Some countries wait to see the results before jumping on our bandwagon. They are interested in the concept. Crime rates and terrorist acts dropped, or so they say. There are rumors that the government is fudging the statistics and covering up attacks in an effort to polish their image, and it has worked. This encouraged other countries to follow suit. The ones that don’t believe their initial feelings about our country are justified. They are obviously the countries plotting the terrorist attacks, so I guess only they really know if our government is being forthright.
As years pass, more and more civilians no longer identify with any form of religion, making the transition for the government much easier. The people who stand their ground are all gradually beat down. Down to a silent follower, or just gone. Now, the majority believe that religion was an illusion that individuals developed for personal benefit. I overhear whispers comparing believers to uncivilized barbarians of the prehistoric era. It feels wrong, practicing our faith in whispers, behind closed doors and covered windows. Generally speaking, if you find that someone is hiding something, they are usually ashamed of the thing they are hiding. That couldn’t be further from the truth in this case. My faith teaches the importance of sharing your beliefs with those around you, but here I am, walking on eggshells. Keep your prayers to yourself, and your Bible hidden deep in the floorboards.
My daily walk to my local coffee hut takes me by what once was a small Methodist Church. I imagine that it had the most vivid stained-glass windows, strong, golden walnut pews and piercing natural light. Now it is an HQ Workit. Basically, a communal workspace for people who don't have their own office or don’t prefer to work at home. Where the pews would have been are cubicles. Where Communion was taken now sits a coffee station. I wonder if it haunts any of them to know they are working in what should be a sacred holy space. I doubt they even know that it used to be a church.
There is the man with salt and pepper hair seated in his usual corner near the window. A chill run from the nape of my neck clear down the tips of my toes, as if someone funneled a gallon of ice-cold water into my veins. My fingertips clear down to my feet fire up with the tingling that comes with going numb. It keeps getting worse. Even worse than the episodes that came from my sessions with Mrs. Stonedale. When I was eight, the adoption agency advised my parents to send me to regular meetings with the school counselor to ensure I was properly dealing with my issues. I had to bring an extra jacket or sweater with me on the days I needed to meet with her. She seemed nice enough. Like most school counselors, her demeanor was always poised and understanding. There was just something about her that set me off every time. I would focus on the string of beads she always wore, doing my best to answer her questions amidst my teeth chattering. (They couldn't have known she would one day murder her husband and hang herself from her foyer balcony.) The first time it happened, they thought I just had caught a virus or bacteria of some kind. They took me to numerous specialists, and they ruled out anemia, hypothyroidism, blood vessel conditions and diabetes. What good is having a prodigy doctor for a father if all he can come up with is a diagnosis of an acute psychological nervous reaction, stemming from my tragic early years?
Luckily, my parents felt it would work its way out of my system, deciding I no longer needed therapy sessions after Mrs. Stonedale. It never did work its way out, though. Hollis’s diagnosis is that I am a superhero, and I clearly have the power to shoot icicles out of my fingertips. When we were younger, I would try with all my might, imagining some powerful force to come flying through my body, to no avail. He was convinced I just didn’t know how to harness my power, but one day, my birth parents—who of course must also have superpowers because everyone knows it’s genetic—would appear and teach me everything I needed to know. He would become my handy sidekick, and we would run off together and fight crime.
The condition made it hard to be around large groups of people. The more people in close proximity, the greater likelihood of an episode. Needless to say, college was not my cup of tea. I enjoyed learning, but it was nearly impossible to decide on a degree that would lead to the right career for someone with my limitations. I wanted to help people, but I couldn’t be there in person or near large groups of people. There was a stretch of time during freshman year that everyone thought Hollis and I were together because his arms were around me all the time, just so I wouldn’t freeze to death in public. I was repulsed by these allegations, but Hollis just egged them on to aggravate me. He and my roommate Nina would humor me and stay in most weekends to play drinking games in our dorm room, so I wouldn’t lose my mind.
Eventually, my comp professor brought it to my attention that I had good writing skills, and with my father’s background, I might make a great medical transcriptionist. He was right. I know that language all too well because I’ve grown up translating it. I’m not passionate about my job, but I’m good at it, and I can do it from home. Sure, it can get a little isolating, but that’s why I go for my coffee walk every day, and spy on the neighbors from our window nook. There is a little girl who lives on the third floor of the building across from us. She’s not too creative, but occasionally she throws some goofy faces my way. The old man on the first floor spends his entire morning reading the paper on his tablet while his wife dusts her china cabinet or scrubs the floors. When we go out, it’s usually to the same little dive bars that are 80 percent empty any day of the week. I don’t have a social media page. If I did, I would have to deal with rejecting invitations to events that I can’t handle sitting through. I keep my world small, and I’m just fine with it.
4
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Brunch
It’s Sunday morning, and that means it’s Brunch, Hidden Bible Day with my parents. Hollis and I get our shit together and hit the road for the suburbs. It has been years since the abolishment, but it’s still so bizarre to think reading the Bible is this rebellious act; let alone one that could land you in prison. Hollis reaches for the radio panel—
“I don’t think so, buddy. You got choose the station last week, so today we ride to the soothing sounds of Coffeehouse.”
He slaps his hand on his forehead. “Ugh, I’m going to fall asleep. An entire hour of this is not good for anyone’s health.”
“As opposed to the mish mash of noises and digital garbage that you listen to?”
“There’s just no arguing with you. Wake me when we get there,” he caves.
We pull into the driveway where a massive, shiny Harley-Davidson Road King bike is parked front and center. My mother would lose her shit if my father brought that home. No way it’s his. Hollis waltzes through my parents’ door ahead of me.
“Honey, I’m home! Who bought the new hog?!,” he asks.
Following behind him, I stop dead in my tracks. There is a terrifying-looking man standing in our dining room devouring mouthfuls of bacon. His dark, scraggly hair is long enough to pull back into a ponytail, his muscles are rippling through the worn, dirty white t-shirt he’s wearing and there is a deep scar above his right eye, running straight through his eyebrow. He approaches us with an extended hand, and I can’t stop staring at the grease running down his beard.