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show,” Darla declared, all her anxiety bursting forth as if a dam had been breached.
    The Reverend raised a hand. “First things first. Have you been writing in the journal I told you to keep?”
    “Of course.”
    “May I see it please?” She held out a neatly manicured, long-nailed, red-lacquered hand.
    Darla gave her what she wanted. At first it had seemed strange to allow another person to examine her intimate thoughts. But now she was used to it. She sat quietly and allowed the Reverend to read.
    “I see that you’re still angry with your grandfather. Understandable. But you haven’t written anything about your father.”
    Darla shrugged. “I don’t think about him much.”
    “I know. The question is, why? You must have buried your feelings about him very deep.” The Reverend had mentioned this before.
    “I guess. But if it doesn’t bother me—”
    “It does bother you or . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead she arched her brows knowingly.
    Darla folded her arms in a defensive gesture. “He isn’t mean to me. Mostly it’s like he doesn’t know I’m here. He ignores Lacey too. It bugs her, but I don’t really care.”
    “What about the fact that he tells you your mother is dead? Insists that she is dead?”
    “He hasn’t said anything in a long time. Since before . . .”
    “Since before you were hospitalized?” The Reverend’s eyes were like lasers.
    Darla shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Yes. But you and I have talked about it and you believe me. You support me. That’s all I need.”
    “And yet you write about your grandfather. You write that he insists she’s dead and wants you to stop with the fantasies.”
    “Because unlike my dad, he brings it up. He gets mad at me out of the blue. He seeks me out sometimes, just to yell and remind me that she’s dead. It’s like he obsesses about it. I don’t understand why he can’t just leave me alone.”
    “At least he’s an open book.”
    “I’d rather he be closed.”
    “No. Then he’d be like your father.”
    Darla didn’t think that would be so bad.
    Reverend Irene leaned forward. “Listen. I want you to give some thought to your father. I want the anger I know is locked inside you to come to the surface. I want you to write about him. I want you to let it all out.”
    Darla sat quietly. She trusted the Reverend, but she didn’t like this assignment. It would open old wounds. She’d do it though, since the Reverend thought she should. She nodded.
    “Now. Let’s talk about your sister. You say you think she has your best interest at heart.”
    Darla uncrossed her arms and nodded again. Lacey did have her best interest at heart. She believed it completely.
    “In what ways has she shown this to be so?”
    “She loves me.”
    “She loves you. Tell me how she loves you.”
    “She encourages me. She wants me to get my driver’s license and be more independent. She defends me when Grandfather picks on me. Sometimes she invites me to go out with her and her friends even though I always say no. She wants me to move out and get an apartment with her when I turn eighteen.”
    The Reverend looked surprised. “And you think you’re ready for that?”
    “Maybe not. But I’ll be away from Grandfather. And I can always move back.”
    The Reverend opened her mouth to say something, then didn’t. Instead she studied Darla for several seconds before she spoke. “I think your sister is only interested in herself.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “Does she support your belief that your mother is alive?”
    “No. But that’s because we were told she died.”
    “But you told her you saw her.”
    There was a pause.
    “I want you to be more circumspect about the things Lacey says to you, the things she encourages you to do. Think about what she says. What she does. And write about it. Pick it apart. Don’t assume she knows best just because she appears to be stronger than you are. Notice I used the word