14
“I don’t understand how that can be true,” Isabel says quietly, cheeks flushing crimson as she shakes her head. “If faith can be shaken that easily, perhaps the whole concept is too fragile.”
“Isabel…” I warn, stepping between her and Mother.
“Go to your room, Isabel,” Mother seethes, her teeth clenched. “When you come down, you will have changed into something more appropriate. Your soul is at risk with your defiance. Do you want to find yourself in hell when God deems your life at its end?”
Mother points to the hallway, demanding Isabel from her sight. Isabels eyes narrow, her jaw working as she considers what to say next.
“If God is real,” she continues softly, her voice quivering despite the resolve beneath it.
“He wouldn’t think the sun upon bare skin was something to be punished for. Did Adam and Eve not walk unclothed, with only leaves to cover them, before they learned to weave? Or is it only your version of the story that’s allowed to be true, when it keeps us in line?”
Her voice falters at the end, shrinking slightly under its own daring, but she stands there still. Caught between fear and defiance, her shame and her question laid bare in equal measure.
Mothers’ eyes bulge, a flare of red rising through her cheeks as she draws a slow deliberate breath.
“LEAVE. IMMEDIATELY,” she screams, bubbles of spit forming between her lips. A tear slips down her cheek, anger and sadness fighting beneath her composure.
Isabel shrinks back into the hallway, shoulders sunken and convulsing with fretful sobs as she disappears.
Mother exhales slowly as Isabel’s shadow slips through the hallway, collecting herself and turning to the kitchen.
“She doesn’t mean any harm, mother. This isn’t like her, you know that,” I soothe, following her.
“Where has my sweet, devoted child gone?”
She presses her palms flat against the bench, shaking her head as tears spill over.
We so rarely saw mother cry – she prided herself on always appearing composed.
Doing her duty with grace, without complaint.
If she ever felt sadness, she would slip quietly behind a closed door and return minutes later with reddened eyes, dabbing at her nose, as if nothing had disturbed her usual order.
Seeing her now, her vulnerability like a bleeding wound, my body aches. Where there was once a formidable matriarch, a woman so firm in her resilience and appearance, stands someone broken. And the sight of it breaks something inside me in return.
“Mother, she’s still in there,” I say gently, approaching the bench with care. “She’s just finding her way back. She’s lost right now and needs your help. Can’t you see how sad she is?”
“I can’t do this without him,” she whispers, causing the room to shutter out of focus and my chest to constrict.
“You can. We’re not easy to care for, I know that. But you can do everything… anything… without father. You’re so brave, so strong. I know we’ve been difficult. But I promise from now on, I’ll be better.”
A moment of quiet settles through the room as mother sniffles, eyes cast to the ceiling in reverence. Her mouth moves in familiar prayer, her mind occupied with silent devotion.
“Fruit cake,” she says suddenly, eyes alight as though she’s discovered the solution to everything.
“What?” I question, confused by her sudden shift.
“Yes, yes,” Mother mutters, turning on her heel. “She can take fruit cake to Reverend Brookes.”
She reaches above the cabinets, gathering an old Christmas sweet tin from a small collection, placing it on the bench without care. The metal scrapes across the granite, making my teeth ache.
“Why would she…”
“Fruit cake,” Mother interrupts. “For Reverend Brookes… He can help her. He’ll know what to do.”
And beneath the weight of her grief, the burden of being alone with two thankless daughters, I fear she might be losing her mind.