Free Losing Faith by Denise Jaden Page A

Maybe Momthrew Jesus in the garbage. I don’t know why, but the thought makes my gut clench like I’ve swallowed a coat hanger. Whatever she did with the thing, I don’t want to know.
    Dad marches through the door just after six. I take it upon myself to heat a pot of church-donated stew. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to Mrs. Ramirez. She’s probably already passed on the message to the rest of the church ladies.
    “When’s Mom going to cook again?” I ask Dad. “Don’t you think it would help distract her or whatever?”
    Dad shrugs and then turns to the window. “Did you hear that?”
    I concentrate, and Faith’s hum resonates loud and clear in my head. I’m starting to like the sound, even need it. And now I wonder if Dad can hear it too, since he moves across the kitchen in perfect rhythm. He looks out the window, and then shakes his head, as if it was nothing.
    Going to the fridge, he grabs the milk and pours himself a glass. When he’s done, he slides the milk into the cupboard where the glasses go.
    “Dad? You okay?”
    “Oh, yeah, yeah, honey. Just had kind of a rushed day.” His voice, gravelly like he just got out of bed, makes me wonder if he spoke to anyone at the office, or just locked himself away until five-thirty.
    He sits and stares across at the refrigerator. I follow his eyes, expecting them to be on the church meeting schedule he keeps there, but instead he focuses on our wipe-off family calendar, at an entry in the right bottom corner, written in red: Faith—Contact lenses. 3:00.
    Most girls are eager to get contacts, but not Faith. Mom had to talk her into making the appointment. “They’re nice to have for special occasions,” she’d told her again and again. Finally, almost eighteen years old, Faith was getting them. More for Mom than for herself.
    I never involved myself in the conversation. I was the prettier sister, at least with my hair and makeup done, and I kind of liked it that way. She had confidence and innocence, solid friends and beliefs, not to mention an amazing voice. But now my mind wanders back to my red sweater and I wonder if it was no coincidence that she’d finally decided on contacts. I wonder if she really was jealous. Of me .
    “Did you walk the dog?” Dad asks, breaking me from my thoughts.
    I nod. So strange hearing Dad call Nuisance “the dog.” Dad named Nuisance when I was in kindergarten, making a big show of his brilliant sense of humor. Mom laughed and laughed, so the name stuck. Faith and me, even to this day—well okay, until last week—we rolled our eyes every timehe called Nuisance in that tone that made it obvious he still thought it was hysterical.
    And that’s not the only household item he christened. The fridge is “Ms. Frostbite,” his van is “Ol’ Granny,” and the TV remote is “The Maestro.” But I guess Faith and I will never roll our eyes at any of those things again. In fact, the thought of the nicknames suddenly seems sad.
    While Dad’s head is down, I take the milk out of the cupboard and slide it into Ms. Frostbite. I place a bowl of stew in front of him.
    He blinks at it, then murmurs, “Thanks.”
    I perch on the chair across from him with my own bowl. “Mom’s been upstairs all afternoon.”
    He clinks his spoon around his bowl a few times. “Give it time, honey.”
    “I know.” I take a bite. “I’m just sayin’.”
    After a few minutes of slurping, Dad asks, “How was school?”
    “Weird, actually.” I chomp a big bite of bread, thinking of how to explain this. “No one really wants to talk to me.”
    He nods and I wait while he processes so he can give me an insightful “Dad” answer.
    “Give it time,” he finally says again.
    I get my practical side from Dad. I’ve said the same phrase aboutfifty times to myself already and I know he’s right. The more I can get on with life, the more normal it will become.
    “Did work go okay?” I ask, just to say something. It’s not like we