Free Henry's Sisters by Cathy Lamb Page B

book of Mormon,’ Kayla said. ‘And I’m studying Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. Did you know that a prophet named Moroni came to Joseph Smith and told him where to find a book written on metal plates? I want Moroni to come and sermonise me. I am waiting for him and listening intently.’
    Cecilia stabbed her ravioli again. Spinach squished out.
    ‘Now, last month you were studying Buddhism and said you were a Buddhist,’ Janie said. ‘You told us you were going to be reincarnated.’
    ‘That’s right. I studied Buddhism. I know that when I die I’ll come back to earth. Maybe as a person. A man or a woman. Maybe as a leaf. I also spent time in meditation, I accepted the Four Noble Truths, and I pursued my own path of enlightenment.’
    ‘Why don’t you tell them about your Jewish month, too, Kayla?’ Cecilia snapped. ‘Let’s make a complete circle here.’
    ‘Well, the month before that I was Jewish. I asked six rabbis for wisdom, three of them online, studied Moses and the Ten Commandments, said prayers three times a day, and baked challah bread.’
    Cecilia grunted.
    ‘I like bread,’ Henry said. ‘I squish bread. Ducks like bread. You want go to duck pond?’
    ‘Air traffic control, this is HRT02233.’ Grandma spoke into her empty glass. ‘All is well. Give me a weather update. Storms ahead?’
    I nodded. ‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy with your faiths.’
    ‘It’s important to explore and not naively swallow the religion that gets stuffed down your throat by someone who has never explored any other religion in her life .’ Kayla glared at her mother.
    ‘I don’t need to study another religion because I know what I am, Kayla: Catholic.’ More spinach squished out of that ravioli, then Cecilia attacked her roll.
    I nodded. Cecilia had never wavered on her religion. Momma took us to the Catholic church on Sundays no matter where we were unless she was semi-comatose with depression/fighting her mental monsters, and then she insisted we go without her.
    After church, if Momma had roused herself, we had to stay so she could say a rosary. She always made us wait outside. A couple of times we snuck in because she was taking so long, then skittered right back out when we saw our momma sobbing at the altar.
    ‘You don’t even go to church, do you, Aunt Isabelle?’ Kayla asked, her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you an atheist?’
    I put down my garlic bread. Here’s another genetic marker of being a Bommarito: we cannot have normal meals like normal people. Our conversations are often inflammatory.
    Food has been known to fly. One time a chair. Another time an entire stuffed turkey. Screaming occurs. Cecilia reached for me one time over the table and landed on Momma’s casserole. Janie’s flipped the table. Glasses have broken. Whipped cream has been sprayed, hot dogs have been hurled like bombs, loaves of bread have been used as weapons.
    It’s hereditary. When we first arrived at this house as teenagers, Momma and Grandma had a fight over Momma’s make-up (too much, looked trashy), and Grandma’s attitude (critical, judgmental), and Momma’s lack of visits over the years (she had deprived Grandma of her grandchildren). Momma threw a chicken leg at her mother, Grandma pelted an apple at Momma’s forehead. A handful of corn and a roll followed. Then a peach.
    I glanced at the food on the table. Gall. Ravioli. Miniature square land mines. Salad that would be so slimy.
    ‘Jesus loves Isabelle!’ Henry said. ‘Yep.’
    ‘I’m not an atheist,’ I told her.
    ‘Are you agnostic? That means you doubt that God exists.’
    ‘I’m not an agnostic.’
    ‘You believe in God?’
    ‘Yes. I believe in God.’ I didn’t think about Him much, though. One does not like to think about God, or particularly hell, when one is living the life I live. ‘Basically, I’ve tried to stay in the shadows so God can’t see me.’
    That didn’t stump smart ol’ Kayla. ‘You can’t hide from God in the