CHAPTER 7
“I hear a voice of one crying in the wilderness,” Grandma Lucy’s saying. I can’t tell now if she’s preaching or praying or quoting Bible verses from memory or what. She’s got one hand raised up toward the sky like she’s the stinking Statue of Liberty. I still haven’t figured out why she looks familiar to me. “Weeping and great mourning,” she continues, and I surprise myself by actually recognizing the reference. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but for a few years in Massachusetts, I was really into youth group and church junk like that.
It’s kind of funny in a way, and also kind of sad, how into that lifestyle I got during those few years I spent with Sandy. I mean, I wasn’t just the sullen foster kid the pastor’s wife dragged to church on Sundays. I couldn’t wait to go
