Part 17 (2/2)
”Pizza for dinner tonight,” her mom says while Hannah's gathering her dirty laundry into a pile. ”Want any veggies on it?”
”Pepperoni,” Hannah says listlessly.
”It's Good Friday. No meat.”
Hannah hangs her head back. ”The one time I want pepperoni.”
”Why are you so moody?”
”I'm not moody.”
”You walked in here with a dark cloud circling around your head. Did you not sleep this week?”
”I slept.”
”Uh-huh.” Her mom takes the laundry basket from her and cradles it under one arm. ”Take a nap until the pizza gets here.”
”I'm not tired.”
”Then just lie down and relax. We're going to the Stations of the Cross after dinner and I want you at your best.”
Hannah sighs and throws a rogue sock into the laundry basket. ”Fine.”
She fakes sick when her mom wakes her for pizza.
”I knew something was wrong with you,” her mom says, feeling her forehead, ”but you don't have a fever.”
”It's a stomach bug or something,” Hannah says, squinting into her pillow. ”Or maybe cramps.”
”Okay, well, just sleep, then. I'll wake you before we leave to see if you're feeling better.”
She lies there in the dark until her mom comes back a while later.
”Still feel sick?”
”Yeah.”
Her mom surveys her with critical eyes. ”How about some ginger ale?”
”Yes, please.”
Joanie brings it up to her a few minutes later. ”You're such an a.s.s,” she says, setting the gla.s.s on Hannah's nightstand. ”Faking sick to get out of Stations of the Cross.”
”I'm not faking.”
”Should we write out your will before I leave?”
”Shut up.”
”I want those purple heart earrings from Express.”
”Go away.”
”Jeeze,” Joanie says, backing out of the room. ”I'm gonna pray for you to get a better sense of humor.”
Hannah lies on her bed for hours and hours, faking sleep when her family comes home from church, faking sleep again when her mom checks her around 11 p.m., faking to herself that everything is okay.
She sneaks downstairs around one in the morning, no longer able to ignore the hunger in her stomach. She finds leftover pizza in the fridge and eats it cold while she slumps against the counter. In the darkness, her house looks strange to her, like a pattern of shapes she doesn't know.
She opens the backdoor as quietly as she can and tiptoes out into the yard. Her bare feet brush against the gra.s.s, her arms s.h.i.+ver in the cool night air. She tilts her head back until she's face to face with sky and stars. When her neck starts to hurt, she lies down on the ground, gra.s.s and dirt molding into her back, and folds her hands together over her stomach.
Is it okay?
The question bleeds forth from her and she imagines it rising into the sky, delivered on wind and air and atmospheric pressure until it reaches G.o.d.
Is it wrong? Were we wrong?
She lies there, bleeding into the sky, until the sky starts to bleed red with morning.
She doesn't hear from Baker at all on Sat.u.r.day. Her texts go unanswered; her calls go to voicemail. She spends a lot of time lying in bed, pretending to read. But the words in her books mean nothing to her, and after awhile, she picks up her laptop and stares at Baker's Facebook page like she's praying to it.
”You are being such a lard,” Joanie says when she steps into her room.
”I'm tired from the beach.”
”Mom says to make sure you have a nice dress picked out for Ma.s.s tomorrow.”
”Ugh.”
Joanie shrugs her shoulders and eats the rest of the cookie in her hand. ”Easter Sunday, champ.”
Hannah sits through Easter Ma.s.s the next morning without actually absorbing anything that's going on. She follows along with the readings and the Gospel mostly out of habit, and the only thing that strikes her is a selection from the Gospel of John, which the lector reads in a solemn voice: On the first day of the week, Mary of Magdala came to the tomb early in the morning, while it was still dark, and saw the stone removed from the tomb.
So she ran and went to Simon Peter and to the other disciple whom Jesus loved, and told them, ”They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don't know where they put him.”
And Hannah understands that even though today is supposed to be about the Resurrection-about hope, and rebirth, and renewed faith-the only thing that makes sense is Mary Magdalene's confusion and despair.
The lines for Communion are much longer than usual, swelled as they are with the people who come to Ma.s.s only on Christmas and Easter. Hannah watches as the faithful process to the front of the church to receive the Eucharist, all dressed in their Easter Sunday best, some of the moms looking harried, some of the teenaged children looking annoyed. A familiar person comes into view in the long line on the right side of the church, and Hannah recognizes Nathan Hadley, dressed in a handsome Oxford s.h.i.+rt and with his kind eyes visible even from across the room. Mr. and Mrs. Hadley stand in line behind him, but Baker is not with them.
Hannah's stomach knots in on itself. An irrational part of her fears that Baker confessed everything to her family and they locked her in her room, too shamed by her transgressions to let her come to Easter Sunday Ma.s.s. Hannah's heart pounds hard when it's her family's turn to move along the pew and join the Communion line. She feels like the Hadley's eyes are on her, like the eyes of the whole congregation are on her, like they can all tell what she's done and what she's struggled with in her heart.
”Amen,” she says when Father Simon raises the Eucharist in front of her. And then, for some reason, even though she was trained in how to pa.s.sively receive the Communion bread years ago, she reaches up to s.n.a.t.c.h the Host. Father Simon raises the Host higher, almost as a knee-jerk reaction to her grabbing for it. His face shows his surprise, and Hannah's face flushes with embarra.s.sment when she realizes her mistake. She lowers her eyes and cups her hands together, and Father Simon places the Eucharist on her left palm. She walks back to her pew with added shame, and it weighs her down through the end of Ma.s.s.
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