Chapter 4: Hands on Her Head

On Sunday the church was full, and everyone in it already knew my name.

I felt it at the door.

Women I'd known since Sunday school took my hands in both of theirs and held on.

"We've been praying all week, sweetheart."

"You're so brave."

"If you need anything, anything."

I hadn't said a word to any of them.

My father walked me down the center aisle with his hand on my back, steering me to the front pew.

He had put on his good gray suit.

My mother came behind us, dabbing her eyes with a tissue she'd brought for the purpose.

Maisie was already seated at the far end, in a pale blue sweater, with her hands folded.

She looked up when I sat down.

Her eyes were yellower than they had been on Sunday, and she had used concealer under them.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

"You came."

"Dad said everyone was expecting me."

She flinched, and she looked at our father, and then she looked at her hands again.

The pastor spoke for twenty minutes about trials.

Then he asked my father to say a few words.

I had never seen my father look so pleased to be asked.

He walked up to the front, put his hands on the pulpit and cleared his throat.

"Most of you know my family," he said. "You know I'm a plain man. I don't say much about what goes on under my roof."

A few people laughed softly.

"But last week we learned that my older daughter, Shanna, has a failing liver."

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