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Annie
‘They’re lemon biscuits,’ Mum says, making a pattern with them on the plate. ‘Your favourite.’
Yes, they’re my favourite, but they’re not really for me. Brother Oliver’s on his way here. The biscuits are for him.
There’s an assembly in November, just six weeks away, and this is the meeting that he’ll confirm if I’m to be baptised or not. There’s no reason for any further delays. I’ve done the work, everything they asked of me. I’ve proven myself in Jehovah’s eyes over and over again and not set one foot wrong.
Everything’s moving in the right direction.
Happiness is within reach.
‘That sounds like his car,’ Mum says when headlights flash through the lounge room window.
My stomach tightens. Nerves. Totally normal. This is a big moment, and I’ve worked hard to get here. I press a hand to my stomach and take a few slow breaths.
‘Come on in,’ she tells Brother Oliver when she opens the front door. ‘No need to take your shoes off. Leave them on.’
She hates people wearing shoes in the house.
‘Annie, Brother Oliver’s here,’ she calls casually as she brings him through. Her voice is all sing-songy. She’s so relieved, excited, and proud that we got here. And I’m happy for her. She’s earned this moment.
Finding a smile, I walk into the lounge room carrying the tray of tea and biscuits. ‘Hi.’
Brother Oliver seats himself in the largest chair, like a king settling on his throne, and looks in my direction. ‘Evening, Annie. Ah, these smell good. Which one of you has been baking?’
I place the tray directly in front of him. ‘Mum. I prefer to do the eating.’
He chuckles. ‘Well, it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.’ He picks up a biscuit while Mum pours his tea, his eyes on me. ‘Great to work with you out in the field on Sunday. Do you ever rest these days?’
If Mum puffs up any bigger, she’s going to topple off her chair.
Brother Oliver takes a bite of the biscuit and pauses midchew. His expression is far from complimentary.
Mum’s face falls. ‘They’re made with olive oil instead of butter. The flavour’s not for everyone.’
He sets it down on the plate. ‘A little salty for my palate.’ He washes it down with scalding-hot tea.
Mum picks up a biscuit and takes the world’s most polite bite. She stops chewing and looks accusingly at the biscuit. ‘Annie, when I told you to get the sugar out of the cupboard, did you check the label?’
‘I think so.’
‘No, you must’ve gotten the salt.’
For some reason, this sets me off laughing. ‘Really?’ When I see Mum’s horrified expression, I fall silent. ‘Sorry about that.’
Brother Oliver gives us a reassuring smile. ‘It makes the tea taste extra good. Don’t be offended if I don’t finish it, though.’
Mum’s out of her seat and whisking the plate away a moment later. We sit in silence while she flitters about the kitchen, returning with a few Scotch Finger biscuits on a fresh plate.
‘Apologies, Brother Oliver,’ she says, taking a seat.
We spend the next forty minutes discussing my spiritual growth and my goals for the year ahead. When he brings up the upcoming assembly, Mum’s clasped hands turn white.
‘I think baptism is a wonderful idea for you, Annie. The congregation is very much looking forward to seeing you commit to this wonderful way of life and serving Jehovah.’
There they are. The words my mother has waited nineteen years to hear. And I’m so focused on her reaction, her joy, that I barely register my own feelings. My face is frozen in one expression, and my lips are a little numb, but I don’t think either of them notice. It’s probably relief surfacing.
A few more minutes pass, and then Brother Oliver stands, says a few kind words, makes a final joke about the biscuits, and heads for the front door.
