Then I Met My Sister by Christine Hurley Deriso Page B

flawless. Her silvery-blond hair is pulled back into a chic ponytail.
    “How was the library?” Mom asks. I didn’t tell her why I was going, but her face had brightened at the mention of a library.
    “It was okay. Hey, Mom?”
    “Yes, dear?”
    “You never did tell me why you stopped going to church.”
    She shifts the laundry basket from one hip to the other. “Goodness, Summer, what’s up with all the questions today?”
    I shrug. I’m still in intrepid-reporter mode. Mom’s dodges and weaves aren’t working today.
    She grips the laundry basket tighter. An awkward moment hangs in the air. “So … you want to go to church?” she asks again.
    “No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    I’ve really never thought much about it. We go to Mass with Grandma and Grandpa on Easter and Christmas, and Mom says “bless you” when someone sneezes and tells friends she’s praying for them when they’re going through hard times. That’s about the extent of my exposure to religious life. I’ve never stopped to consider whether I wish it was different or if I have any strong feelings one way or the other.
    “I just want to know why you stopped going,” I tell Mom.
    She puts the laundry basket on the kitchen table, plucks a hand towel from the top, and picks at it absently.
    “I didn’t understand why God took Shannon from me,” she finally says in a small but steady voice. “I still don’t. Didn’t I do everything right? I tried .”
    I gasp a little. This is probably the most real thing Mom has ever said to me about Shannon. Has she just been waiting for me to ask?
    I shrug, aiming for casual to avoid freaking Mom out. “Shannon’s dying doesn’t mean you did something wrong. Sometimes things just happen.”
    “Then what’s the point of prayer?” Mom asks in a surprisingly sharp tone.
    I shrug again and swallow hard.
    “But that’s not the main reason,” Mom says, staring at the towel. “Yes, I was mad at God—if there is a God. And I guess I still am. I never expected life to be perfect, but I didn’t count on a blow like that. Losing a child … it’s …”
    She pauses, gripping the towel tighter.
    “So, if there is a God, I’m pretty ticked off,” she continues in a stronger voice. Her eyes search mine. “What do you think of people who question whether there is a God? I mean, if there really is a God, do you think he would condemn someone to eternal suffering just for having enough courage to admit that no one can know for sure?”
    “Um …” Who am I kidding? I’m too stunned to speak. Mom is not only telling me real things, she’s asking me real questions … seeking my opinion.
    “I wouldn’t want to worship that kind of a God,” she says, not waiting for my answer. She loosens her grip on the hand towel and it falls back into the basket as she gazes into space. “Besides. Shannon was going through a … phase … when she died.”
    Her eyes flicker toward mine as if she’s gauging my reaction. I don’t move a muscle.
    Mom peers past me. “I’d rather be in hell with my children than in heaven without them.”
    My throat tightens. I study her face as if I’ve never seen it before. She looks small and fragile. And sad. I want to reach out to her. Will she let me touch her?
    But in the instant that I lean toward her, her eyes refocus, as if she’s coming out of a trance. “Well,” she says briskly, “better get my laundry done.”
    She reaches for her basket.
    “Hey, Mom,” I say abruptly.
    “Yes?”
    I pause. I don’t really have anything to say. I just don’t want her to go. So I ask, “Did you used to belong to a lot of clubs?”
    Mom laughs at the sudden detour into more mundane territory. “Why would you ask that?”
    I shift my weight. “Aunt Nic was mentioning some club you used to belong to. A book club, maybe?”
    Confusion flickers in Mom’s eyes, but then she nods. “Guilty as charged,” she says. “I guess I was something of an