ever be part of her big, happy “family.”
A knot formed in my stomach and I looked away. All of a sudden I felt tired and lonely and homesick. And empty.
“I don’t want to go to church.”
Miss Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Why not?”
I stuck my chin out and looked away. “Mama says church is for superstitious fools who don’t have enough guts to stand on their own two feet.”
Miss Beatrice put down the pretty white dress and bit her lip. “I see.” She sat down in the armchair and folded her hands in her lap, as if trying to think of what to do. “Allie,” she finally said, “faith isn’t about superstition or leaning on others because you haven’t got any … guts. It takes guts to believe sometimes. To know that even when things don’t look like they’re going well, God is still there and he’s still guiding you. Faith likethat — the faith to trust Christ enough to take the place for your sins and take control of your life. Faith like that takes all the guts in the world. And it’s worth it. Do you believe me?”
I squirmed under her gaze and refused to answer. “There is no God,” I muttered.
As if shocked by a powerful current, Miss Beatrice stood and crossed over to the window. She pulled back the deep-red curtains and let the sunlight pierce the room.
I squinted as my eyes strained to adjust. Outside the window, a thick green vine hugged the glass, and on its end a small purple morning glory lifted its face toward the sun.
After opening the window, Miss Beatrice reached out and fingered the flower. “Allie, if there is no God, who do you think made the flowers? Who do you think made you?”
I focused on the wall to her left. “It doesn’t matter because I’m in charge of myself. No God is going to rule me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and lifted my chin.
She sighed and shut the window. “I will be going to church, if you wish to come with me.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “No, thank you.”
“Very well. I won’t make you.” Miss Beatrice paused in the doorway. “I don’t mind you staying home alone for an hour, if you promise to behave.”
“I promise.”
“Very well.” Her mouth twitched. “But I have always said that —”
“Why do you do that?”
She blinked slowly, clearly unused to being interrupted. “Do what?”
I swung my legs and crossed them under my little chair. “You start many of your statements with, ‘I always say …’ ” I tilted my head. “I was just wondering why.”
In a way I never would have expected of an older woman, Miss Beatrice rolled her eyes and opened the door. A smile played around on her lips. “I always say a child should never question an adult.”
“That one didn’t rhyme,” I pointed out.
She grinned and shut the door.
Chapter 6
I measure every grief I meet
With analyctic eyes;
And wonder if it weighs like mine
,
Or has an easier size
.
— Emily Dickinson
T he house seemed even bigger and emptier when I was the only living thing in it. I walked around the kitchen, taking the time to study everything while no one could see me.
My stomach grumbled, leading me to the icebox. The amount of food took me aback: there was milk and eggs and fruit and anything else you could want. I reached for a jar of pickles, then halted.
This is Miss Beatrice’s food, not mine
.
I shut the icebox firmly and made my way into the library. My pace slowed as I examined the titles.
The Travels of Marco Polo … Alice in Wonderland … The Adventures of Robin Hood … Ivanhoe …
Miss Beatrice must have quite the imagination
.
I settled on a worn copy of
A Little Princess
and sat down in a little chair by the window, so I could look out and see the roses.
As I flipped through the book’s pages, memories flooded back over me of reading by the fireplace with Mama. I could still see her face, concentrated on her knitting, helping me as I stumbled over the harder words.
Shutting the book with a thud, I slipped it
A knot formed in my stomach and I looked away. All of a sudden I felt tired and lonely and homesick. And empty.
“I don’t want to go to church.”
Miss Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Why not?”
I stuck my chin out and looked away. “Mama says church is for superstitious fools who don’t have enough guts to stand on their own two feet.”
Miss Beatrice put down the pretty white dress and bit her lip. “I see.” She sat down in the armchair and folded her hands in her lap, as if trying to think of what to do. “Allie,” she finally said, “faith isn’t about superstition or leaning on others because you haven’t got any … guts. It takes guts to believe sometimes. To know that even when things don’t look like they’re going well, God is still there and he’s still guiding you. Faith likethat — the faith to trust Christ enough to take the place for your sins and take control of your life. Faith like that takes all the guts in the world. And it’s worth it. Do you believe me?”
I squirmed under her gaze and refused to answer. “There is no God,” I muttered.
As if shocked by a powerful current, Miss Beatrice stood and crossed over to the window. She pulled back the deep-red curtains and let the sunlight pierce the room.
I squinted as my eyes strained to adjust. Outside the window, a thick green vine hugged the glass, and on its end a small purple morning glory lifted its face toward the sun.
After opening the window, Miss Beatrice reached out and fingered the flower. “Allie, if there is no God, who do you think made the flowers? Who do you think made you?”
I focused on the wall to her left. “It doesn’t matter because I’m in charge of myself. No God is going to rule me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and lifted my chin.
She sighed and shut the window. “I will be going to church, if you wish to come with me.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “No, thank you.”
“Very well. I won’t make you.” Miss Beatrice paused in the doorway. “I don’t mind you staying home alone for an hour, if you promise to behave.”
“I promise.”
“Very well.” Her mouth twitched. “But I have always said that —”
“Why do you do that?”
She blinked slowly, clearly unused to being interrupted. “Do what?”
I swung my legs and crossed them under my little chair. “You start many of your statements with, ‘I always say …’ ” I tilted my head. “I was just wondering why.”
In a way I never would have expected of an older woman, Miss Beatrice rolled her eyes and opened the door. A smile played around on her lips. “I always say a child should never question an adult.”
“That one didn’t rhyme,” I pointed out.
She grinned and shut the door.
Chapter 6
I measure every grief I meet
With analyctic eyes;
And wonder if it weighs like mine
,
Or has an easier size
.
— Emily Dickinson
T he house seemed even bigger and emptier when I was the only living thing in it. I walked around the kitchen, taking the time to study everything while no one could see me.
My stomach grumbled, leading me to the icebox. The amount of food took me aback: there was milk and eggs and fruit and anything else you could want. I reached for a jar of pickles, then halted.
This is Miss Beatrice’s food, not mine
.
I shut the icebox firmly and made my way into the library. My pace slowed as I examined the titles.
The Travels of Marco Polo … Alice in Wonderland … The Adventures of Robin Hood … Ivanhoe …
Miss Beatrice must have quite the imagination
.
I settled on a worn copy of
A Little Princess
and sat down in a little chair by the window, so I could look out and see the roses.
As I flipped through the book’s pages, memories flooded back over me of reading by the fireplace with Mama. I could still see her face, concentrated on her knitting, helping me as I stumbled over the harder words.
Shutting the book with a thud, I slipped it
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