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She sighs out loud. “Do you always have to spoil the mood?” She gets up from the ground and pats down her dress.
“Yes. The truth hurts, but it’s better than lies,” I say as I look up at her.
She smiles again and then holds out her hand. “Promise you won’t lie to me, Noah.”
I contemplate it for a minute, and then I grab her hand, and she helps me get up. “Promise.”
We shake hands and then hug each other, just as we always do … like we were taught to do in this community of love.
***
“Why couldn’t you wait?” my mother yells at my father.
This is what happens every other day. Sometimes it’s because of choices he made without asking her. Sometimes it’s because he’s too drunk to behave. And sometimes it’s because he can’t keep his hands to himself.
“He is my son. I will decide what happens with him and when,” my father yells back, clenching a bottle of booze in his hand.
Today it’s both, it seems.
I peek into the room where they’re having a shouting match, wondering if I should go in and ease the situation by making up something. I could tell them I hit someone or that I almost drowned. Any lie is a good lie if it helps them focus on something other than each other.
“He’s my son too!” my mother yells back.
“I am the patriarch. He will obey my rules, just as you,” my father growls. “End of story.” And he takes a big sip from the bottle.
“He’s just a boy. He wasn’t ready for the tattoo yet,” she says.
“I’ll decide that,” my father replies. “And he was fine. Stop complaining.”
“You always do this. You always shut me out when it’s about us. About the Family.”
“Don’t speak to me about the Family!” he growls. “You know nothing of the work that goes into keeping the Family intact. This community means everything to me.”
A bitter scowl rests on her face. “More than I or our son could ever mean to you.”
Oh boy.
Father marches toward Mother and smacks her hard.
I duck behind the door and cover my mouth with my hand to prevent a shout from escaping. If they find out I’m here, that I’m spying on them, I’ll be punished in even harsher ways.
“What was that?” my father growls.
My eyes widen, and in panic, I bolt away as fast as I can, to the only room in this giant house I know I can go to in need. Not mine … hers.
I burst through the door and close it behind me quickly before crawling into bed with her.
“Noah?” she mutters as I quickly pull the covers over both of us.
I bring my finger to my lips, and say, “Shhh … I’m hiding.”
“Are your parents fighting again?” she asks.
I nod, and the look on her face immediately turns sour.
“Mine did too, today,” she says as she turns to face me. “I wish they could just get along like we do.”
“Me too,” I say. It’s happening more frequently, and my father’s violent outbursts are getting to the point that I’m scared to confront him, let alone tell any of the other patriarchs about it. Would they even care? She’s a wife. She’s merely a vessel for babies, nothing more, nothing less.
At least, that’s how my father looks at her now. A long time ago, he looked at her with fiercely protective eyes, but that love has long faded away. All I know is that she never felt at home here … and that comes at a price.
It won’t be long before he tries to woo another woman … and chases her off … or worse.
I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about what could happen to my mother.
I love her more than anything, but he doesn’t, and that hurts.
My father always said this community was purely built on love, that love is what drove all of us, and that we should respect it, nurture it … live for it. Because that is what God wants us to do.
But what he’s doing now is nothing of the sort, and I don’t think God would ever approve.
Do the other men in this community treat their women like this too? Or just the ones living in the temple? Because it sure feels like that to me.
“We won’t be like that, will we?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Never.”
“Swear on it,” she says.
I put my hand on my chest, and say, “I swear on my life.”
She smiles, and we lock hands tightly while we lie down in bed and close our eyes, huddled close together. Just as my father once did when he still loved my mother.
Chapter Two
Noah
A few weeks later
The rain pours down from the sky like someone turned on the shower somewhere up in the clouds. God must hate this day as much as I do.
