20 Then
Then
Of the countless memories I yearn to erase, primary among them is the day I lost my sister.
Not the day she died—that was another horror entirely. Being lost and being dead, I’ve learned, are two very different things. Often they occur simultaneously.
Sometimes, they don’t.
We’d been in the temple, as we so often were.
As always, the smell is what I recall most clearly.
Damp wood and sweat. On some days, there was a lingering trace of candle smoke.
Unlike the Regiment-run temples of my younger years, the Apostles’ temple was devoid of stained glass and paintings and gilt.
The Apostles were fond of simplicity. Our cottages were small with few furnishings and lacked electricity—an even further departure from pre-Regiment society.
All water came from a well at the edge of the main clearing.
Some newer members brought clothes with them, but most were made by hand.
Modern fashions were too revealing. Even the Vicar’s preaching stole was plain white linen, save for the black crescent moon emblazoned on one side.
Women were to wear muted colors that left little skin bare.
It didn’t take me long to understand why the dynamic between my mother and father had changed.
According to the Apostles’ stringent beliefs, a wife was to be obedient in all things.
The Apostles functioned with a clear hierarchy, and the Vicar sat at the top, second only to the Savior and the Prophet.
I can remember the scene clearly: Vicar Johannes had been leading a prayer. Heads were bowed. My parents’ eyes were closed. So were Ilse’s.
My eyes were open.
Those moments, I knew, were supposed to feel like community. Hearts and minds in sync, the air thick with collective understanding. At times I even wanted to feel it. Not the truth of the words, necessarily, but the sense that I was part of something.
Instead, whenever I watched the Vicar mutter fervent prayers from the pulpit, his tall frame hunched and his eyes tightly shut, I felt alone.
But it was also when I felt the most real.
Usually, in moments like that, I would squeeze Ilse’s fingers at my side.
The gentlest of pressure. She would crack one eyelid to meet my gaze.
I would make a face, and she would press her lips together, trying and failing not to smile.
Often she would squeeze my fingers right back, equal parts affection and warning.
She never dared speak, but I knew what her voice would sound like if she had.
The way it got all squeaky and panicked whenever she was determined not to laugh.
In most ways, that particular day’s service had been no different. Vicar Johannes droned on about giving thanks for a love we didn’t deserve. I stood there, chest tight and eyes open. My fingers sought Ilse’s. Squeezed.
She slapped my hand away.
My heart surged into my throat. I squeezed again, more urgently, but Ilse’s eyes remained screwed shut.
Her mouth was a thin line, though not from repressed amusement.
I hissed her name, earning a reprimanding elbow from my father.
Later I’d notice the bruising on my ribs, but at the time I didn’t feel a thing. I was hollow inside.
I watched Ilse’s lips as they formed the closing words of the Savior’s prayer.