behind closed doors

1 chapter cacks in the Foundation

The worn leather of my Bible felt smooth under my fingertips as I ran them along the edges, a habit formed from years of serious attentive scripture reading. I paused on a well-worn passage in Matthew, letting the words wash over me as they had so many times before: "By their fruits ye shall know them. Do people pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles?"

A knock at my door interrupted my meditation. "Rachel, are you ready for church?" came my mother's muffled voice through the wood. I placed my Bible on my nightstand and stood, taking a final look at myself in the mirror. My cotton sundress and cardigan were neatly pressed, not a hair out of place in my modest updo. The image of purity and obedience, as was expected.

My fingers traced along the cool metal of the cross dangling from my neck as I descended the stairs. My father waited at the bottom, straightening his tie in the hallway mirror with a stern but satisfied expression. Everything had to be just so for the trip to First Baptist, where my father pastored and led our small congregation. We were always the model Christian family, an example for others to follow.

As we filled into the shiny sedan, I peered out the window, taking in the tidy Victorian houses and manicured lawns that lined our street. My eyes eventually drifted to the back of my father's head, the creases around his eyes a little more pronounced these days. What truths were hiding behind that misleading façade of wisdom and virtue? I often wondered.

At church, I went through the familiar Sunday routine on autopilot, reciting prayers and hymns without really hearing the words. My mind was elsewhere, replaying our argument from the previous night. My parents' hushed shouts had carried through the thin walls as I pretended to sleep, clutching my blanket for comfort.

"You can't keep flirting with that girl, Jeremy. It's not right and it will destroy everything we've built here." My mother's desperate plea had cut through the silence like a knife.

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Barbara. I'm helping shape young lives for Christ. There's nothing wrong with being a comforting pastor to those in need." His smug response sent shivers down my spine, even through the barrier of drywall separating us.

A light touch on my shoulder jolted me from the unsettling memory. My mother stood beside me with a tense smile, eyes silently pleading for me not to cause a scene. I nodded imperceptibly and followed her to our pew, knees suddenly unsteady. As my father's rich baritone led the congregation in a rousing hymn, I studied his face, searching for any trace of deceit or desperation behind the grin. His expression revealed nothing but untarnished faith.

My growing suspicions welled up inside me like a sickness, threatening to spill out at any moment into ugly, unholy words. I bit my cheek hard, welcoming the sting of pain to distract from thoughts too sinful to speak aloud. Doubts swirled in my head during the whole sermon about trusting in God's plan, worming their way into the foundations of the life I had built.

After the service, I rushed out, unable to withstand the deafening falsehood of it all any longer. Gulping lungfuls of cool fall air, I leaned against a large oak, squeezing my eyes shut. A few moments passed before I registered the silence, then soft footsteps approaching.

"Rachel?" My father's voice was gentle with concern, the practiced tone of a shepherd for his flock. I opened my eyes slowly to meet his worried gaze, searching for any crack in his guise. There was only pity and care reflecting back at me from his steel blue irises.

"Are you feeling alright, sweetheart? You seemed distressed during my sermon." He placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder that made my skin crawl. Years of habit fought to make me lean into his comforting grasp like I had countless times before. Now, all I wanted was to recoil from his deceitful touch.

"I'm fine, Father. Just feeling spiritually drained, I suppose. I think I need some rest." The practiced smile I gave in return felt foreign on my face. His answering grin of relief was blinding, designed perfectly to set others at ease. We made our way to the car in amiable conversation, but I knew - the foundations of what we were had developed fine cracks, and darkness was seeping in.