa paused in the middle of accepting his accolades to look at me, it was clear that he didn’t want me around.

I started cutting and serving the lasagna when Papa was still staring in my direction. Ma worked next to me with a pitcher at her side, filling each glass to the rim with lemonade. On my way to the perimeter of the dining room, I threaded through elbows as Papa’s voice, light and unburdened, cut through the laughter like a bell.

“Gentlemen, let’s begin dinner with a prayer for the healing of Micah Johnson.”

At the mention of Micah’s name, the heat from the annex surged through me once again. Heel toe, heel toe. I inched closer to the wall where Ma and Hannah were already standing for the prayer with dipped chins, but they seemed to get farther away as I got closer. When I finally arrived, I pressed my back against the wall, leaning into it to keep me upright as Papa’s prayer voice covered us like a blanket.

“Amen.” The men sat as one with their ties loosened, hands straddling their plates. Caleb sat toward the end of the table, next to Papa, too shy to speak among the men’s baritone voices. We said amen and ducked into the kitchen to eat the crispy corners of lasagna that we deemed not good enough for the men.

“Are you okay, Miriam?” Ma whispered, careful that her voice didn’t cross the wall that separated us from them. My eyes wandered to the dot of cheese on her top lip, knowing that if I looked directly in her eyes, I would have to tell her what had happened in the annex. I said healing words, and Micah’s eyes opened.

“Joanne. More lemonade, please!” Papa barked. Ma jumped up with the pitcher. I watched as she cupped a protective arm around her stomach before bending to fill the glasses of men who acted as though she didn’t exist. And the secret that had been so close to the surface receded.

SEVEN

The thin latex skins of red, blue, and yellow balloons shielded me from the hospital hallways and provided a millimeter of remove from the medicinal smell. I stayed a few feet behind Ma and Papa as we approached the glass doors to Micah’s unit—4B—that wheezed open and swallowed us inside.

Micah sat upright in bed with a faux wooden table positioned over her legs. She scooped runny eggs from a deep crater in her plastic tray.

“Good morning, Mrs. Horton and Reverend Horton. Hey, Miriam.” Her voice was quiet, formal, over the constant pinging of heart monitors in nearby rooms. Next to her bedside, a skeletal IV pole was empty when it should have been laden with swollen, opaque bags. I’d expected to see tubes everywhere and the erratic green lines of a heart monitor, but she was just sitting up in bed like nothing had ever been wrong. The only difference was that she looked smaller amid the pillows. I kept a wide berth as I walked around her bed and placed the balloon bouquet on the windowsill next to a vase of tulips whose heads were already drooping.

“Thank you. That was nice.”

My whole body tensed as I turned around with empty hands and no barrier between us. Our parents had ventured into the hallway, and Micah patted a spot on the bed next to her swaddled legs. I stood motionless in front of the same Micah who saved the maraschino cherries on her banana splits for last. The same Micah who had the embarrassing habit of laughing when she heard sad news, causing her to be the recipient of countless pinches during church services. As I climbed in beside her, I felt knees that were too angular as Micah’s unfamiliar body pressed me against the railing.

“What have you been up to?” It was the only thing I could think to say when she was inches away from my face. But as soon as the words came out, I realized how stupid the question was.

“Just hanging out here.” She gave a polite laugh but then started coughing, her body jerking forward in bed. I grabbed a plastic cup from her tray and pointed the bendy straw toward her parched lips. She took a long sip of water before rolling over to face me again. My body recoiled but I forced myself to stay still.

“What happened in the annex?” she asked. Her voice was thick and phlegmy, her breath sour. This was the question I had known—and feared—she’d ask.

My skin was a shirt that was becoming too tight, forcing air out of me with each breath. I slid away from her, but