Page 83 of Wrap Around
He gives her a quick look of assessment. “You both best get cleaned up and dressed in something more appropriate. Supper’s nearly ready, and sundown will be soon.”
Inside the trailer, Lily locks herself into the small back bedroom while I bring our bags inside. Addy, still sleepy from her car nap, is content to play with a toy construction vehicle. She looks up when her mama steps out.
“Mama sad,” she says, watching Lily with big green eyes.
Lily either doesn’t hear her or can’t find it in herself to pretend otherwise. She’s wrapped in layers of clothes that used to belong to her, but don’t fit her anymore. Not so much in size, but in personal growth. The long cotton skirt with blue flowers and coordinating light blue button-down blouse fastened all the way up to the top button swallows her already smaller stature. There isn’t much she can do to hide her hair other than wrap a soft scarf over her head, the cream-colored fabric washing her already pale complexion out. With every button and layer, I watch a little more of her slip away.
Lily holds a bundle of clothes in her arms that are clearly for Addy. I reach for them so she can have a moment to herself, understanding how difficult this must be for her to not only slip back into the roles we were raised with, but to then have to shroud her daughter in those same expectations.
“Come on, Pickle. Let’s get dressed so we can go have dinner with Mamaw and Papaw.”
She looks suspiciously at the bundle of clothes in my hand, then down at her cotton overalls with her favorite cartoon dog on the front. “Wear this, M’Uncle Gid-On.”
“Those are dirty, baby girl. Let’s put on a pretty dress for Sabbath, yeah?”
The look she gives me suggests she’d rather use a raw onion as a teether, but she comes over and lets me change her clothes. Her belly laughs over the amount of fish crackers falling out of the pockets of her discarded overalls soothes the sting a little when I have to watch my niece’s personality be smothered with the expectations of our childhood. Watching it in real time drives home that Silas and I weren’t the only ones that struggled with our identities here. If it wasn’t just us, how many more of our peers felt stifled?
Addy lets me wrestle her chubby limbs into a long-sleeved cotton shirt dress but draws the line at the pair of ribbed tights. I try bribing her with her favorite pair of ladybug rainboots instead of the black buckle shoes that Lily put with the outfit, but Addy is having none of it. Eventually we walk out of the trailer and towards our childhood home with Addy in the dress, no tights or socks, and the rainboots. Getting a three-year-old out of the house on time without a tantrum is win enough.
As we’re walking towards the house, Lily calls out to her little girl several times, correcting the way she’s running and jumping, instructing her not to get dirty, not to pick up bugs, not to mess up the pigtails Lily smoothed and braided her curly hair into. I can hear the pain and anxiety in her voice. I can feel the pressure and expectations that I relate to so much in every word. And I know it’s hurting her to find herself making her daughter conform to the same rules we’ve so joyfully thrown to the wayside since leaving this place. It’s amazing how fast it all comes back. By the time we’re stepping onto our parent’s doorstep, my back is already sore from my rigid posture.
Sister Paula greets us as if this wasn’t the house we grew up in, and shuffles Lily directly into the kitchen with her to finish up the preparations for Sabbath. From sundown on Friday until sundown on Saturday, there is no cooking or chores other than cleaning up behind ourselves, but it takes a lot of preparation to accomplish. The women work extra hard all day on Friday to prepare meals so the Sabbath can be spent focusing on prayer, bible study, and worship. Sister Paula doesn’t even allow my sister to go find our mother first, putting her immediately to work.
Our father pokes his head into the kitchen, and I don’t miss the way his cold eyes look over my sister before he gives a short nod, apparently approving the outfit change enough. He smiles down at Addy, who is hiding behind my leg, and uses a kind tone to send her into the kitchen to help her mama and Sister Paula. I nearly gag when I find myself automatically coaxing Addy to show respect to the man that raised me to hate myself, and feel physical pain when her tiny voice repeats, “Yes sir, Papaw.”
My heart skitters off with my niece, and I follow my father through the house. He leads me down the hallway towards the bedrooms, and we find Mom in the room that used to be mine, but has been converted into a guest room of sorts. She’s slumped over in a recliner, dozing with a bible in her lap.
“She collapsed at the Food Lion,” he tells me in a hushed tone. “The EMTs said her vitals were abnormal, and she was dizzy so they took her to the hospital.”
“What did they say happened?”
“Your mother was uncomfortable at the hospital, so she left soon after they ran the tests. She was feeling better anyway.”
“She looks terrible,” I whisper.
Our mother, like many other women in our community, got married and started a family young. She’s not even fifty years old,but she looks older than my father, who is sixty. Her skin is jaundiced and pale, the dark circles beneath her eyes and loose skin from obvious weight loss makes her look even older than Sister Paula, who was best friends with my grandmother.
“Dr. Baker said there are some lab results to go over, but I haven’t spoken to him yet. We’ve been praying over it.”
“Has herphysicianlooked over these results?” My tone is incredulous, and probably comes off disrespectful, but just by looking at my mother, I can tell this is more than a simple case of aging. Dr. Baker isn’t even an actual physician, he’s a faith healer that got a doctorate from the same school of theology that my father did. He’s a quack, something I’ve always felt was true even when I was growing up and fully involved with the church, expecting to follow in my father’s footsteps. “Are you sure she shouldn’t still be in the hospital?
“You know how those corporate facilities operate, Gideon. They exaggerate things so they can run more tests and inflate costs. Your mother feels fine, and her faith is strong.”
“Her faith isn’t going to keep her alive if she’s having a medical crisis. She’ll listen to you if you–”
“Your mother is capable of making decisions for herself,” he snaps in a tone meant to warn me that I’m overstepping. “And she is being cared for by Dr. Baker, who nursed you through the worst of every illness you’ve ever dealt with. God’s will is sovereign. Your lack of faith concerns me almost as much as your lifestyle does,” he spits.
My spine stiffens. “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask through gritted teeth, needing to hear him say the words. I’m too on edge not knowing for sure whether he’s truly figured me out or if I’m just as paranoid as I’vealways been.
“You should be here learning how to lead your flock to salvation, not chasing fame and excess through savagery. Lord only knows what kind of evil follows such a path.”
Some of the tension runs out of my shoulders, and I almost have to hold back an eye roll. While my father allowed sports as one of the approved masculine pastimes and often used sports as a metaphor in his lessons, he has never approved of playing them professionally. Leaving home and playing hockey professionally was a pipe dream that Silas and I whispered about behind our parents’ backs. We weren’t allowed to watch professional games on television or have posters or merchandise for favorite teams, either. My father, and many within the church, feel that the professional sports industry, as well as any entertainment industry, goes against the traditional Christian values.
“When was the last time you even observed the Sabbath?” he asks disapprovingly.
Since our church typically worships on Saturday, watching or playing sports that regularly take place on the weekends puts us in direct conflict with Sabbath observance. Missing the twenty-four hours that are set aside to rest, worship, and reflect are considered disobedient to God’s law. Not to mention that, according to my father and the other elders of our congregation, participation in the entertainment industry promotes values that go against Christian humility and modesty.
I’m saved from the conversation by my favorite unruly toddler letting out an ear-piercing shriek from the kitchen. I excuse myself under the guise of helping with Addy, which earns me another frown of disapproval from my father.
