Masquerade by Eileen Rife Page A

your solution to everything, Mother?” Her hand beat the air. “Here, drink this. Make the pain go away. Is that the best you can come up with?”
    Mother opened her mouth as if to speak.
    “Well, the pain’s not going away. It’s never going away. Do you understand that?” Celeste swept the glass off the table. The container crashed against a cabinet and splintered over the floor.
    Father’s nostrils flared as he studied the mess.
    Her heart sank. She’d hurt her dad. She ran from the kitchen and shut herself in the bedroom. Pressing her back against the door, she slid to the floor in tears.
    On the other side, clipped voices bantered back and forth, but she couldn’t make out the words. Probably for the best. She knew what they were plotting anyway, and she wouldn’t do it. She’d listened to her mother before. Never again.
     
     
    ###
    Sitting in the church office beside Sam, Sonya studied the door where the pastor’s jacket and tie hung on a peg. She wanted to bolt, but knew she needed to stay.  
    “How have you been doing since we last met?” Pastor Ron, slate-gray hair combed neatly to the side, sat in his velour wing-back chair, hands on his knees. Dressed in a 1970s’ polyester leisure suit, the man seemed one step behind the times, but right in sync with Sonya.
    She’d never been one for fashion. Too practical. “Better, I think.” She nodded, as much to convince herself as Pastor. Warmth emanated from his eyes as he studied Sonya. For ten years he’d ministered to their family, beginning with a trip to the hospital to peek in on their firstborn son. He and his wife, Jill, had served as references when she and Sam applied to be foster parents. He’d prayed with them, taught them, and welcomed them into his home.
    But  never  had  he counseled them. This was new,
    and scary. The wings on her chair engulfed her, and she sank deeper into the cushion. A brass floor lamp stood between her chair and Sam’s. A box of tissues topped the glass of the attached table. She felt like grabbing every tissue and running out the door, not at all sure she could survive another session. The first one nearly killed her. The probing, though gentle, was agony. The hushed tones between Sam and Pastor outside the office door, like she was some kind of crazy woman.
    She looked at her hands. Maybe she was.
    “The food’s been wonderful.” Sam rubbed her clammy palm with his thumb. “The church ladies have outdone themselves this week.”
    Oh great, she’d never live up to them.
    “They’ve scrubbed the toilet, folded laundry, dusted, babysat, you name it.” Sam prattled on, glancing at her when she discreetly slid her hand out of his. “You’ve gotten some good rest, wouldn’t you say, Sonya?”
    A tentative nod. If rest meant lying in bed, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling, wondering which woman was folding her husband’s underwear, then yes. At least her body was in bed. Her brain, well, it flew all over the place. But she’d not make a fuss. Not Mrs. Compliance.
    “I’ve given your situation some thought.” Pastor twiddled his thumbs. “I think what you need over the long-haul is a survival plan, something that will not only help you cope, but will help you thrive.”
    “What do you have in mind?” Sam leaned forward,  his fingers tented. The bulging flesh around his wedding band looked painful. She’d never noticed that before.
    Pastor Ron reached for a Bible on top of his desk, licked the tip of his finger, and flipped some pages. “Galatians 6:2-5 forms the basis for the plan I have in mind.” He cradled the Bible in his hands like a parent holding a beloved child. “Listen to this: Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself. Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else, for each one should carry his own