I worked to create the most elaborate mermaid dress ever made. My fingers dredged the outline of a mermaid tail, and then I began filling it in with the shells in my orange bucket, only pausing for rushed collection missions to the clear-foamed edge of the tide.
I didn’t even realize anything was wrong until I heard strangers yelling toward the shore. Daddy stood up so fast he bumped his head on the umbrella. The young surfers charged out with their boards to help. Even under the clipped roar of the Coast Guard helicopter, I just sat there methodically arranging seashells on my mermaid dress because I knew good and well that my mama was sitting right beside me, her wet hair spilling down her tan shoulders like seaweed stuck to her arms, her usual smile telling me it was all fine because she was right there and nothing else going on around me was real. The charm necklace she always wore glistened against her clavicle. She was humming “You Are My Sunshine” when she touched my face. “My sweet girl,” she said. And I knew with all certainty that she was okay because we finished that mermaid dress together—her big hand crossing over my little hand again and again until every shell was pressed into place.
Even as I sat under the sterile lights of the hospital waiting room, I insisted that she must be okay because we finished our mermaid. (I was holding a seashell! I had proof!) I still remember a tall stranger in the waiting room, an elderly man, staring at me as if both mesmerized and helpless, tears rolling down his wrinkled face. That’s when a terrifying sludge of fear slid into my consciousness, smothering my breath. In a flash, I saw the mermaid was washed out, her face a gaping hollowed-out crater of sand, the shells scattered by the rising tide and sucked back into the churning ocean. I felt the icy panic spread through my entire body as a horrible sound forced its way out of my mouth. I’ll never forget how that elderly man stared at me in horror, how he clutched his hands under his crossed arms, how he finally had to turn away.
And then my entire life as I knew it faded to black.
But my understanding of what happened didn’t last long. She was my mom—she couldn’t be gone. So I made up another less-traumatic version: My mother had become a mermaid. I would say this to anyone who would listen.
I drew pictures of my mermaid mom at school, and told everyone stories about her life under the sea. When this started, my teacher sent me to the nice lady in the office near the principal to draw more pictures for her and “just chat about things.” I would tell Mrs. Sanderson how Mom shows me her slimy tail, just like a fish, and how it sparkles in every color imaginable. It’s so real. She smiles and kisses my forehead, then swims off to be with her other mermaid friends. She says she can always watch over me this way, but I hear her only in my mind because she’s already swimming away. Her voice sounds like Glinda the Good Witch, from my favorite movie.
One day, Mrs. Sanderson took both of my hands into her own. We stood there beside a giant window projecting a Technicolor world with rays of sunshine gleaming through giant oak limbs and lemon-yellow flowers lining the sidewalks underneath. She tightened her lips and squeezed my hands so hard it almost hurt, and then she told me the one thing that everyone else seemed to agree on when it came to explaining the death of my mother.
“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Sanderson said. I remember her smoothing my hair behind my ears and gently putting her hands on my shoulders as if to keep me from floating away. “Your mother went on to be with the Lord.”
It was like the whole world outside her window darkened and faded, and even now I sometimes find myself waiting for it to brighten back to the Before. But there’s no getting back to the Before when you’re trapped in the After.
And that day at school was the last time I ever drew a mermaid or spoke of my mother.
STEP 6: Show how following the Kingdom’s steps will take away all of their burdens. Seek a commitment, even if the commitment is only to try the next step.
Girl Before Mirror
The next week, Heather sifts through the clothes in my closet, where each rejected hanger screeches with rhythmic shoves to the left.
“Why don’t you ever wear any of this?” she asks.
Heather decided we must find the perfect outfits before my first church service on Sunday. “It’s important to look as sharp as possible. Our appearance directly reflects our spiritual commitment. And, to be honest”—she lifts a pair of frayed blue jeans off the floor—“you could really use some help in that department.”
“Hey,” I protest from my bed littered with notebooks, where I’m studying for an art exam. “I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t you want Josh to notice?” Heather can’t bring up Josh’s name without using that suggestive tone or adding a smirk. I ignore the bait. She still doesn’t know he calls me, and I’m afraid of giving her a reaction to interpret. I haven’t actually seen Josh since the Pictionary game, but his calls are the bright spots in my day. Somehow, he always manages to catch me when Heather isn’t around, which is rare these days. After our conversation about my mom, Heather quickly became more than just a Bible study partner; we are friends, and to Heather that means spending almost every free moment together.
I study the Picassos from my list. The first one is a colorful abstract image of two figures facing each other. The female on the left pushes one hand against a thick vertical barrier; her other arm reaches through it to grasp a distorted version of herself. This is Girl Before Mirror. The barrier is the mirror. Check.
“A little birdie told me Josh has been talking about you to his Discipling Partner. What do you think about that?” She arches an eyebrow, and turns back to sifting through clothes again.
I pause to wrap my head around this new piece of information. “Who. Ben?”
“Yes. Josh doesn’t do anything without Ben’s approval, and Ben can be very … well, let’s just say, opinionated.”
I remember how Ben’s presence at the Pictionary game sparked a sense of edginess. It was so contrary to my first encounter with just Josh, Heather, and Andrew. An uneasiness seeps into my thoughts.
Heather inhales a sharp gasp. “Oooo, Em. This is cute. Can I borrow it?” She pulls out a forest green skirt and matching beaded top.
“You can have it,” I say.
“Wait. They still have the tags on them,” Heather says, frowning. “Are you sure?”
“It’s okay. I don’t care.”
I’ve never liked the clothes my stepmother Patti bought for me, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. Throughout high school she tried so hard to bond with me in the only ways she knew how, shopping being the primary one. So when I first broke the news to Patti and Dad about going to Boston for college, she spent months scouring catalogs to acquire a cold-weather wardrobe for me, something I’d never needed on the Gulf Coast. The problem is she’s never quite processed the fact that I don’t dress like my stepsister, Tamara. Patti would literally faint if she knew I wore the same 501s and faded sweatshirt four days in a row without washing them.
I look back down at the list of art left to memorize. A twinge of anxiety darts through my mind. I’ve only checked off three things. It’s the first time I’ve ever allowed myself to get behind in art history—in any of my classes—and my exam is tomorrow morning. I haven’t even been to the coffee shop to study since we played Pictionary.