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

would break, like clouds dissipating after a storm, but by the time second Sunday arrived, I knew that her mood was more than just sadness. Papa must have known it too because his answers about her were getting more clipped. But there was no way Papa would call a doctor for help—I knew that like I knew the sun would rise in the morning. Sickness in the mind is a manifestation of weak faith, Papa always said. To get better, you have to pray and ask to be healed. We were praying. We were asking.

I pulled one of my white dresses from the closet and shimmied into it. Its hem stopped just below my knees, and the seams—tiny, orderly rows of silken white thread—ran down the sides in perfect darts. Ma had made us matching dresses from a beautiful piece of fabric that she had found on the revival circuit this past summer. I imagined the hours that Ma spent with the pattern at the sewing machine, her hands pushing the fabric through the dipping needle. It hung loose around the waist, and I felt her arms gripping my shoulders and spinning me around—admiring her handiwork and saying I looked beautiful.

“Miriam,” Papa called from downstairs.

I walked down the hallway and paused by Ma’s closed door. My hand lingered on the doorknob, and I twisted it a bit before releasing it. I didn’t know what I would say to her, but I wanted her to spring out of bed, to stand beside Papa as Isaac was given back to the Lord. To participate in the ceremony that Isaiah had been denied. I rapped once, then twice, but there was no response from the other side.

“Miriam,” Papa called again, his voice louder.

When we arrived at the lake, six minutes late, a few regulars were already there, but attendance at baptism services, like all other services, had been declining. People were clustered in the shade of the few trees that dotted the brown grass. All eyes were on us as we arrived with Isaac in tow for his first church outing. As we brought him down the hill, the bolder people murmured their loud speculations about where Ma could be. Maybe she needed a break. It hasn’t been easy on her since the other baby died. It’s no wonder she’s having a hard time. I bit my bottom lip until the skin split and I tasted coppery blood.

The chords of the baptismal hymn plinked out of the speakers that were staked in the dirt. Papa hurried into the shallow part of the lake to baptize the people who had been waiting for him. The youngest children were the first in line—elementary school students who gave their lives to the Lord—followed by older people. Papa baptized them in the same water because he said all souls were identical to God.

Even though I’d gone to baptisms for years, there had always been new things to notice, from the way Papa’s robe floated on the surface of the water like a cloud to how his voice echoed back to shore, asking the congregation to support people in their newly reborn lives. I used to hold my breath as he dipped people underwater, knowing that they would be brand-new creatures when he lifted their sodden bodies from the lake. And when they stood under their own power, I was already on my feet, cheering them into the kingdom. This time, however, my body felt empty, and I could barely lift my hands to clap when it was time.

After the baptisms were complete, Papa stepped back onto dry land for Isaac’s dedication. He changed out of his wet robe and beckoned Caleb, Hannah, and me to join him by the edge of the lake. Papa held Isaac in front of the congregation in his long white gown that caught the breeze; all who were gathered at the lake repeated the oath promising to keep Isaac on the path of righteousness. The words that used to feel like fire in my mouth were now just a string of meaningless sounds as I said them about my own brother.

When we got home, Papa went upstairs, but instead of holing himself up in the study, he turned left toward the bedroom. The door slammed, and we all froze on the main floor in the unsettling quiet that followed. After a few moments of silence, I left Caleb and Hannah on the first floor and walked up the stairs.

The bedroom door was open a crack, not quite wide enough for me to see through as Papa’s voice barely reached outside. I squeezed my nose into the space and almost gagged from the nauseating stench of Ma’s unshowered body combined with Papa’s overpowering musk. He was standing at the side of the bed facing where Ma lay, his back to the door. His arms gesticulated wildly overhead before they came to rest on her arm. A minute passed, and Papa hung his head low and raised his arms again. His voice was louder this time, the words echoing in the stagnant air before reaching the door.

“In the name of the Father…”

It wouldn’t work—he and I both knew it—and I couldn’t watch him fail with her. I wanted to back away and leave them be, but my feet wouldn’t budge. He leaned closer. When he rose again, she was still an unmoving form wrapped in sheets. He collapsed to his knees. This was supposed to be the time when he would recite a prayer asking God to heal her, but a guttural sob escaped from his open mouth instead. He held Ma as her limp limbs dragged on the bed, rocking her back and forth. He’d pretended with so many people; why wasn’t he trying harder with her?

The sobs swelled, reaching a crescendo not unlike in his sermons, and just at the point when I thought his voice would break the way it did when he talked about the trials of Job or