Read Online Devoted by Jennifer Mathieu - Free Book Online

much I loved that book, and I wouldn’t have had to rip it to shreds.
    If you were here.
    But I can’t say that. I shouldn’t even be thinking it.
    â€œI miss him,” my mother continues, “and I know he’s waiting for me in Heaven, but I think he needs me now. I’m his mother, and he needs to be with me.” She wipes her tears off the bridge of her nose with both hands. “It’s wrong to question the Lord’s plan, but Joshua may have been my last chance for babies.”
    Her last chance. I know my mother sees her childbearing as her gift to the Lord, as her way to praise Him. I wonder if she worries she won’t be able to praise Him enough if she doesn’t have any more children. My mind seizes on an image of myself pregnant, my stomach swollen tight, and my chest contracts and I try to find my breath. I think of the years stretched out before me, and know I could have a dozen children, maybe more. The thought of it, of ending up like my mother, crying alone in a bed while her other children wait for her, makes me want to scream, not sing God’s praises. And Mom is crying so hard now I’m scared Faith will hear and come in to see what I’ve done wrong.
    I grab some toilet paper from her bathroom and give it to her. I pat her shoulder and try to comfort her, but I don’t have the words. I want to hug her, but my mother’s hugs have always been so measured. So careful. Parceled out in even pieces. I’m not even sure how to hug her right now, just the two of us.
    My mother always told us she wanted lots of kids—from the day Dad met her working at a Stop N’ Go when she was nineteen and he was twenty, and they started talking and Dad asked her if she had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.
    â€œI was on the wrong path, and it wasn’t the path Jesus wanted me to walk,” Mom would tell us. This was the part of the story we always loved best when we were little. How God timed everything just right, and then all of us came along. We’ve heard the story so many times, but that still doesn’t make picturing my mother working at a Stop N’ Go any easier. It’s like trying to picture her flying through space. In the earliest photo I’ve ever seen of Mom, she’s pregnant with her first child, my oldest brother. It’s like she didn’t exist before that. And we’ve been everything to her, but now it feels like we’re not enough.
    Not even ten of us are enough.
    â€œRachel, I need some time alone now,” my mother says, slipping down under the covers. “Thank you for bringing me the sandwich.”
    â€œOkay,” I say, leaving the meal she won’t eat on the nightstand.
    As I walk out, I stand by the door and look at the lump under the covers.
    â€œMom, I love you,” I whisper.
    She doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t answer back.
    *   *   *
    That night after Faith has gone home and everyone heads to bed, I creep downstairs. Standing by my parents’ bedroom door, I count to one thousand to make sure they’re asleep. The day is already lost—a big black mark on the calendar. A messy scribble. An ink stain. I can’t start over until I fall asleep and the sun rises.
    I might as well take advantage of my mistakes. My immodest clothing. My inability to run a house or make my mother feel better. My unnatural fear of the idea of getting married and having babies of my own.
    I tiptoe down the hallway and sit down at the computer.
    My heart is bumping up against my ribs—out of excitement or nervousness or both—and I find the link to Lauren’s blog easily. Once I click, there’s no going back. I know that. If I click, I’ll read the blog.
    And I want to read it.
    My index finger rests on the mouse. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut.
    I click the link.
    Lauren’s blog pops up. There’s a cartoon drawing of a blue and