Faking Faith (8 page)

A girl holding a baby appeared in the doorway and looked at us, and a general clamor went up within the house. There was the sound of calling and running feet, and children spilled out onto the front porch in quick succession. Four tow-headed boys wearing crisp khakis and polo shirts and two girls in summery calico dresses, the older one holding the baby, crowded together and stared at me.

Again the feeling struck that I was on a movie set. Or on an alien planet.

Abigail hooked her arm in mine and dragged me up to the front steps to the porch.

“They dressed up for you. We don’t get many new visitors,” she whispered in my ear. “They might be even more excited than I am that you’re here!”

“Oh … well, that’s nice,” I said, fumbling for words as I looked at all their small faces. What the hell did I know about interacting with a bunch of little kids?

“Everyone, this is Faith,” she announced. “You all be good and polite to her, and remember what we practice about joy.”

“Joy?” I said.

Abigail gave me an odd look. “Children, remind our lovely guest what joy is,” she said in a teacherish tone.

“Jesus first, others second, and yourself third,” they recited dutifully.

Whoops, I should have known that. It was a common saying on the blogs.

“Of course, how nice!” I said. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Abigail introduced all of the smaller kids in order of age. “This is Matthew and Jed and Luke and Martha and Joseph, and this little one is Mercy.”

Abigail took the baby from the arms of the oldest girl, whom I knew from the blog was about fourteen years old. She looked like a mini-Abigail, with the same wispy hair and round face, her hands clasped in front of her.

“And this, of course, is one of my greatest earthly blessings, Chastity,” Abigail said, propping Mercy on her hip and putting her free arm around Chastity’s shoulder. “She’s been so sweet and offered to give up her bed for you while you’re here so you can stay in with me.”

I smiled, feeling touched.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was very sweet of you.”

“Hello Faith, I’ve heard so much about you,” Chastity said, a little too cheerily. “We’re going to have such fun with you here!”

Asher walked by us toward the front door, carrying my suitcase. As he closed the screen door behind him, he shot me a smile that I pretended not to notice, even as it sent a thrill through me.

Stop. Stop that immediately, Dylan!

“I hope so!” I replied, looking back at Chastity.

“Will you keep watching the littles for a while?” Abigail asked her sister. “I need to show Faith around the house.”

Chastity’s smile clouded over.

“But, I wanted to—”

“Please, dear,” said Abigail firmly. “Be a good helper.”

I watched Chastity’s face as an obvious internal debate raged inside her. She clearly wanted to pout and complain about being left behind, as I knew from experience that younger siblings often did. But within a few seconds, Chastity mastered herself. Her expression cleared and she smiled and nodded at her sister.

It was kind of amazing to witness.

“Of course, whatever you say,” Chastity said, taking the baby back from Abigail and going back inside, calling to the kids.

“Sorry about that. Chastity’s going through a bit of a willful phase,” Abigail said, looking embarrassed, as if Chastity had just thrown a screaming tantrum. “Plus, she’s a little clingy and never has to share me, so I think she’s a bit envious that you’re here.”

“Oh!” I said. “That’s perfectly okay. I understand.”

Abigail took my hand and grinned at me.

“Come up to my room. I want to show you my hope chest! I just embroidered a darling new set of sheets!”

. . .

Later that evening, as I sat at the dinner table and let myself get lost in the flow of words, my reasons for coming felt more valid.

Every member of the family was present, from Abigail’s mom and dad bookending the long table, to Asher and Chastity on down to Mercy in her high chair, eating a home-cooked meal of beef stew and biscuits. There had been a long prayer, and now everyone was respectfully listening as each family member talked about something nice that had happened that day.

“They’re putting on a little show for you, you know,” Abigail whispered, grinning.

“It’s wonderful,” I replied, genuinely.

“I helped process chickens with Asher,” said Matthew, the oldest of the little boys. “I learned a lot and it was real neat.”

Asher, who was sitting next to him, reached over and ruffled his little brother’s hair affectionately.

“Really neat,” corrected Mrs. Dean gently. She was a kind-faced woman who looked like the absolute cliché of a mother with many children. When I’d first met Mrs. Dean in the kitchen that afternoon, she was wearing a pastel pink apron and had a smudge of flour on her cheek. She’d given me a warm hug that felt like snuggling with a pillow.

I couldn’t help but compare her to my mom, who was all hard angles from her obsessive Pilates practice.

“Really neat,” Matthew said obediently, glancing at his father, who grunted.

Mr. Dean was still an unknown entity to me. He owned a small house-building business, and when he came home from work, he’d greeted me politely, asked me a few questions about my trip, and then seemed to dismiss me. He had an outwardly jolly appearance, broad chested with an ample beard and ruddy skin. But there was something about his eyes that I couldn’t quite read. There was a hard and watchful quality about them.

He caught me looking at him and I stared back at my food, my cheeks burning.

“Asher, your turn,” Mr. Dean said.

Asher cleared his throat.

“I enjoyed teaching Matthew how to process chickens,” he said, smiling at his little brother, who grinned back. I had a good idea about what processing chickens involved, and it wasn’t something that required further details.

“A-A-And … ” Asher seemed to be having trouble forming the words; his face looked anxious. Everyone was waiting patiently for him to continue, as if this occurred normally, and I realized that Asher must have a speech impediment.

“Spit it out, son!” Mr. Dean said, with a harsh laugh. The rest of the family stayed quiet.

I coughed to cover up my gasp at Mr. Dean’s casual cruelty. No one else seemed surprised by it.

Asher closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then he looked at me.

“A-And I was glad to help Abigail welcome her new friend, Faith,” he said quickly. He blushed and gave me a small smile. Even though I didn’t really want to, I couldn’t help but smile back, charmed.

The table went even more still. Except for the youngest children, everyone stared at Asher and then at me. Mr. Dean was stern, giving a raised-eyebrow look to his wife. I glanced at Abigail, who pursed her lips and shook her head a little.

Something was very wrong. And very
weird.

“Thank you,” I said, to break the silence. “I’m very thankful to be here with all of you. Thank you for your nice welcome.”

At that moment, the baby burst out babbling and broke the tension, and everyone went slowly back to eating.

TEN

F
aith! Faith, wakey-wakey!”

I moaned and turned over to bury my head under the pillow. “Go ’way Scottie. Too early.”

The voice laughed. “Scottie, who’s that? You silly thing. Wake up! We have to go milk Maybelle.”

I’d never been so instantly conscious in my entire life. I shoved the pillow off my head and looked up at Abigail leaning over me in the gloom of pre-dawn, smiling.

“Good morning, sleepy head!” she said brightly.

It all came back in a rush. The bus, meeting Abigail, Shady Acres, looking through Abigail’s impressively extensive Hope Chest, dinner, the weirdness with Asher at the table, a whole hour in the living room of Mr. Dean droning on and on from the Bible as we sat around and listened quietly. And then up to Abigail’s room, where I was given Chastity’s bed. Chastity had been shipped off to sleep on the floor of the nursery, which she was obviously none too pleased about.

“Are you getting up or what? It’s almost past six!” said Abigail, putting a hand on her hip. She was already washed and dressed, and I could hear the voices of people in the hall and downstairs.

“Six? Like in the morning?” I said, trying not to sound whiny. “Okay, okay. Yeah, I’m up.”

I didn’t even get up at six during the school year, let alone during the summer.

Slowly, I sat up and swung my feet around to the floor. I didn’t feel remotely ready for the whole fish-out-of-water scene when I was this tired. All I wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep until a more reasonable hour.

“Rejoice, Faith!” Abigail said, leaving the room with a little skip. “For this is the day the Lord has made! See you downstairs.”

“More like this is the morning Satan made,” I muttered, looking down at the frilly pink nightgown Abigail had given me the night before so we could match. I made a face at it.

After yawning at least ten times, I put on my robe and headed for the bathroom. Where of course there was a line three kids long, patiently waiting their turn.

“Good morning, Faith!” the little kids chimed.

“G’morning,” I mumbled, as cheerily as possible, stumbling back to Abigail’s room.

After I’d put on some of my newly acquired modest clothes—a dark blue skirt that came down to my ankles and a loose summery shirt—and finally gotten my turn in the bathroom, I went downstairs.

Most of the family was already gathered around the table, eating big heaps of eggs and toast and bacon. Abigail and Mrs. Dean were wearing their aprons and standing at the stove, cooking up a storm, while Chastity ferried plates of food to the table.

“Can I help?” I asked, but Mrs. Dean shooed me away with her spatula.

“You’re a guest, dear, sit down!”

I took a place at the table and glanced around. Asher looked up from his plate and I immediately looked back down, pretending to be examining the toast in front of me.

Breakfast was a much less formal affair than dinner, and everyone was talking over each other about their plans for the coming day. Mr. Dean was giving Asher instructions about mending a fence. The little kids were talking loudly about little kid stuff, and over by the stove, Mrs. Dean had her arm around Abigail and they were both laughing.

I slowly ate my eggs, waking up and trying not to stare.

Alien planet.

. . .

The first day felt both endless and quick as a flash. We traveled from one activity to the next without stopping for a breath, and I was very glad I had “guest” status and wasn’t expected to contribute much.

All I really wanted to do was look around in disbelief and absorb.

After breakfast, there were the farm chores (where I watched with wide eyes as Abigail expertly milked her ornery brown cow in under ten minutes). And after washing up from chores, there was homeschooling for all the younger kids. Abigail worked with Martha and Joseph, quizzing them on the letters of the alphabet, while her mother had the older kids read out loud to each other as she bounced Mercy on her lap.

Apparently Abigail’s own education was considered finished at this point, which I found strangely sad.

I helped Abigail make sandwiches for lunch, and then helped pick up after the meal. The food preparation and cleanup for a family that size was basically endless. Plus there were no frozen TV dinners, no cereal from a box, no ordering pizza. The Deans baked their own bread, grew their own vegetables, milked their cows, and collected their own eggs from the chickens outside. Everything was labor intensive and made from scratch. And delicious.

My mom’s head would have exploded all over the neatly decorated walls.

The older boys were sent out to help Asher for a few hours that afternoon, and there was a whole list of cleaning chores that had to be done inside the house for the girls. Mrs. Dean had a giant binder of all the children’s activities, and their time was carefully regimented in color-coded spreadsheets. I paged through it in wonder as Abigail swept and mopped the kitchen. She wouldn’t let me help.

“It’s time for afternoon scripture study!” Mrs. Dean said an hour later after looking at her watch. Chastity went to call the boys in and the whole family gathered around the table and listened quietly as Mrs. Dean read out of her pink-leather-covered Bible.

I longed to take a nap like baby Mercy, but I kept myself as alert-looking and pleasant as possible. Because if there was one thing that wasn’t tolerated in the Dean family, it was an outwardly negative attitude. Everyone was sweet and compliant and good-natured a vast majority of the time. And anyone who acted up was taken aside and swiftly rebuked by Mrs. Dean, no matter how young or old.

Then more homeschooling, more farm chores, then getting dinner ready. It was always the women who cooked, of course. Chastity was still “in training,” but Abigail and Mrs. Dean worked together like a well-oiled machine, getting everything prepped and cooked and on the table with the efficiency of professional chefs. I just tried to keep out of the way as they whirled around the kitchen.