House of Sand

Nonetheless, I appreciated the people within our church, many of whom had known me since my birth. It was a small congregation filled with kindness and love. They were good people and I do not pretend otherwise. Such was the case when I arrived with my broken leg. They felt sorry for me and offered their prayers and sympathies. A few people even brought me some groceries to take home.

We attended church at The Salvation Army -- and this is a fact little-known by the general public -- The Salvation Army is more a church than it is a charity. We referred to the pastor as "Captain" and to the church as the "corps." It's odd language to an outsider, but I had been attending this corps since I was too young to remember. The lingo was second-nature. The corps held worship services every Sunday, Bible Study on Wednesdays, and youth activities on Thursdays. It was as much a church as any.

The Captain spoke to my family and me before the service began. "We're glad to have you back, Maddie." His white mustache raised with his grin. "I hope you recover soon."

"Thanks," I replied plainly. He patted me on the shoulder and moved to another person. The Captain's sermon was on faith, during which I gave him little attention. With my anxiety, I maintained burdening thoughts of my new job as a teacher and of the healing of my leg. But the Captain said one thing that piqued my interest: he declared, "an integral part of faith is pleasing God, and that we are not pleasing God when we are selfish, when we ignore his word, when we are sexually immoral, or when we turn a blind eye to his children."

The phrase "sexually immoral" was most pertinent in my life, and my heart jumped as if the Captain spoke directly to me. My guilt gnawed at the back of my mind. I had slept with two guys in college (one at a time). However, I should admit that I never enjoyed the sex. In fact, neither man had been able to give me an orgasm. Because it was a recurring issue, I assumed it was my fault; my doctor prescribed me anti-anxiety medication, which many people complain squelches their ability to climax. When I was alone, I'd often have to rely on porn or erotic literature to get myself going.

"Sexual immorally," as defined by the Captain, was woven into my being. The church had taught me that if you are not actively doing something to praise God, then you are, by nature, working for the Devil. I grew up to understand that if someone disagrees with Christian life, it is not an indication of diversity or free thought, but rather the Devil himself at work. But does God truly care? Why would he, in his supposed infinite wisdom, give a damn?

I hated thinking about "sexual immorality." It was a war that had raged in my mind for years, and the older I became, the less I cared about offending God. I had been masturbating since I was much younger, and I hated to think that God would have created something so wonderful only for it to be a crime against his very essence.

Despite my wishes, Mom gaggled like a hen with everyone after church. I awkwardly stood in the corner of the chapel as I waited for her to escort me home.

Mom stayed in my apartment one more day but had to return to work after that. Dad advised me to leave home as little as possible on account of my broken leg, and my parents promised to bring me groceries from time to time so that I wouldn't have to risk hurting myself. After all, the people of Washington are wonderful, but they are sometimes in such a blind and frantic hurry that they could very well trample a handicapped woman.

Being a captive of my own home was distressing. I felt useless, incapable of doing anything productive. I read every book, completed every puzzle, and watched every show I could handle. One afternoon about two weeks after the crash, I observed a postal worker filling my mailbox. I acted against my father's advice and went to get it myself. The fresh air will do me good, right?

I stepped out of my apartment on my own for the first time since the night of the incident. The unusually high heat and humidity smacked me in the back of the head. My hair instantaneously frazzled with moisture. I one-footed my way down the sidewalk, to the mailbox, and back to my door without issue, aside from breaking a sweat. Perhaps I was getting the hang of using my crutches. But when I twisted the knob to get back inside, I nearly screamed.

"Fuck!" I whispered in horror, panting from my exertion. "Did I seriously just make a mistake this stupid?" I frantically searched my pockets for keys, though I knew they were inside. I jiggled the handle more furiously to no avail. I even found a stick and attempted to wedge it between the door and its frame. My eyes scurried around the complex in search of someone to help, but I was alone. I flopped onto the concrete curb of the sidewalk and buried my face in my hands. Even the shade sweltered.

At the very least, I had my phone. I called my landlord several times, but he did not answer. The police refused to help since I could not prove I was the resident, despite my objection that my drivers' license was just inside. They needed verification before opening the door, suggesting a locksmith instead. Indeed, many locksmiths jumped at the opportunity to allow me back into my home, the cheapest of whom would have charged over one hundred dollars. My parents were at work, and even if they could leave, it would have taken them almost two hours to arrive. I could have thrown a rock at my upstairs neighbor's window, but that seemed too risky, and I wasn't certain he was home.

I brought up Anna's number on my phone. I stared at the screen for several minutes, wallowing in my pity. My muscles constricted as my leg rattled in agony; the pain medication was wearing off. Eventually, I accepted that there was nobody else I could call.

"Hello?" She answered.

"Hey," I replied, my voice dripping with humiliation. "This is Maddie -- Maddie from the hospital a couple of weeks ago."

"Hey, how are you!" She replied with enthusiasm.

"Not so great at the moment," I confessed. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor. But if you're too busy, then don't worry about it."

"No, no, I can help. What's up?"

"I've locked myself out of my apartment. I tried the police -- they said they can't help. The landlord isn't picking up his phone, and I can't afford a locksmith. I can get in through a window, but not with my broken leg. Do you think you might be able to jump into a window or pick a lock?"

Anna chuckled and I reimagined her cute dimples and pearly teeth. "Sure, no worries. Give me five minutes and I'll be there." After I hung up, I realized my slovenliness: I hadn't shaven in two weeks, I was sweaty and braless, and my hair was in a frizz.

Sure enough, Anna arrived to find my pathetic ass sitting on the curb. In the hospital, she was tall. But from the ground, she was a giant. "Hey," I reeked with embarrassment. "Thanks for coming."

"Hi!" She answered. "It's no problem." She lifted her hand to her head to block the sun. I caught a glimpse of a small tattoo on her upper arm, but I was unable to read it before she shifted. "Which window is it?"

"That one," I pointed. "Thankfully, I already had it open after cooking earlier. It's a bit of a jump as you can see, and the keys are on the table. I guess you can grab them, jump back out the window, and unlock the door."

"Awesome," she said. "But can't I just open the door from the inside?"

My eyes sank to the ground. "Yeah, that makes much more sense. I'm-- I'm just not thinking right today." Anna pressed her lips together as I awkwardly attempted to stand. For a moment, she hesitated, lunging forward before stopping herself. Her mind considered whether she should help or look away in politeness. She extended her arm and allowed me to rely on her strength. Her hands were tough, yet delicate; coarse, yet gentle.

She vaulted into my window, and being over average height, she looked like an olympian compared to me. Once she opened the door, I struggled to the couch and collapsed carelessly onto its cushions. "Thanks," I exhaled. "This is hard, but it's harder when I do stupid things."

"No worries," Anna gleamed. "And we've all been there before. Anything else I can help with?

"Well, have a seat," I motioned toward my recliner. "Unless you have to go."

Anna shook her head. "No, I'm on vacation, so I'm positively made of time." She sat gracefully in the chair, refusing to allow her body to sink whereas I sat with the stature of a potato.

"Sorry about my appearance," I mumbled. "The doctor said I can't get the cast wet, and trying to situate myself in the tub with my leg in the air is not as easy as I would like it to be."

"It's totally understandable," Anna smiled, waving her hand. "You don't have to explain yourself.

My face contorted as another round of pain echoed through my lower body. Anna's expression become one of discomfort; before she could speak, I interjected, "I'm fine, don't worry." The strain in my voice betrayed the meaning of my words. "Thanks again for your help," I groveled. "Seriously, thanks."

She let on a silent, shallow bow with her head. I'm sure she was tired of saying "no worries."

I quipped, "I just moved here, so I don't have any real friends around." The corners of her mouth dropped. I rested my face in my palm. I meant the statement to be funny, but it came off as nothing more than pathetic.

"So, you just moved to DC?" Anna asked.

"Yeah -- I was in college in South Carolina, and before that, I was raised in Virginia. But my hometown is close enough to DC that I'm familiar with the area. There's not much for me in South Carolina, so I came back this direction."

"Oh," she mumbled. "I'm from rural Pennsylvania," she revealed. "Lived on a farm growing up."

I raised my eyebrows, "really?"

"Yup," she affirmed. She pointed at herself, "it's the goofy haircut that makes it hard to believe, isn't it?"

"Ugh--" I wasn't exactly sure how to respond. She tangled my mind with awkwardness, but relieved me when she snickered, "just kidding."

"Hey, nothing wrong with that," I acknowledged. "But I can't imagine there's much of a demand for farmers in Washington."

"Na," she shook her head. "I respect what my parents do, but it's not the life for me. I have a different calling."

"Yeah," I continued. "Not sure I'd enjoy the farming life either. Though I'd do anything just to get out of this apartment."

"Let me take you somewhere," she suggested. "You're going to go crazy just sitting around all day."

"No, no," I rejected. "You've already done more than enough. I couldn't possibly--"

She included, "nonsense. I've already said I don't have anything else to do. Let me help you out."

I sank into the couch, "but don't want to be a burden."

She inhaled slowly and sighed. "Why don't you let me take you to dinner or something, just to get some fresh air. And some good food, presumably. What have you been eating around the house?"

"Mostly ramen noodles, microwavable food, and peanut butter and jelly."

"See," she lifted her shoulders. "Let me take you to dinner tomorrow. It'll help you clear your mind."

"Okay," I surrendered, still uneasy. Her face lit into an expression of sincere animation. Her eyes caught a book sitting on my coffee table. "Are you a reader?"

"I am," I nodded. Seeing where her eyes pointed, I grabbed the book and tossed it to her. She caught it without difficulty. "Started that one this morning?"

"No way," she twisted her mouth. "You started reading this today and your bookmark is two-thirds of the way through?"

I nodded, and she hung her mouth open in response. "How fast can you read?"

"Pretty fast," I answered indifferently. "I read that bit in about two hours."

She held the book in the air. "You're telling me you read these three-hundred-something pages two hours?"

"I did," I confirmed. "She dropped the book to her lap and shook her head. This would legitimately take -- I don't know -- all week for me. And I thought I was a fast reader."

I knew it was well above average, but I joked, "I thought that was normal."

"Normal?" She blurted. "That's nowhere near normal. That is a gift, Maddie."

"Don't we all have gifts?" I wondered.

"Well, I know some pretty dull people," she prodded. "But I guess everybody has something they're good at."

"What are you good at?" I inquired.

"I can play music, but nothing special. Piano, mostly."

"That's cool," I nodded. She bellowed, pointed to the book again, "and what's it about?"

"It's about a woman whose house is destroyed in a storm. She loses everything, including her job. But ultimately, at least it seems like this is where the end of the book is headed, she winds up having a better life because her house was destroyed."

Anna breathed, "hmm, that's interesting."

"But I'm sick of reading," I admitted. "That's all I've been doing since this accident. Fiction, nonfiction, science fiction, anything. I've read about one book per day and I'm tired of it." I added, extending my shackled leg. "I used to run before this nonsense happened. So sitting around the house all day is having a toll on my emotions."

She nodded in agreement. "Me too, both the reading and running. What kind of running?"

"I used to mostly be a casual runner," I chirped. "You know, one of those people you see running in the morning down the sidewalk. And I mostly did that to keep in shape -- to be healthy. But lately--" I paused and pointed at my cast. "Until two weeks ago I had been getting into more marathon-type events. I ran my first 10K a month ago in Charleston, South Carolina. My roommate encouraged me to give it a shot, and I loved it."

"I've heard of that one," she gleamed. "I've always wanted to try it. Was it difficult?"

I shook my head, "it's not difficult, just long. Long at hot. But I spent a few months preparing for it. It's really pretty, though. There's the beautiful bridge, the ocean, the city."

"Maybe I'll go in the future," she replied. "I have several places around the area I like to run. Not so much in downtown Washington, but in Virginia and Maryland. I never liked running in gyms. I get bored too quickly."

"I agree," I interjected. "Plus, I always feel like someone's watching me in gyms."

Anna suggested, "we should go together sometime. When you're healed, of course."

"I'm not sure I'll ever be the same."

"But you'll heal soon enough," Anna ensured. "I broke my arm when I was seven." She lifted her sleeve to reveal the small scar from where she had surgery. I caught another glimpse at the little tattoo, but I still could not read it. "My bone was shattered," she explained. But my arm still healed quickly. It was sore after they took the cast off, but it was easier than I thought it would be."

"Shattered?" I tilted my head.

Anna nodded, "yeah, not only did I break it, but I shattered it into a million pieces." She pointed to an inch-long portion of her inner-upper arm, "and from here to here, they had to fill my arm with cadaver bones."

I squinted in confusion.

Anna clarified, "when people die, sometimes they donate bones. Those are called cadaver bones." I nodded, widening my eyes. She added, again redirecting my attention to her arm. She pointed to either side of the scar, "so, from here to here are dead people."

"That -- That's interesting," I squirmed.

Anna's shoulders bounced in laughter. "You'll find soon enough that I'm weird."

"I like weird people," I smirked.

Anna grinned again. There was something peculiar about her smile. It was overwhelmingly charming, but at the same time, reserved.

We chatted for a little longer before Anna asked, "so, did you want to go to dinner tomorrow or another day?"

"Oh," I muttered. "Tomorrow's fine, I guess."

"Great," she shined.

* * *

Tomorrow came and Anna was promptly on time. I made sure I was fresh; I had to give her a better impression than when she found me sitting on the sidewalk. She helped me hobble to her closed-top convertible as if I were her grandmother.

In Anna's car, she asked, "so, if this is your first career job, that makes you what -- twenty-three, twenty-four?" She pulled onto the roadway, driving at a greater speed than most other drivers.

"Didn't you see my age on my drivers' license that night?" I jested.

Anna glanced at me through her sunglasses. "Actually, I remember telling the 911 operator that you were a mid-twenties female because trying to do something as simple as subtracting one year from another was difficult in the chaos of the moment."

"Twenty-four exactly," I confirmed, clenching my seat as we whizzed through traffic.

She chuckled, "that's why I'm not a math teacher."

I figured the arithmetic in my head, "and at year ten of teaching, you're around thirty-two or thirty-three?"

"Thirty," she corrected as if the number was offensive. "And that's only because I graduated high school a year early and earned my undergraduate in three years." She gestured facetiously, "but I'm glad you think I look older than I am."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to--" She sent me into a panic attack, which only stopped when she smiled cruelly.

"Relax, I'm just giving you a hard time. I have a tendency to do that, so just ignore me. What's two years matter anyway?" She continued, "I graduated high school a year early. I busted my ass trying to earn scholarships. I knew my parents wouldn't be able to provide much of anything being poor farmers and all. I graduated first in my class -- granted, there were only twenty-seven seniors that year. Those scholarships brought me to George Washington University. I didn't need to work much, so I doubled up on classes and got it over with. I stuck around the area after graduation and got a job around here."

I commended, "in the long run, you probably saved a ton of money doing that."

"Yup," she affirmed. "These people walking around with over a hundred grand in debt are struggling, especially if they're only making around fifty thousand a year. I bought a convertible instead of worrying." She turned to me; I could tell that she winked beneath her sunglasses. "Which is why I'm paying for your dinner," she declared.

"You don't have--"

She immediately raised her hand to stop me. "No arguments. Just let me do it. You just wait until you get these medical bills. They're going to kick your ass."

"Thank you, Anna," I murmured in humility. "I only have about fifteen thousand in student debt," I remarked. I shook my head silently. "Well, I say 'only' like it's not a lot--"

Anna finished my thought, "but compared to most people, you'll pay it off in no time. A person I used to work with had one hundred twenty-thousand in debt. That was before the interest." She spoke with one hand on the wheel while waving the other in the air. "It came out to twelve-hundred a month. She couldn't pay that in ten years, so she took a twenty-five-year plan instead. That meant she was paying six hundred per month, but for fifteen extra years. That one-hundred twenty-thousand turned into two-hundred thousand. It's hard to make ends meet when you're paying the equivalent of a house payment in loan debts. Glad you have way less debt than that."

As we entered the city proper, Anna weaved in and out of lines of cars. Gravity pushed my body left and right with each lane change. And as the speed limits decreased, the hand of the speedometer was no lower. I clenched my seatbelt more tightly with every passing moment. Though fast, she was deliberate in her driving -- always signaling, using mirrors, and scanning the roadway -- careful not to break any laws other than her excess of speed.

We drove between two magnificent buildings. Anna slowed down significantly and pointed to the one on the left, "this is the Library of Congress." She motioned to the right, "and that's the United States Supreme Court."