The Hero. Робин Карр
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care or babysitting. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”
Rawley thought about that for a minute. Then he said, “I’ll tell her. But I’m not much for parties or a lot of people.”
“Tell her, I’d be glad to take her,” Sarah offered. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
Devon hadn’t had a typical childhood, but it had been a safe and happy one. Devon’s mother, Rhonda, was a nurse who became close to her neighbor, Mary. Mary immediately took Rhonda under her wing knowing Rhonda was pregnant and alone. And since Mary was a day care provider working out of her home, it only followed that after Devon was born, Mary watched her while Rhonda worked. And Rhonda named Mary as Devon’s guardian, should anything happen.
And something did indeed happen. Poor Rhonda was struck by a drunk driver as she waited at the bus stop on her way home from work one evening. Devon had been only nine months old.
Devon knew Aunt Mary was not her real aunt, was not her mother’s older sister. What she didn’t know was that Mary waited tensely for years for some distant, unknown family member to appear and lay claim to Devon. She clung to that will and birth certificate with a miser’s zeal, ready to do battle with anyone who might try to take the little girl away.
Mary was old enough to be Devon’s grandmother, but she was a popular figure in the neighborhood, at their church and in Devon’s schools. She was kind, nurturing, energetic and helpful, and Devon’s friends had always loved her—especially the pizza parties and sleepovers. Mary was a great volunteer and she took responsibility as any parent would, participating in field trips and fund-raising, and when Devon was a cheerleader or on a team, Mary had never missed a game or meet. Never.
Mary had always told Devon she had pluck. And that she was tough. She was a survivor. She said the same things even when crises like Devon not making the championship girls volleyball team, or junior varsity cheerleading squad, or having to make do with a partial scholarship, instead of getting the big one. “I just won’t make it,” teenage Devon had wailed.
And Mary had said, “Girl, you will rise above this, and fast. You’re strong. Do you have any idea how many times people have to start over and make a new path? For myself, I can’t count the number of times! I buried two husbands before you were born! Lost the first in Vietnam and the second to cancer! And just when I thought my life would slide gentle into old age, who comes along but Miss Devon!” And then she would laugh and laugh. “The Lord blesses me with work and new ideas every day of my life!”
So Devon had grown up with a devoted parent and a house full of small children who were picked up by their parents by five. With the help of scholarships and part-time jobs, she’d attained a degree in early childhood education and had begun work on her Master’s when Mary first fell ill. Very ill. That’s when Devon had said, “I don’t have enough pluck for this. I’m not that strong.”
“You are if you want to be,” Mary had said. Not long after her hospitalization and subsequent death came Devon’s dark, frightening period when there was no work, not enough money for rent and the constant worry about how she would make it through the next day. She constantly reminded herself—I’m a smart, educated, hardworking person—how does this happen? She needed a miracle.
What do you need, sister? Tell me. Maybe I can help.
Why wouldn’t she love Jacob? Why wouldn’t she take to his Fellowship? She’d grown up helping to tend other peoples’ children and all she’d ever really wanted was a family of her own. Perhaps this was an unusual family by normal standards, but at least she felt safe and invulnerable. And she fell for Jacob, as did everyone else—he was not only sweet and kind but also commanding. Powerful. Charismatic. There was little doubt in her mind he was strong enough to keep all of them safe. He was just the miracle she thought she needed.
Little Mercy was quickening inside her by the time she’d been in The Fellowship for a few months. That was when she realized that Jacob was not in love with her—he was in love with everyone—or so he claimed. On reflection, Devon realized that Jacob was incapable of loving anyone but himself. As far as Devon knew, all six children in the family were biologically his and their mothers were all very special to him, all sharing his affection. Devon’s heart was broken and she was suddenly disillusioned. Who would hold her up and comfort her and support her now that she was pregnant? The only people she had were her sisters in the family.
There was Charlotte, who used to act out the children’s stories, making everyone scream with hysterical laughter. Lorna could bake like a demon and throw a softball like a pro. Priscilla, who they called Pilly, was prickly except on days following one of her visits with Jacob and for that the others teased her mercilessly. Reese was the oldest of them at thirty-five and though no one had elected her boss, she took on that role all the time, something for which the others were, by turns, either grateful or petulant enough to reduce her to tears. But Reese played an important role in the family—she was the one to deliver their children; she was a doula and a nurse. Mariah was the youngest, shyest, an innocent twenty years old, and all of them tried to shelter her from Jacob...and failed. And finally there was Laine, who hadn’t been with them long and was the most devilish, making them all laugh at themselves and at their weird family.
They squabbled, giggled, played games, sat up late with ice cream or popcorn and told stories, cried for their lost lives, raved in happy delirium for their happiness, spied on each other, sought each other for comfort.
She missed them so. Even the ones she didn’t like so much.
Mercy had been in no physical danger in the family—it was a family that loved and nurtured the children. The real danger was more subtle—having no independence, no identity, no clear choices; no view of the outside world. And then there were the men whose faces seemed to change regularly, the men who tended and moved the marijuana. The women all knew this wasn’t right, that it wasn’t just medicine, but as long as they were safe and happy they seemed comfortable turning a blind eye to the reality.
And then Jacob began to change. He seemed to move from the morally superior position in his rants to being angry, desperate and paranoid. Now that she’d read the online accounts of the investigation, it seemed obvious—he must have changed as the feds encroached and threatened his authority, turning him into a frantic and anxious man. That’s when the idea of leaving proved to be so much more difficult. He must have been afraid people who left The Fellowship would sell him out. Devon had actually thought about leaving for a long time. The minute her baby was born, Devon thought about leaving, trying to think of what she’d do, how she’d manage, because she didn’t want Mercy growing up in that compound in a pair of soft denim overalls and a long braid. But she didn’t want her to grow up hungry and afraid, either.
And now here she was, back at the beginning, living with a grandparent-type figure taking care of her in a comfortable old house in an old neighborhood.
She poured herself a cup of coffee in Rawley’s kitchen. Rawley and Mercy sat at the kitchen table together, coloring on large sheets of paper he’d brought home.
“What is it?” Mercy asked, pointing to Rawley’s drawing.
“You don’t know what that is? That’s a boat! I have to take you to town pretty soon, to the marina and show you the boats. Those fishermen catch all the fish and crab we eat.”
“How do they catch dem?”
“One of these days I’ll show you,” he told her. “And what’s that?” he asked, pointing to a scribbled picture.
“You,” she said. And then she giggled.
He studied the picture closely. Then he made a whole bunch of dots on the bottom of the drawing.
“What’s that?” Mercy asked.
“Whiskers,” he said, and then he grinned at her.
Rawley looked up at Devon. “Remember Cooper’s girl? Sarah? You met her that first morning.”
“Yes, sure.”
“She