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Back Devotion Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. About the Publisher

I remember my dad driving me to the video store in his pickup truck the year my parents got divorced. The dark of the Oregon woods at night spun out around us, as I bounced up and down in the middle of the bench seat, fooling with the cassette player, with him to my left, one hand on the wheel and the other bringing a cigarette to his mouth.

I would follow him to the horror section and examine the plastic-encased covers—demented clowns, zombie dogs, the screaming faces of beautiful blondes. My mom would never let me see those kinds of movies. We would rent a few at a time, setting them in a pile on the counter. Once Dad said to the teenage girl working, “Shame you have to spend your Friday nights here.”

She didn’t look at him.

“When you’re so young and pretty.”

“Isn’t she a little young for these kinds of movies?” she replied.

“She’s older now,” Dad said.

I’M NOT SURE WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT NOW THAT I’M MARRIED. I scratch in small letters, trying to remember, then:

Wasn’t able to pick up a pen for all the sickness my whole first trimester to mention the fact that I’m pregnant. Now that I’m three months along I am nothing but alert and hungry. I could ravage everything. It’s scary, this tapeworm baby. In the park I stuck my fingers into the dirt under the grass and licked them clean. I wanted a handful of earth. Pillie said, “What harm can it do?” but the doctor told me not to eat it.

The baby. The baby itself seems too strange a thing to comprehend. C keeps asking me why I did it, or at least why I did it now. Why why why. What is it with everyone and their questions? As if it were some kind of cruel and ruthless thing to do.

I’ve decided to rewrite her journal—the last one—from memory. I’ve decided to write down everything. I don’t know how accurate it will be, but it seems like the final task, the only way I can hold on to her.

5

THE FIRST TIME I MET CARLOW WAS AT LONNIE’S BIRTHDAY party. Lonnie had covered the house with Chinese lanterns and colorful flowers—arrangements of wild roses and cosmos, spider mums and wisteria. The floral scent mingled with the lamb chops and cheeses on the dining room table and Lonnie’s own musky perfume. “Pilar told me not to put flowers in the dining room,” Lonnie said, referencing the housekeeper who came twice a week. “But it’s summer so I wanted the whole place lousy with flowers.”