Chapter Four

Paul

Six Months Ago

Sweat is beading upon my forehead. The skin on my arms feels tight from the assault of the morning sun. Today the skies are clear and there’s no September breeze, which I would gladly welcome. I pray for a breeze, but God wants my submission.

I’m okay with that.

Finally, the breeze comes. On it flows the scent of pine from the surrounding hills: The border of our refuge. I look up and over these beautiful hills and wonder what is past them. I understand why we’re here and it’s not that I want to leave, but my imagination tries to fill in the holes. It can’t all be evil and ugly. God’s creation is beautiful, and I know it goes beyond the hills my eyes behold.

At this thought, I lower my gaze and my eyes behold something else of beauty—Raina. From the moment I saw her in the chapel, my thoughts have consistently returned to her, wondering what she is doing, if she is okay, how she is adjusting. The few times I have been lucky enough to see her since, she looks downtrodden. Not quite sad, but not angry either. Defeated, perhaps.

It can’t be easy moving here at her age, which must be sixteen or seventeen. She probably already misses the things I don’t remember. I’m glad I’ve never been exposed to them because they would cause me to long for them. Like idols—which is what all the technological advances have become to society out there. We’re free from their influence here, and I am free from their grip, which I count as a blessing. Poor Raina is probably still under their hold, and it may be a while before she sees the value of their absence. But she will see it … eventually.

She is walking across the path from the kitchen with her head down. Her hair, long and dark, falls around her face so I can’t see it from up here. I want to see it. I want to see her smile, to hear her laugh; and I feel the strangest sensation … like I want to cradle and protect her. To touch her.

I punch the board below me to turn my mind from this destructive path. My knuckle catches on a nail and begins bleeding, but it worked, and I am no longer allowing my mind to gain ground where sin resides. Once I go down that path, I will not be able to stop it. Father says so. He says those thoughts are remain between a man and his wife, which is why men should marry if they cannot control them. Or before they get out of hand.

Only it is a struggle not to look at her. I try to keep my mind on the task at hand but find my eyes wandering to her. She has now walked upon the porch of their small cabin, where her mother is shirking corn. She stops as her mother looks up at her and they speak. I turn my head, trying not to look, not to pry … not to think of her. Only my mind betrays me, and it is suddenly the two of us on that porch, kids running around in front of it. This is when God speaks to me and tells me to rescue her. The message is confusing. I bow my head and turn my heart to Him. Rescue her from what? Her mother? Her old ways? He doesn’t answer, and for the moment I wonder if the two of us are not destined for each other. After all, what else could that mean?

Raina

I feel like a zombie. I don’t know what’s going on here or why people are choosing to live this way. I actually had to clean jars for canning. Canning! Why don’t these people live near a grocery store where some factory has already done the work for them? And now I see my mother peeling corn and placing it into a basket and feel like I’ve been time-warped back to the turn of the last century. It makes for the premise of a pretty freaky horror movie, that’s for sure, except this is my life—which makes it even scarier.

As I approach, Mom looks up and smiles at me. That smile strikes a nerve that I’ve been trying to control since we moved here. Up to this point, I have expressed my opinions with less passion than I felt, thinking this will pass. But seeing her on this porch, happy to be working like a woman who’d never known liberation, just makes me want to scream. What if she doesn’t ever realize how insane this is and I have to stay here? How will I ever get away?

I scowl at her. “I guess being a poor farmer makes you happy now, huh?”

Her smile only fades a little. “What did you work on this morning?”

If she can avoid answering my question, I decide to do likewise. “I’m going inside to take this stupid dress off.”

I try to walk past her, but Mom’s hand gently grabs my arm to stop me. I look down at her hand instead of in her eyes because I am so angry I want to cry—and I won’t give her that satisfaction.

“We will get used to things here, you’ll see. I venture to say we’ll be happier here than we’ve ever been.”

“No—we won’t!” The poison in my voice must sting her because she flinches. “I want to go home and take this itchy, stupid dress off—I want to see my friends—I want Grandma!”

“I miss her, too, baby. But you know, I really think she would be happy for us. I know she worried about what would happen after she was gone.”

The tears well up in my eyes and bubble over, exposing my pain. They cause me shame, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’m stuck here with weird strangers living a life that I don’t want.

Then the anger takes over. “She was right! Look what you’ve done to us!!!”

All I can think to do is run, so I turn and flee. I don’t even think my feet touch the stairs. I head toward the forest line behind the houses since that is the closest place of refuge. I can’t see because my eyes are blurred from the hot pain that can’t seem to stop coming out. I wipe a wet cheek with the sleeve of my cotton dress and reach out in front of me as I clear the tree line, ready to push away any branch that might slow me down.

I don’t know how long I’ve run, but by the time I stop, I’m exhausted and my legs hurt. I fall onto a rotted log and lie there crying, letting all my pain and misery out because if I don’t then I’ll explode. That’s why I needed to come out here. I needed to be alone and to let my feelings out. I know Mom has our best interest at heart because she’s never done anything but protect and support me. But this is all too much! I don’t know how she thinks I would ever be okay with this … this … living in the middle of nowhere like I’m in a “Little House on the Prairie” episode. That’s not real life! We can’t run from it—from the world. Why would we try? Hiding is even worse than learning to live. Now I’ll miss any opportunities to make my life better—no college, no dates, no parties with my friends, no scoring an awesome job that allows me to see the world! I’ll just end up peeling corn and canning vegetables until I die. That thought is depressing and scary and … heart-breaking. Yes … my heart is broken. Now they’ll try to break my spirit …

Suddenly the tears stop; the dam that was once broken now stands fixed and firm against the current. The tightness in my chest seizes. I won’t let them break me. No, I won’t!

I stand up and study my dress. It looks like something a small child would wear to church. The hem is long, almost to my ankles, and the collar comes up to my neck. I thought it was hideous when those old women brought it to me. Now, brown streaks of dirt sour the tiny daisies dotted all along the green fabric across my knees and chest, and one of the sleeves has a hole. It’s unabashedly damaged.

The sight brings a smile to my face.