She studies my face for a moment too long. "How's yoursister, darling?"
There's a thing she does with the word sister that I've never heard her do before.
A small emphasis, a hesitation around it, as if the word is being borrowed for a different purpose than the one it usually has.
I make my mouth move. "Hannah's doing well. She's working at the library in Tallahassee."
"That's good. That's so good." Patricia pats my arm. "I'll keep her in my prayers." A pause. "You too."
She's gone before the rest of the eggs are in my cart.
I feel, in a way I can't yet say out loud to myself, that something is happening, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I drive to church on Sunday in the navy dress I wear every week, the one with the small white buttons.
I sit beside my mother in the pew where we've sat since I was eight years old, and I play my guitar at the 9 a.m. youth service the way I've always done since I was sixteen.
At 11 a.m., Reverend Hardin steps to the pulpit, and the moment he opens his Bible, I feel my stomach drop.
His sermon is on Exodus 20:16.Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.He preaches it for forty minutes.
I keep my face arranged.
He preaches about the sin of false witness, and then he preaches about the responsibility of the godly community to address sin when they see it, and how that responsibility should be carried out with love and with the right kind of concern.
He doesn't name anyone. He doesn't have to. The congregation has been given a story about something happening that requires their concern, and they've been told that their concern is righteous.
My mother takes my hand at one point and doesn't let go.
She doesn't know what's happening. She knows thatsomethingis happening.
My mother’s lived in this town for forty-one years, and she knows what a sermon sounds like when it's being aimed.
I sing the closing hymn from memory because my eyes won't focus on the page.
In the fellowship hall, I stand at the coffee station and pour myself sweet tea I don't want to drink.
Beverly Daughtry crosses the room toward me.
I watch her cross, and there's nowhere for me to go.
Her dress is yellow, her smile gentle and practiced.
She places her hand on the small of my back when she reaches me, the way women do when they want everyone watching to see them being close to you.
"Sophie, sweetheart." Her voice is low and warm. "Is everything all right at home? I've just been so worried about you."
I make myself meet her eyes. "Everything's fine, Mrs. Daughtry. Is there something specific you're worried about?"
She tilts her head. Her smile makes room for sorrow.
"Oh, honey. I just want you to know you can talk to me. Aboutanything. The Lord knows we all stumble."
I keep my eyes on hers. I don't flinch, and I don't ask the question that would make her say what she came to say.
"Thank you, Mrs. Daughtry. I appreciate the offer."
She gives me a small sad nod that says she's done what she could, and then she gives my back two pats and walks away.