to light and guard

chapter thirty eight

Exiting the church in the flow of people, Lana flanked Mary Eunice, gazing up at the darkening evening sky. "So—what exactly is the purpose of what you just did?" she asked as she unlocked the doors of the car. February had warmed the earth just enough to melt the snow, but frost still clung to the grass, and Lana wore all of the things Mary Eunice had gotten her for Christmas, hands burrowed deep in the pale blue gloves, hair tucked into her knit cap, sweater snug around her middle, green and yellow scarf wrapped around her neck.

"It's Ash Wednesday," Mary Eunice said, folding herself into the car. "It's the beginning of Lent." She played with the buttons of her newly sewn habit. Glancing out of the car window, she tugged her hair out of its comb and released it from its veil. She slid the buttons out of their holes one by one, a purse of concentration on her lips; she handled her new habit with the utmost care, having slaved over it almost nonstop since Lana had given her the material. Taking her arms from the sleeves, she folded it in her lap at the creases, brushing the dusty layer of ashes from its front.

Lana sank into the seat beside her and cranked up the car, flicking on the heater. "I'll need a little bit more than that." Mary Eunice glanced at her sideways, lips quirked in confusion. "I'm a Baptist. We don't do Lent." Lana gesticulated vaguely in the air, like she could touch the concept of Lent and point out the exact places it confused her. "None of this Easter stuff is a big deal for us. Will you explain it to me? The significance?"

Humming in response, Mary Eunice nibbled on her lower lip. Dark circles marked the undersides of her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping well. Lana chewed the inside of her cheek. Since they'd returned from Georgia, Mary Eunice's violent nightmares had matched her own, both in frequency and in gravity. "Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the Lenten holiday. It's a time for grief, repentance, and fasting, in the six weeks before Easter, to represent the forty days Jesus spent fasting in the desert. The holiday ends the morning of Easter Sunday."

Shifting the gears of the car, Lana pulled out into the street. The church was more crowded than usual, bright headlights beaming into her windshield at the darkening twilight hour. "What's the deal with the ashes, then?"

Mary Eunice touched the dark cross slashed on her face on reflex. "Ashes are a symbol of grief and repentance in the Bible. They burn the palm leaves from last year's Palm Sunday—the Sunday before Easter—so they don't go to waste. It's to accompany the Latin blessing—Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris." Her hand fluttered away from the mark and settled in her lap again. Her voice was muted, but her eyes glowed with enthusiasm, her lips curled up at the corners. "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return."

"Joyful," Lana remarked in a dry voice, and Mary Eunice giggled. "Am I allowed to wipe that dirt off of you, or do you have to leave it in place?"

"I'm not supposed to touch it. It'll come off next time I shower."

"Alright." Lana nodded in agreement, though she didn't particularly understand. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Mary Eunice stifled a yawn behind the palm of her hand. She's beaten down. She didn't even tell me what last night's dream was about. Lana had woken to her shivering in a cold sweat, trying to muffle her own whimpers to avoid disturbing the bed; she hadn't wept, though Lana wrapped her in a tight embrace and rocked her until she drifted back off to sleep. "How about we go get dinner? You don't have to cook tonight. We could call it our first real date."

A tender smile touched Mary Eunice's lips, but she shook her head, much to Lana's surprise. "I can't. Today is a day of fasting. I only drink water from sunup to sundown."