The Opposite of Hallelujah (8 page)

“I’ll try my best. Thanks, Reb.”

“No prob, Bob.”

I hung up feeling relieved. Sure, Erin would hassle me at school the next day about letting Derek dump me, but Reb knew exactly how I felt and was on my side. And as soon as she was done lecturing me, Erin would be, too. I wasn’t alone in the world.

In fact, I was the opposite of alone; my world had just gotten a little more crowded.

The entire first floor was empty. Dad was probably upstairs in the spare room, reading or watching television, and Mom was in bed already; I could hear a
Golden Girls
rerun blasting from the other side of the door. Hannah, I figured, was in the guest bedroom—her room now. I couldn’t imagine what she might be doing; at least she wasn’t pacing the floor like she had been the night before. I knocked tentatively, hoping she’d tell me to go away.

But no. “Come in,” she called.

I stepped into the room hesitantly, not knowing quite what to expect. I found her sitting up in bed, reading
The Bell Jar
.

“Hey,” I said, without even thinking. “Is that my book?”

“Yes,” she responded. “I took it from your room while you were out—I hope you don’t mind, it didn’t look like you were reading it.”

I shrugged. I didn’t like the idea of her or anyone in my room, going through my stuff, when I wasn’t there, but it wasn’t the opportune time to bring it up. “I read it sophomore year in English class.” I paused for a second, then ventured another question. “Do you like it?” It bothered me that I couldn’t even predict how she would react to anything. Not only did I not know Hannah; I’d never known anyone even remotely like her.

“It’s one of my favorites,” she told me. “I read it in high school, too, for class, but I’d forgotten most of it.”

“It’s one of my favorites, too.” Hannah smiled at that. “Were you allowed to read at the convent?”

She shook her head. “Just the Bible, of course, and some theology. No fiction.”

“That would really suck for me,” I said. “I can’t imagine not being allowed to read.”

“It did suck,” she agreed. Hearing her say that was so weird that I sort of laughed.

“So …,” I began. “I just wanted to say that I was
sorry for what I said to you earlier. About God. I didn’t mean it. I was just mad. Not at you. Just at the situation.”

“I understand,” she said, nodding in sympathy. “And anyway, if I thought God would turn back time for you if I asked, I absolutely would.”

“Ha.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious. Probably a little bit of both. Then I voiced a question that had been lingering in the back of my mind since I’d found out she was coming home: “Do you even believe in God anymore?”

Maybe it was too personal. Maybe it was a stupid question. Hannah’s face became more serious, and she hesitated for so long I wondered if she would even answer. But then she sighed and said, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe I still do, but there were stretches—long, painful stretches in the convent—when I just couldn’t anymore.”

“Is that why you left?”

“I left for a lot of reasons, but that was one of them. It was probably the root of all the problems I had in there.” She closed
The Bell Jar
and put it in her lap, folding her hands over it delicately.

I wanted to offer her something, some consolation, in exchange for the comfort she’d tried to show me earlier, but it wasn’t exactly my strong suit.

“Father Bob says that faith is nothing without doubt,” I said. It sounded so lame coming out of my mouth,
especially because I didn’t even really believe in or think about God, like, ever. But I had always remembered that, what Father Bob said about faith. He said that doubt provided contour to faith, like shading in a drawing, that it allowed you to see what was really there. At the time we were learning how to sketch in art class, and I felt like it was the one thing he said that I actually understood.

“He did?” she said flatly.

“He says it’s normal.”

“Who’s Father Bob?” Hannah asked.

“Just this priest my parents—Mom and Dad—made me go to a while back,” I said.

“For what, an exorcism?” She smiled at her own joke.

“Um, not really. Sort of. Symbolically, I guess.”

“Do you want to sit down, Linda Blair?” she asked, patting the comforter.

“Sure. Your pop culture references are a little dated, you know.” I sat on the edge of the bed, twisting my hands in my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Hannah. The warm yellow light of the table lamp picked up the gold highlights in her hair and cast shadows that fell softly on her face. When I’d seen her at the train station, I’d thought my memory had been overly kind to Hannah’s looks, or maybe it was just that life and age had eroded some of them. She had looked gaunt and drawn, tired and pale and fragile, like a porcelain doll that had been badly propped in its stand. But now I could see that she was just as beautiful as she had always been. I was
struck by a sudden envy: why couldn’t I look like that? I was plain and unremarkable-looking, loud and unrefined. I was a bull in a china shop, and she was the china.

“Tell me about your symbolic exorcism,” she said, giving me a curious look. I felt my face grow hot.

“Okay, well, ‘exorcism’ is a strong word. Mom and Dad just thought I wasn’t adjusting properly to you being gone,” I said. “Wasn’t adjusting properly” was a pretty vague euphemism for “told everyone you were dead,” but it seemed stupid, when we were talking so nicely, to ruin it with details.

Hannah looked away guiltily.

“Don’t worry about it, I was fine,” I rushed to assure her. “Anyway, they made me talk to Father Bob—you really never met him?”

Hannah shook her head. “We don’t all know each other.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Well, he’s the pastor of St. Robert’s now.”

“So what did you and Father Bob talk about?” Hannah asked.

“Just, you know, God. And you. He used the word ‘vocation’ a lot.”

“That sounds about right.” She gave me a tight smile. Did she resent being talked about like that, like her life choice constituted a tragic event I had to be coached through? If she did, she didn’t say it.

I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable and
eager to bring the conversation to a close. “My point was: faith and doubt. One can’t exist without the other.”

“That’s a good observation,” Hannah agreed, although she didn’t seem particularly impressed by it. She’d probably heard it all before.

“Well, remember, it wasn’t mine. It was Father Bob’s.” I glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. “I’ve got to go to bed. School tomorrow, first day.”

“That’s exciting,” Hannah said brightly.

“Not really,” I said, getting up from the bed. “Thanks for accepting my apology.”

“Thanks for apologizing,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

6

By the time I made it to the kitchen the next morning, in my pajamas, Hannah was already there, dressed, making breakfast and brewing coffee. She looked tired, but there she was, at seven a.m., puttering around like the day had already begun. I was still holding out hope that I was dreaming, that I would wake up in my bed with three or four hours left to sleep. But no—it was the first day of my junior year, and Reb was going to pick me up in forty-five minutes.

“Good morning,” Hannah said.

“Is it?” I grumbled. I didn’t know how she could bear
to be up at that hour, especially since I knew she hadn’t gone to sleep until late the night before. I had dozed off at almost two a.m. to the sound of her slight weight pressing against my ceiling.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Are you allowed to drink coffee?”

“Yeah. But I don’t like it.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want some tea?” I shook my head. “What about food? Are you hungry? I can make you some eggs or pancakes or whatever you want. I’m well versed in breakfast foods.” I noticed that she wasn’t eating, just carefully nursing a glass of water. There was a bowl of grapes on the counter, but she didn’t touch them. I wondered if she was fasting. Father Bob said that was one of the ways nuns prepared themselves spiritually for prayer. But that was silly: she wasn’t a nun anymore, after all.

“No, thanks. I don’t eat in the morning, usually. Not on school days—no time.”

“Then what did you come in here for?”

“Something to drink.” I took a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and poured myself a glass. “I’ll just bring a granola bar with me,” I said. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Oh,” she said cagily. “I already had something.”

“How long have you been up?”

“Since five,” she said, as if that was completely normal.

“You didn’t even go to bed until two! That’s craziness.”

“It’s a force of habit,” Hannah said with a sigh. “You should go get ready. Do you want me to pack you a lunch?”

I should’ve known the previous night’s heart-to-heart with Hannah was a bad idea. Now she thought we were buddies—or worse, she thought she was my mom. Lecturing me about eating breakfast? Offering to pack my lunch? Nobody had treated me like that since the fifth grade, and even then I’d resented it. What did she think I was, some kind of baby? When she was my age, she was reading advanced religious tomes and secretly plotting her escape to a nunnery. It doesn’t get much more grown up than that.

Just then, Dad trotted in, yawning and running his fingers through his hair. “G’morning, girls,” he said.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, draining my juice glass and beating a quick exit. He called after me and I slowly retraced my steps—backward—to the kitchen.

“Yes?” I asked.

“How are you getting to school?”

“Reb’s picking me up.”

“Oh, good. Okay, well, I can drive Mom to work and leave you her car, Hannie, just in case you want to go somewhere today,” he said.

“That’s okay, Dad, really,” Hannah said, squirming a little.

“No, it’s not any trouble. I’m sure we’ll be doing
it a lot for this one”—he jerked his thumb at me and smiled—“now that the state of Illinois has deemed her worthy to drive.”

“Fools,” I said, and he laughed. Dad joked, but you could tell he was proud of me for getting my license, especially after the countless hours he’d spent at his own risk trying to teach me to drive. At the time, Mom said he was more excited than when I took my first steps as a baby.

“No, I don’t need the car.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s fine with me—” he pressed.

“Dad!” she shouted, throwing the dish towel she’d been holding down onto the counter. I started like a skittish kitten. It was the first time I’d seen Hannah even raise her voice. “I said I don’t need the car, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, chastised. Hannah stalked out of the room, still steaming. Dad turned to me with sad eyes and asked, “What did I do?”

“She can’t drive,” I pointed out. I couldn’t believe I’d figured out what was bothering Hannah and he hadn’t.

“Sure she can, I taught her myself,” Dad said.

“Her license is definitely expired, and when do you think she last drove a car?” I said. “Eight years ago?”

“Oh.” Then, in typical Dad fashion, he rallied. “Well, she’ll just have to relearn. That won’t be hard—when she was your age, Hannah caught on really quickly, and this time it should be even easier for her.”

That didn’t seem like the only problem, judging from Hannah’s reaction. “Maybe she’s afraid,” I said.

“Maybe,” Dad said, but he didn’t look convinced. “And if she is, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But you need to get ready for school. When’s Reb coming?”

I glanced at the clock on the microwave.
Shit
. I had no idea it was that late already. “In fifteen minutes,” I said, switching into panic mode.

“You’d better change, then,” Dad said, settling down at the kitchen table with a cup of Hannah’s coffee and the paper. “Unless you want to go to school in pants with sheep on them.”

All my friends, especially Reb, really bought into the first-day-of-school-outfit ritual. They shopped all summer for the perfect clothes, as if there was something about the first day of a new year that made you more visible than usual. I, however, didn’t care that much, which was good, because that morning I didn’t have time to care. I took my patented five-minute superfast shower, blow-dried the roots of my hair and left the rest to air-dry, wriggled into a pair of old jeans, and pulled on a T-shirt I’d ordered off the Internet that said FIJI IS FOR MERMAIDS.