Once Was Lost Read online

  Through all the sharing, Erin, our youth group leader, leans forward with her elbows on her freckled knees while asking follow-up questions and making noises like “mm” and “oh” the way she does every week. The other thing she does every week, eventually, is turn her gaze to me and ask, “What about you, Sam? What’s going on?” I always have to be coaxed. Now that I know that life in youth group isn’t like the poster, I’d rather be helping out in the little kids’ Sunday school class where everything is simpler—just coloring in scenes from uncomplicated Bible stories, then moving on to juice and animal crackers.

  This time, Erin says, “We missed you on the trip, Sam. How’d you keep busy?”

  I’m not sure who all this “we” is, because no one else has mentioned or commented on the fact that I didn’t go. No one else seems to notice me at all, generally. I mean, at youth group stuff they do, because they have to, because Erin is vigilant about making sure everyone feels included. But a few of them go to my school and actively look the other way when they see me there, and more than once I’ve caught them all talking about some party or outing they obviously all had together without inviting me. Because I’m the pastor’s daughter, I guess. As if I’d take notes and run to my dad if one of them swore or talked about sex or sipped a beer. I wouldn’t.

  Maybe it’s got nothing to do with being the pastor’s kid. Maybe it’s just me.

  They’re waiting. What did I do to keep busy.

  “I’m redoing our backyard. To make it more drought-friendly.”

  “Oh, cool,” Erin says.

  Thankfully, no one else has to come up with a reaction because Gerald Ladew, the organist and choir director, comes in to warm up the youth choir, a few of the junior highers—who meet in a separate group—trailing behind him. “Come on,” he says to the high school members of the choir: Vanessa and Daniel and Allie and Paul. The Franklin twins are in it, too, but they’re not here today. I can read music and sing a little, but I hate standing there in front of people so I faked not being able to carry a tune when Gerald auditioned us all in spring.

  He herds them toward the old upright piano, warped and water-stained, another “just give it to The Youth” treasure, like our ratty couches and the coffee table with the one leg shorter than the others. The youth room is the dumping ground for stuff too ruined to be in congregants’ actual homes anymore. There’s still a pile of musty World War II–era pup tents in the corner some ancient church member thought we could use on the mission trip. No one had the heart to tell him no.

  “Pretend that this is in tune,” Gerald says, plinking out some notes. “Where’s my soloist? Anyone seen Jody?”

  Jody Shaw, Nick’s thirteen-year-old sister, treks in late, because now she’s the one who gets to help with the little kids’ Sunday school, like I used to. She drags her feet, complaining it’s too hot up in the sanctuary to sing, let alone put on choir robes.

  “Don’t be a whiner.” Nick, whose hair is exactly the same shade of reddish-brown as Jody’s, gives her a playful little shove with his foot as she passes by the couches, where we’re sitting opposite each other, the only ones not singing—other than Erin, who’s writing something on the wall calendar.

  I can tell he’s only teasing, because like I said, Nick is actually truly nice. But Jody whirls around, furious, and kicks out one skinny leg. Her foot makes contact with Nick’s shin.

  “Hey,” he says, laughing. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

  Jody’s mouth makes a funny shape, and it’s obvious she’s about to cry. “It’s okay,” I say quickly. I hate knowing that someone else feels bad. “He’s just kidding. And it is really hot. Don’t wear robes,” I say. “My dad won’t care.”

  Jody nods and regains her composure. “I know.” She looks at Nick. “Just be nice to me.”

  “I am. I will. Sorry, Jo-Jo.”

  I’ve never heard Nick call her that. It’s sweet.

  “Don’t upset my soloist,” Gerald calls, frowning in Nick’s direction and running a hand over his balding, sweaty head.

  “Okay, okay.” Erin comes over and steers Jody by the shoulders to the piano. “It’s the heat. It’s making everyone crazy.”

  I study Nick’s face while he watches Jody and the rest of them do their vocal warm-ups. I’m always watching Nick and Jody, and Kaleb and Kacey Franklin, and Vanessa and Robby. I can’t imagine anything in the world better than having a sibling. Even if you fought sometimes, it would be worth it to always have that one person who knows what it’s like to be part of your particular family. Someone you can look at to see who you are. And if I had a brother or sister, I wouldn’t be the only pastor’s kid.

  Specifically, I always wanted a little brother, like Vanessa has. She and I were around eight when Robby was born and for like a year after that I kept asking my mom for a brother, too. That never happened. As far as I know, my parents didn’t even try. I guess one was enough. Or too much.

  Nick reaches to rub his shin and catches me staring. “It does kind of hurt,” he says, sheepish. “Don’t let Jody make you think I’m not nice to her. It’s her. Ever since she turned thirteen it’s like the sister I knew has been taken over by an alien. A very emotional alien.” Then he smiles.

  It’s hard to explain how it feels when Nick Shaw smiles at you. Not butterflies or blushing. It just feels good. “I won’t,” I say. “Anyway, it’s common knowledge that thirteen kind of sucks.”

  We hear the pre-service music starting upstairs.

  Erin comes over and gathers her stuff. “That’s our cue.” Then she turns around and gives us a goofy grin. “And remember, this is the day the Lord has made.” She holds out her hand, palm up, as if to say, “Well?” It’s one of our little youth group rituals that’s corny and embarrassing, but Erin always makes us, no matter what.

  Nick and I complete the quote together: “Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

  Nick pumps a fist on “glad” and Erin laughs, but while she does she looks at me with an expression I can only describe as worried.

  I try to finish with an exclamation point.

  The day the Lord has made is stinking hot. Throughout the service, people fan themselves with bulletins and offering envelopes and I can tell my dad cuts the sermon short so that everyone can go home and get on with life. Jody’s solo was beautiful, though, her pure, sweet voice floating out of the choir loft and almost visibly rising in the warm air. But I couldn’t focus on what she was singing, or on the rest of the music, or on the Old Testament reading, and I can’t do it now as my dad is wrapping up the sermon. Because I’m waiting, waiting for him to say it.

  After three Sundays with her gone, people have to be wondering what happened to my mom, and making up their own stories about it. Dad must know that the gossip could wind up worse than the truth if he doesn’t tell them. And for a moment his mouth opens and his shoulders tense up and I know he’s about to confess. That we’re not perfect, that he’s not perfect, that our family has problems, too, and we’ve covered it up for too long and that’s not right when the church is supposed to be your second family.

  The moment passes and he’s lifting his hands to give the benediction.

  I stand with him by the open main doors, in the path of a hot breeze and the blinding white of noon sun. Normally my mother would be standing here with us for this part of the Sunday ritual, when the visitors and regular attenders shake my dad’s hand, hug him, tell him they liked the sermon, tell me I’m getting so tall, tell me I’m getting too thin, ask me what grade I’m in, and, now and most of all, ask us where Mom is.

  “Oh, she’s just been under the weather,” Dad says over and over. “I’ll tell her you said hello.” He manages warm smiles when he says this, his straight teeth assuring everyone that everything is a-okay with the Taylor family. Nothing to see here, move along and God bless.

  I can’t stand to hear him anymore, so I step out of the glare of the sun and look into the sanctuary, where the light is coming through the
small stained glass windows along the side that show different scenes from the life of Jesus. I can see the one of him turning water into wine, and half of the one of his baptism—just the corner of his shoulder with the dove about to alight. My favorite is out of view but I know it by heart: Jesus in a white robe standing next to a squinty-eyed Lazarus, who’s fresh from the tomb after being dead for a few days. Dead dead. As a doornail. If you believe the story. Mary and Martha, his sisters, stand nearby, watching the whole thing, their arms held out in a kind of scared joy at the sight of their resurrected brother, like they’re not sure if they should hug him or run.

  I used to be able to picture myself there. Not just there with Lazarus but there for all of the miracles. There at the water/ wine wedding. There at the baptism. On the hillside when he stretched a small lunch into a meal for five thousand. Growing up with those stories all around you all the time, you sort of buy in. You can’t help yourself.

  Now I think miracles are things that happen in stained glass, and on dusty Jerusalem roads thousands of years ago. Not here, not to us. Not when we need them.

  In the car Dad pulls off his tie and strips down to his soaked undershirt. A half mile down the road, he says, “I know you’re mad.”

  “You were going to tell.”

  “The timing didn’t feel right.”

  I don’t want to argue with him. All I want is to get home and eat something and have a cold drink and watch TV. If it works. I turn on the radio and find my favorite country station. “Did you fix my ceiling fan yet?”

  “No. Sam…”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry.” He takes my hand, stilling my fingers. “And I don’t mean about the ceiling fan.”

  For a second, I’m tempted to turn my hand over and let our palms meet, a small act of acknowledgment. Instead, I free it and hold it in front of the dashboard vent.

  When I realize where the car is headed, I look at him. “Dad. Seriously?”

  “It’s the first Sunday of the month.”

  First Sundays mean brunch at the Lodge. Sometimes with Vanessa’s family, sometimes with other people from church, sometimes just us. Once in a while we go even if it isn’t the first Sunday. Exactly one month ago we went with Mom. She ordered a Bloody Mary, and then another, and then one more. Three drinks do not make Mom drunk. Three drinks keep her functioning, but Dad put his foot down about her drinking before church and maybe someone catching a whiff, so usually by the time church is done she’s not doing so great. The servers at the Lodge know when they bring my mom a Bloody Mary to put it in a regular glass without a giant stalk of celery sticking out, and for all anyone knows she just really likes tomato juice.

  “We’re going to join Daniel’s family today,” Dad continues. “They invited us and I thought you’d enjoy that.”

  If I’m going to have to talk to anyone, it might as well be the Mackenzies, even if Daniel’s dad can be a little bit loud. At least I know there won’t be any lulls in the conversation. And I haven’t spent much time with Daniel all summer, since he’s been busy with summer school and I’ve been busy not spending much time with anyone.

  The Lodge is this log-cabin-ish building on the edge of town, off a two-lane state road and up a winding dirt drive. It’s kind of nestled up against the foothills and is the only place around here to go if you’re having a special occasion: birthday, anniversary, graduation, stuff like that. It’s also the only place open on Sundays, so people from all seven churches crowd into both floors of the restaurant and spill out onto the deck, which has plenty of shade and is rigged up with misters all around to keep it cool. That’s where Daniel and his parents are sitting when we get there—at a table near the north corner of the deck. They wave us over.

  As we walk to their table, people greet us. Well, they greet my dad. “Pastor Charlie,” they call out, “enjoyed the sermon!” “Pastor Charlie! The new landscaping at the church building looks terrific!” “Pastor Charlie, are you here to poach my congregants again?” That last one comes from Pastor Egan of the Methodist church, and he says that every single time we see him. Every time. He’s about seventy years old, and that’s probably average for the other churches here. Pineview is the kind of town pastors come to when they want to retire but also want to still feel useful and make a little money. They pack up their empty nests (meaning: no other pastor’s kids like me) and bring them here, so they can lead a rural church into its final years. That’s what makes my dad and our church different—he’s young, and the average age of our church membership is a lot lower than the other churches’, and ours is the only congregation that’s growing instead of dying. So Dad is Mr. Popular here at the Lodge, and he always turns on the charm.

  “That’s right, Bill,” Dad says now to Pastor Egan, clapping him on the shoulders. “Bringing in the sheaves. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  Har har har.

  I take the seat next to Daniel and say hi to his parents while Dad makes the final rounds of the deck.

  “Samantha,” Mr. Mackenzie says, taking a gulp from his coffee mug. He’s already red and sweaty, even with the misters. “How’s every little thing?”

  My name isn’t Samantha, but I’ve corrected him so many times it’s getting embarrassing. “Fine.”

  Eventually, Dad makes it to our table and we order. I can tell Daniel’s mom wants to ask about my mom: where is she, how is she, when will they be seeing her again. She doesn’t, though. That’s how you can tell people know something they aren’t sure they’re supposed to know, and how they know something is wrong. If they really had no clue about Mom’s problems, they’d ask. Also, they would look at me, which Daniel’s mother doesn’t do.

  “Danny Boy,” Mr. Mackenzie says after we order, “tell Sam and Pastor Charlie all about your experience in Mexico.”

  “Sam’s already been forced to sit through all that in youth group,” Daniel says.

  I look at him. “You didn’t really say anything.”

  “He didn’t? Tell Pastor Charlie,” his mom urges. “Tell him… you know… what happened.”

  “Mom. It’s kind of personal.”

  I keep staring at him. What could be so personal he won’t say it in front of me?

  His dad laughs and reaches across the table to grab Daniel’s forearm and give it a jiggle. “It’s Pastor Charlie. If you can’t tell him, who can you tell?”

  Dad smiles and says in his I’m-a-hip-grown-up-not-like-the-others voice, “You don’t have to tell me, Dan. Or, we can talk about it later.”

  Daniel picks up his glass of water. There are giant sweat spots under his armpits. I try to think of a way to rescue him from this conversation, whatever it’s about, but I don’t try that hard because I’m just glad we’re not talking about us.

  “It’s no big deal,” Daniel says, “it’s just—”

  “No big deal?” his mom says softly.

  Now I really want to know. “What?”

  Daniel opens his mouth to speak but his dad interrupts. “Danny got a call while he was in Mexico,” he says, looking at my dad, proud. “From the Lord.”

  “I’m thinking about maybe,” Daniel glances at me, almost apologetic, “becoming a pastor. Maybe.”

  “Oh.” I can’t believe he didn’t say anything to me.

  “Hey,” Dad says, “that’s great.”

  “What’s this ‘maybe’ business? You told us it was a calling, clear as day. There’s no maybe in a calling.” Mr. Mackenzie looks at my dad. “Right, Pastor Charlie?”

  The food comes just as Dad is about to answer. Eggs and ham and hash browns for Daniel and his dad, pancakes for me, a poached egg on dry toast for Daniel’s mom, who’s always on a diet, and the French toast special for Dad. If Mom were here she’d get the two-egg breakfast with sausage, and toast with lots of butter. After a big greasy breakfast and three drinks and the relief of church being over, she’d be in her best mood of the week. Sometimes she’d get out a pen and start making lists on a
stray piece of paper from her purse, or on the back of a church bulletin. Lists of things she planned to accomplish that week, like organize the garage or return phone calls. Lists of things that never actually got done.

  I wonder if she were here now, what she’d say to Daniel’s plans for following in my father’s footsteps.

  Dad positions his fork and knife over his food and then looks right at Daniel. I know he’s about to make his pronouncement about Daniel’s “calling.” It’s obvious that’s why Daniel’s parents invited us here in the first place. No matter what Daniel and his family think God said to him about his future, it’s what my dad says that really matters. You can see it in their eyes as they wait for him to speak.

  “Working in church ministry is a great privilege. What is it they say about the military? It’s the toughest job you’ll ever love. When you sense God’s calling, it might not be specific, like being a pastor.” I can almost see Daniel’s shoulders sag with relief, and I realize maybe the reason he didn’t tell me is that he’s already changed his mind. “Probably what you felt down in Mexico is the knowledge that your life has a purpose, and somewhere in that purpose you’ll be serving God. Maybe as a pastor or missionary, but maybe not. You can serve God as a biologist or a literature professor or…” He glances at the guy refilling Mr. Mackenzie’s coffee cup and smiles. “… as a waiter.”

  Mr. Mackenzie laughs. “Let’s hope not!” And then Daniel laughs, and we all laugh, even the waiter. Dad’s done it again. Said all the right things. Made everyone feel good. Spoken on God’s behalf.

  He blesses the food and I cut into my pancakes, staring at the foothills through the warm, misty air, wondering what God might be telling Dad about how we’re going to fix our family. And if either one of them plans to finally relay that information to me.