Music of the damned, Father had said. Trust me, this hurts me as much as it hurts you.
Her mother had kept the broken pieces of those tracks, and the record player balanced on their sharp, daggerlike remains. Seeing them always made Beth shiver, because they looked like an accusation.
And like regret.
Her mother hauled herself upright and patted her tangled, unwashed hair. Beth winced to see the mirror of her own glossy locks so badly neglected.
“I was pretty like you once, you know,” her mother snapped, pettish with hunger. “I had the most beautiful hair.…”
Beth’s chest ached.
Her mother used to tell stories about the Outside.
From her, Beth had heard wonders the others could never dream of: all about amusement parks and shopping malls and movie theaters. She’d learned about televangelists and soap operas, public high schools and monogamy. She’d even learned about other faiths her mother had tried before finally landing in Red Creek—the Moonies and the Hare Krishna.
These days, there were fewer stories and more hazards. She had to be careful. Her mother’s tongue, like hers, could cut like razor wire.
“Macaroni and cheese.”
Her mother stared at the steaming food, her eyes hollows.
Desperately, Beth wished for the canyon. For Cory’s warm touch and the wind in her hair. For life.
Get in and get out. No need to linger.
Her mother’s hand shot out of the dark, gripping her wrist with surprising strength.
“Mother!” she gasped.
“It’s time for you to leave this place, daughter. Time for you to run.”
Beth held her breath, shocked and afraid.
“They’ll want to marry you soon. Chances are a patriarch already has his eye on you. Don’t fool yourself that it will be some handsome boy you could come to love—the young ones never get the pretty girls, and even when they do, they turn hard fast. Like your father.” Her mother smacked her chapped lips together. She’d chewed them until they bled.
“The Outside is better, safer. Everything the Prophet taught you is a lie.”
Beth couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother speak so many words together. So many forbidden words. The Prophet would say she was a snake hissing in Beth’s ear. The Prophet would say she was a demon.
And Agnes—she’d tell her to gird herself from this spiritual threat with prayer. But suddenly, Beth couldn’t recall a single verse or psalm.
Her thoughts pitching and churning, she tried to back away.
Her mother dug her fingernails into the skin of her wrist.
“If you find some money, you can check into a motel in Holden. One of those with a little pool. Stay until you find a job.”
She let go and Beth stumbled back.
“You have roses in your cheeks,” her mother said. “Your foolish sister is already lost, but you—you can still be found.” Her tone turned black and cold as road ice. “Get out, my dear. Get out while you still can.…”
Beth fled the room like she was chased and took shelter in the arms she knew were always open to her.
“My God, your heart is pounding out of your chest!” Agnes said.
“It’s Mother.” Beth spoke into Agnes’s collar. Her sister smelled reassuringly of work—of sweat and sunshine.
“What did she say to you?” Agnes demanded.
Beth shook her head. It was too painful to tell.
The trailer had gone eerily silent.
Embracing, Beth and Agnes were like a lodestar for the other kids, who slowly came to wrap their own small arms around them. They didn’t understand all that went on in this house—not even Sam—but they soaked up its grief like sponges. Sam tucked his head against Beth’s rib cage, and Ezekiel clung to her leg. Mary and Faith cried softly, frightened to see their elder sisters upset. Their hands tugged at the waist of Beth’s dress. She repressed a vain thought—It’s my favorite, don’t tear!—then let herself be enveloped by the only people in the world who could ever know what it was like to lose a mother as they had.
Agnes’s cheek pressed against hers. They held each other like shipwreck survivors, and time melted away.
When Beth pulled back, her face was damp. “I’m still mad at you,” she whispered.
Agnes winced. “I know.”
It’s time for you to leave this place. Time for you to run.
There was so much vast life she yearned for but could never, ever have.
Because of them. Because of love.
She watched the kids scatter to their books and games, her anger cut with sadness and grief. Her feelings layered in a dizzying array of colors, like the layers of canyon rock.
“Beth, I need to talk to you. About Magda. What you said about rebellion—” Agnes began, but Father blew through the door, looking stern as a minor Abraham.
Time for prayers.
6
AGNES
A man with many wives is holiest in the eyes of the Lord.
—PROPHET JEREMIAH ROLLINS
In the evening, Agnes always prayed for the same things: for Ezekiel to be cured, and for God to forgive her weakness. For strength to take care of the kids, and for her mother to be peaceful. That night she added a special word for Beth. Let no secrets come between us.
Most Red Creek children never liked sitting through prayers, but Agnes delighted in it. On her knees, she felt very near to God—or as near as any girl could be. It was like lingering in the well between the world and dreams, and she thought she could pray for hours, even days, like the Biblical prophets of old in their desert caves.
But of course, women could never be like those holy men. Not with children and chores to tend to. What a silly fantasy.
Too soon, Father dismissed them to bed.
“Good night, children,” he said curtly, his words loaded with the implication that he had far more important things to think of—manly, patriarchal things. But he had a soft spot for Agnes and remembered to give her a small, wry smile.
Their faces were alike: all square jaw, coarse skin, and large brow. Agnes thought those features became him best, but being plain had never bothered her. She could walk past the mirror for weeks without ever truly noticing the shape of the girl reflected there. Whatever worth she had was on the inside, and whatever beauty hewn, she hoped, of spirit.
The children brushed their teeth and washed their faces—one at a time, in the mildewed bathroom—while strains of “Amazing Grace” wove through the air.
Sam went rigid when the song began. Of the little kids, he remembered his mother best. Agnes worried about him. Worried about all of them. A constant pang of not enough.
At bedtime, she had a few quiet words for Ezekiel, who feared the dark. As always, she rubbed his back in circles and pointed out the glow of the crucifix night-light.
“Look what protects you.”
“Yes, but what if—”
“No what if. Be brave. It’s time for sleep.”
He scrunched his eyes tight. Watching him try to will himself asleep, Agnes had the strong urge to swaddle him up in his blanket and rock him like an infant.
Meanwhile, the record played on.
’Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved…
She and Beth unfolded the convertible couch they shared and spread the sheets in practiced unison. Her sister seemed thoughtful, far-off.