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correct emotion, where I always have the wrong ones.
    I search for the words to pray to God for guidance, but my mind’s as blank as the cloudless sky. I give up, shading my eyes with my hand and looking out toward where the vehicles are parked. I watch as Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan climb into their pickup and drive away.

 
    5
    It’s difficult to read and knead meatloaf at the same time, but I’m attempting both when Ruth comes downstairs and finds me in the kitchen.
    â€œRachel, can you help me? Sarah just threw up.”
    â€œLike throw up or spit up?” I ask.
    â€œThrow up,” Ruth announces. “All over the floor of our bedroom.”
    I exhale louder than I should and pick my hands out of the meatloaf, reluctantly taking my eyes off A Wrinkle in Time . I’m just at the part where Charles Wallace and Calvin and Meg meet Mrs. Who for the first time. Just before Meg helps Calvin with his math homework and they take a walk under the light of the moon. That part always makes my heart thump. I wipe my hands on the dishtowel I’ve tied around my waist. Pulling my gaze away from my book is much harder than giving up on the meatloaf.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Ruth says. “Should I have helped her?”
    â€œNo, Ruth, it’s all right,” I say, managing a smile. “It’s just that some days it’s…” I exhale again.
    No. Stop it, Rachel, you’re being selfish. You can do all things through Him who strengthens you.
    I try to draw something out of the verse, even visualizing the words running through my muscles, forcing them to move. It helps a little.
    I head up the steps to clean the mess and get Sarah into bed, placing a trash can next to her just in case. I whisper a silent prayer that her stomach is upset from something she ate and not anything contagious. Then I give her the little bell we always use when one of us is sick, so she can ring for me if she needs to.
    â€œRay Ray, I love you,” Sarah says, using her nickname for me. Her eyes flutter just a bit, and I can tell she’s drifting off to sleep, but I stop to kneel down and kiss her toes.
    â€œI love you, too,” I tell her. She’s such a peanut, really. It’s hard to get upset even when she throws up. I take the clothes she’s vomited on to add to the ever-growing pile of laundry that I should have tackled yesterday.
    After I make it back downstairs, I peer through the cracked door into my parents’ room and watch my mother shift a bit under the covers, then settle into another round of sleep. She’s barely gotten out of bed since she lost Joshua—not for evening Bible study or supper or Wednesday night fellowship. What if Aunt Marjorie was right? Maybe a psychiatrist could help Mom get better faster. But Dad would never let us call one.
    Ruth and I have to alternate checking on Sarah, but we manage to get a slightly overcooked meatloaf on the table by the time my dad and brothers are home. Ruth brings a plate in to Mom’s room even though I know when I go to collect it, it will have only been picked at a little.
    Ruth and I get the little ones washed and ready for bed—Sarah is still asleep—but when we walk into the family room for Bible time, my stomach sinks. My older brothers and father are seated in their usual spots, but instead of holding his Bible in his hands like he usually does, my dad is holding something else.
    My copy of A Wrinkle in Time .
    How stupid I’ve been. How careless.
    I left it on the counter amid rolls of paper towels and school books and dirty dishes and a dozen other pieces of evidence that I’ve been struggling with my job of running the household as I should.
    But the book is the worst piece of evidence. The most damning thing. Because it proves not only that I am not a young woman of God, but that I’ve been distracted by something my father is sure to believe is sinister. And he’s sure to believe