to light and guard

chapter thirty six

"It's okay, sunshine." Nestled in the crooks of Lana's body, Mary Eunice kept her eyes pinched closed, fighting to shut out the world—fighting to shut out anything but the soft lull of Lana's voice, repeating those words over and over, her voice quiet under the rumble of the car, which rocked with bumps in the road. "It's okay. It's going to be okay." Lana shivered against Mary Eunice, but she had sacrificed her coat to wrap it around her girlfriend. It's not so cold. But all of her insides quivered from a chill sourced from deep within her stomach. Her stomach kept flipping. She swallowed the thick bile in her throat. "Mary Eunice? Can you hear me? We're almost home. We're almost there." A cool hand combed over her braided hair. Mary Eunice nuzzled into her hand. Snot poured into and from her nose, inhibiting her ability to smell Lana's perfume, but her soft skin soothed some of the kinks in Mary Eunice's gut.

The car chugged to a stop. Lifting her head, she peeked up at the front porch of the old farmhouse. The porchlight glowed, moths dancing around it. Home. Inside. She had escaped the crowd, and now it was just the two of them. But at what price? Frieda and Helen had gotten hurt trying to help her. Mrs. Winters hit her head really hard—and Frieda's pregnant... Her breath hitched. She choked on a lump of tears in her throat. Lana rubbed her back. "I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry." It's not your fault. Mary Eunice feared the sound of her own voice. She didn't know how to speak and comfort Lana. "Come here. Let's go inside. You can lean on me, alright? Stay close to me. We'll go inside, and you can brush your teeth and take a shower—whatever you want." Lana's words echoed, and half of their meaning was lost on Mary Eunice. In her mind's eye, the pastor's cold eyes glinted down at her with more hate than she had ever imagined before in her life.

Something brushed the inside of her thigh. Hiccuping, she braced herself, hands fashioned into claws, a scream threatening to tear from her, breath catching inside of her and refusing to emerge. "Hey, hey—easy, it's just me." Lana had taken her veil out of her lap. "I didn't mean to scare you." That same gentle hand touched her cheek, brushed away the tears rolling down her face. "Come inside. Please. Don't be afraid. There's no one to hurt you here."

I know. Numb, Mary Eunice nodded in agreement, struggling to focus her eyes on the planes of Lana's face. They darted everywhere, seeing shadows shift and leap and glow with reddened eyes. She spun her arm through Lana's and clutched her tight. Don't let me go. If she kept Lana nearby, the nightmares would stay in the shadows. "Good." Lana helped her out of the car and slammed the door shut. Inside the house, Gus's barks echoed, welcoming them home. Lana pushed the door open—Helen hadn't locked it when they left—and brushed past Gus, who bumped his head against their thighs. He whined, tail tucked, and trotted after them down the hall to the room they had shared the night before. "Here, sit down—sit down." Lana tugged the blankets back and pushed Mary Eunice onto the mattress. Her hands shook in the air. "Let me find your rosary." My chest hurts. She pinched her legs together again, crossing her arms over her chest.

A pill bottle shook in Lana's hand as she poured out her Valium and took one, and then she gave another to Mary Eunice, rosary in her other hand. "Take this." That's yours. Mary Eunice shook her head. "You need to take it. It'll calm you." She shuddered. With a pale hand, she pinched the pill between her thumb and forefinger and placed it on her dry tongue. "Here. You can take your rosary." She wrapped the beads around her hand. I don't know how to pray about this. What could she say to God about a man who had veiled his bigotry and violence in religion? The church had always protected her. The church was her safety. She had always run to God to escape the violence and vitriol of the world around her. He thought he could rape me without committing a sin. He thought he could rape me and have the moral high ground. "Tell me what to do."