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She glances away, and her eyes fix on something. I follow her gaze to a photo of Tom and his kids. June isn’t in the picture. “It wasn't easy,” she says. “Being that Tom was married.”
“I imagine not,” I tell her. I see June’s face where she does not. I remember when that photo was taken.
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she says, meeting my eye. “It was a hard decision, but in the end—” She pats her stomach. “I think the best one.”
I don’t respond. I look away, sip my tea, and stare at the floor.
“But there's something I have to know,” she adds, which catches me off guard and causes me to look up. She isn’t as green as she’s led me to believe. I realize then why she’s confiding in me—why she’s so nervous. She needs an ally against the others. Tom is a leader within New Hope. Like my husband, and Beth’s, he has a say in who comes and goes. They set the rules. The rest of us have to abide by them. But that doesn’t mean we have to like it.
“I know I shouldn't want to know— but I do—from your perspective, were Tom and June happy?”
“Oh,” I respond. Her question catches me by surprise. I take a deep breath in and settle myself. Hearing June’s name on her lips feels like a bigger betrayal than I was prepared for. “I don't know. I mean, who's to say what happiness really is?”
“Yes,” she answers. Her voice wavers. “But if you had to guess?”
I twist my lips. “No one really knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
“That's true,” she says. “But maybe if I had some sort of idea…maybe it would lessen the guilt.”
“I feel guilty,” I remember saying to Grant at the time. I can still picture the way we were back then, the two of us standing in our new home, waiting for the movers to arrive with our belongings. We were young and in love. And tired. Very tired. We didn’t bring much. We didn’t have to. The church leaders wanted us to have new furniture. It was a gift. To welcome us. Officially.
“There are other things to feel guilty about,” he assures me. “New furniture is not one of them.”
“I thought churches were supposed to be spiritual.”
“What’s not spiritual about receiving a gift?”
I cock my head, rub a chip in the paint on the wall. It makes it worse. Someday I’ll learn. Not today. “It’s the tithing I don’t get.”
“What’s not to get?”
I shrug. “I just thought we were meant to collect money from those of us who have been blessed to give to the needy.”
He pulls me in close and smiles. “No,” he tells me shaking his head. “That’s socialism.”
I smile and rest my head against his chest. He always has a different way of looking at things.
“You want to talk about guilt —” he says, taking me by the shoulders. He pulls me away so he can see my face. “I feel terrible about the decision they made. You shouldn’t be made to do extra chores.” He frowns. I see the remorse in his eyes. He looks away. “I give them enough money. There are other ways for them to get the point across.”
I notice that he doesn’t use the word punishment. That’s what it was, really. Scrubbing floors. Cleaning toilets. All for ordering takeout. Effort is everything. Intention is important.
“It’s okay. I survived.”
“No,” he says. “Maybe you’re right.” I see the light in his eyes shift. “Maybe we shouldn’t accept their gift.”
I laugh. “I’ve earned that furniture,” I tell him, thinking of all the bathroom stalls I knelt in last week.
“Oh, Josie. I know. The guilt eats at me every day.”
I do a double-take. “Why?”
“Because you’ve taken on all of this,” he motions around the empty space. “And all I do is work. If I’m not at the hospital, I’m at the office. I go to sleep thinking about charts, and they’re the first thing I see when I wake up.”
“Yes,” I say pulling him closer. “Your practice has grown significantly. Faster than you expected.” He reminds me of this whenever a new rule is handed down. Last week, it was hospitality committee. Every wife must take part. The leadership team decided it was no longer optional. That’s why I was punished. I’d been tasked with making a week’s worth of meals for a family in need, even though we are in the middle of a move ourselves. And by family in need, New Hope has defined this as any couple new to the congregation. Problem was, they cut our gas, and my stove wasn’t working. I ordered takeout delivery. It was apparently the wrong thing to do. Impersonal and tacky, Beth called it. I should have told her if I wasn’t able to keep my commitment. Communication is key. I complained to Grant. I shouldn’t have. He works so hard for us. I must never forget to be grateful. “But this is what we wanted.”
He gives me the side-eye. “Is it though?”
I lie there on the edges of sleep, staring at the ceiling. I’m counting the minutes I might get between now and James’s next feeding. Grant refuses to let me bring him to bed. He wants me to let him cry it out. We argued about that again last night. He hasn’t spoken to me since.
