Chapter 9 - WHAT CLARA THOUGHT HER MOTHER MEANTClara carried her mother's sentence to school with her.
I don't know.
It stayed in her mind through spelling.
Math.
Lunch.
Recess.
Adults usually hated those words.
Teachers expected answers.
Parents expected answers.
Priests and pastors gave answers.
Even television commercials seemed certain about everything.
But Elena had said:
I don't know.
And nothing terrible happened.
That afternoon, Clara sat at the kitchen counter doing homework while Elena chopped vegetables.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“When you said our faith carried us…”
Elena stopped.
“When did I say that?”
“When my legs were bad.”
“I probably said it many times.”
“What did you mean?”
Elena put down the knife.
She now recognized these conversations as moments where multitasking was a mistake.
She sat across from her daughter.
“I meant faith helped me keep going when I was scared.”
“I thought you meant being Catholic made my legs better.”
“I know.”
“Was I wrong?”
Elena chose her words carefully.
“I think you connected two things more directly than I meant them.”
Clara frowned.
“That's confusing.”
“Yes.”
“You should've said it better.”
Elena laughed.
“That's fair.”
“Do grown-ups say things wrong a lot?”
“Constantly.”
Clara considered this devastating new information.
“Then how do kids know what's true?”
Elena smiled.
“You ask questions.”
“What if questions make people mad?”
The question cut deeper than Clara knew.
Elena remembered her own childhood.
There had been questions she learned not to ask because adults changed expression.
Not every question was forbidden.
But some were treated as disrespectful simply because they were difficult.
“I don't want you to be afraid to ask me.”
“Even about church?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I think you're wrong?”
Elena hesitated.
Clara saw it.
Then Elena smiled.
“Yes.”
Clara looked delighted.
“You might regret that.”
“I already do.”
That evening, Teresa called.
Elena told her about the conversation.
Her mother was quiet.
Then said:
“You're making her question everything.”
“No, Mom. She's already questioning.”
“She's eight.”
“That's apparently old enough.”
Teresa sighed.
“You never talked like this at eight.”
Elena almost responded:
Maybe I didn't think I was allowed to.
She didn't.
Not yet.
Instead she said:
“I don't want Clara confusing faith with proving she's better than someone.”
“Catholics aren't better than people.”
“I know.”
“But the Church matters.”
“I know.”
“Then say that.”
“I do.”
Teresa sounded frustrated.
“You're turning a simple thing into something complicated.”
Elena stared at the kitchen wall.
“No. Clara discovered it was complicated.”
A long silence followed.
Teresa softened.
“You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Are you losing your faith?”
The question startled Elena.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then why does this scare you so much?”
Elena thought about Noah.
Rachel.
Clara.
The doctors' folder.
Thomas Avery.
“I think I used certainty like a guardrail.”
“What does that mean?”
“If I gave Clara a strong enough answer, she wouldn't fall.”
“That's what parents do.”
“Maybe.”
Elena looked toward the living room where Clara was reading.
“But if the guardrail is built in the wrong place, eventually she sees the road keeps going.”
Teresa didn't reply.
The next Sunday, Clara found Noah before the gathering even started.
“I figured something out,” she announced.
Noah looked alarmed.
“What?”
“My mom says Catholicism isn't medicine.”
Noah stared.
“What?”
Clara giggled.
“She said I didn't get better because Catholics deserve it more.”
Noah nodded.
“My mom said something like that too.”
“What did she say?”
“She said God doesn't check the church sign before caring about people.”
Clara smiled.
“You said that.”
“She said it better.”
They sat together.
“What else?”
Noah looked at his Bible.
“My mom told me I misunderstood something too.”
“What?”
He hesitated.
“When she said God heard our prayers…”
He looked toward Clara.
“…I thought that meant we must've prayed the right way.”
Clara's eyes widened.
“And?”
“She says that's not what she meant.”
They stared at each other.
Clara said:
“So both of us misunderstood our moms?”
“Kind of.”
She thought about it.
“That doesn't answer which church is right.”
“No.”
“That's annoying.”
“Yeah.”
Then Noah smiled.
“But at least now we know moms can say things badly.”
Behind them, Rachel heard the sentence.
She stopped walking.
Elena came up beside her.
“What did he say?”
Rachel whispered:
“Apparently we've been demoted.”
May you like
Elena smiled.
For the first time, they stood together and watched their children without feeling the need to separate them.
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