THE STORIES WE TELL (original version)

Chapter Two -- Elladine

I loathe Sunday mornings.

My mother wakes me for church with a call from the kitchen – the kind of echoing screech that reminds me of a rooster greeting dawn. I ignore her the first time, clinging to the haze of sleep.

Elladine Raleigh Foster, get up right this minute!” 

I groan and throw the covers off the bed.

“Elladine!”

"I’m up, I’m up!”

I rise. The bed creaks like a long, angry yawn. I glance at the clock on my nightstand – 7:13. Just enough time for breakfast before my father’s weekly scolding.

My knees crack as I stand and walk over to the closet. Tucked in the back, out of sight, are three identical black, floor-length dresses – the kind that widows wear to the funeral and during the subsequent weeks of mourning. I save these dresses for Sunday service.

“Elladine, dear.” My mother sighs desperately as I stumble into the kitchen. I’ll remain only half-awake until coffee is in my bloodstream. “I do wish you would wear one of your more…cheerful dresses to church.”

“I’m mourning my lost sleep.”

“If you put more heart into your attire, I’m sure Father Lionel would appreciate it.”

“Father Lionel would appreciate a bottle of brandy and an uninterrupted night with Mrs. DeLeary.”

“Elladine!” She swats at my arm with no intention of striking me. I reach into the cabinet for a ceramic mug, unfazed. “How dare you say such things about one of the priests?”

“I only speak truth, Mother.”

“The only truth is that you will lose your soul if you aren’t more careful, young lady.”

My father’s voice is subtle and low, and yet it swallows the room. I shudder and nearly drop the mug on the floor. He hovers in the entryway, arms crossed, glowering at me. My mother extracts a new sponge from the nearest drawer and busies herself scrubbing the already-sparkling sink.

“You should be certain to sing the Lord’s praises this morning,” he says, unmoving, “for He is far more forgiving than I am of your disrespect.”

“Because He is a greater man than you, Father.”

I shouldn’t have said anything, and I know it. My mother runs water through the spout, scrubs louder. I close my eyes and gently place the mug on the countertop, keeping my back to him.            

“He is greater than all men, daughter.” He takes deliberate steps towards me. His foot-falls echo in the tidy room. I can’t look at him. “You would know that if you attended the youth Bible study, as you are supposed to.”

I shouldn’t say anything else, let that be it, I shouldn’t–

“With all the other heathens?”

He grabs my shoulder and twists me around to face him. I tense my back, brace myself for the whiplash.

“You will not speak of a priest or your fellow-churchgoers in such self-righteous, derogatory terms.” His voice, though tense, is even-keeled. His eyes bore into mine – deeper, into my mind. “And you will repent your sins at the altar during the Hymn of Atonement.”