Elizabeth
Joy Arnold 
Promise the Moon
Deleted Scene
The Grahams at Church
(Previously the beginning of Chapter 45, following the scene at the hospital. Deleted because my editor wanted to make the book more "universal.")
Anna
Our new church was called Unitarian Universalist Church. The pastor was called Pastor John, and he had a bump on his nose like a mole, except pink. Everybody I looked at smiled at me, and some of them did not have all their teeth. In this church, everyone was so old they seemed like they should be dead.
I missed our old church where I knew who everybody was. There was Ms. Grant, and she always wore the same skirt and jacket, the color of a lima bean. There was the whole Cooper family which was five kids who wouldn’t sit still, all younger than me, and number six right in Mrs. Cooper’s belly. There was the Sydneys who sat next to us and all through the sermon I’d smell Mrs. Sydney’s perfume, which was like grapefruit and a flower mixed. One time here in French Creek, I smelled her same perfume on a woman at the grocery store, but when I looked it wasn’t her which felt weird, and sad.
Even though I should admit church is not my favorite place to be, what was nice about our old church was the sameness of it, the same people every week, like a family. I liked looking up at Jesus on the wall, His head hung low, crying for us all. When I sang I imagined Him lifting up His head to look at me, and nodding slowly. Thinking I was special. Thinking He’d go home and tell His Father to look out for me. I missed that more than anything. In this church, Jesus was in one of the windows instead of on the wall, but way in back so I couldn’t see Him. I twisted my head around to look, but Grandpa made a tsk-tsk sound and Mom pushed it back around again.
When it was time for silent prayer, I closed my eyes and thanked God for saving Toby, and for not letting me get in trouble for stealing, and then I asked him to please, please help me in making Mom believe. Look at all the good things that’ll happen, I told him. The only person it’d be bad for is Seth. I was pretty sure He wasn’t listening, but still I wondered if I was starting to believe in Him again.
Dad didn’t used to go to church. He’d drop us off, and when the service was over he’d pick us up and we’d go to Denny’s for pancakes, and then next door to Rite Aid where me and Toby could pick out one kind of candy each and Mom would get the Sunday paper.
I asked Mom one time if Dad not going to church meant he wouldn’t go to heaven, and she said no, that was not how it worked, that all good people go to heaven regardless. But really, how could she know? So I used to pray for him, just in case. I’d ask God to bless Dad, and all the sick children who were too weak for church, and all the nice people who didn’t believe. Maybe it helped.
I got worried again at Dad’s funeral service, and I wanted to ask Pastor William but I was too scared. This is the thing about not believing in God, that there’s always a little piece of you that can’t be sure. I felt it like a little window that was mostly closed but a tiny bit open, waiting for God or Jesus to look through and open me more.
So this Sunday, I decided I would ask Pastor John because he should know better than anyone the rules of heaven. And when the service was over, I left our pew without even telling Mom what I was going to do. “Anna? Anna!” she said. People were getting up to go and Pastor John was walking to the door to shake goodbye. I stood in front of him to stop him, and when he looked down I said, “I have a question.”
He smiled, and his cheeks crinkled, just the same as when you put your finger on a skin of hot milk and push it away. “Okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“I just was wondering,” I said. “Because there’s lots of people? Who don’t know about church? And so they don’t go to it, but they’re good people anyway, and I was wondering, what happens to them when they die?”
Pastor John kept smiling. “That is a very good question,” he said.
Mom came up behind me with Toby, Grandpa and Grammy, and put a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, she ran over before I could stop her.”
“No, no, it’s fine. She actually came to ask me a very astute question.”
I played the word over in my head, stute, stute, so I’d remember to look it up when I got home. It sounded like stupid.
“What I believe,” Pastor John said, “is that as long as you have God in your heart, it doesn’t matter whether you go to church.”
Mom’s hand tightened on my shoulder, squeezing so hard it hurt. I shrugged it off.
“It’s just that going to church helps us keep God in our hearts,” Pastor John said.
Oh. This was worrisome. “But what if you don’t have God in your heart?” My voice was scratchy. “What if you’re a good person and you’re nice and stuff, and actually you do go to church but He’s not in your heart?”
Pastor John didn’t answer for a long while. His eyes were little and the same color brown as maple syrup. He had brown-gray hair that stuck out almost flat over his forehead, like a baseball cap. “I believe,” he said finally, “that everyone is given the opportunity to find God.” He smiled at me, then said, “And that God is a kind judge.”
I imagined walking up to the gates of heaven, God sitting behind a desk wearing a black judge robe and saying, “Now did you change your mind?” But who would be stupid enough to say no?
When we walked out of church, nobody said anything until we got into the car, and then Mom looked into the mirror and said, “When you asked Pastor John about church and heaven, were you thinking about your dad?”
I dug my nails hard into my legs. If I said yes she’d know I didn’t believe in my dad’s letters, so I said, “No, I was thinking about the pagan babies.”
Mom gave a short, surprised laugh, which made Grammy laugh too, the way she does, which made me embarrassed. “Who told you about pagan babies?” Mom said.
I tried to think, but I had no idea. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just heard it.” My legs were hurting from my nails, so I looked down at my hands. My nails were longer than they’d ever been because since Dad died, Mom kept forgetting to cut them. I wondered if I’d be able to keep them growing until they started to curl, like the man in the Guinness Book who had the world’s longest fingernails, painted in stripes, hanging off his fingers like ringlets. That would be cool.
I pulled my hands away and looked under my skirt to see if I was bleeding. No. “How ’bout Denny’s for lunch,” Mom said. “You be okay with that, Dad?”
“Ah, yes, fried grease,” Grandpa said. “Nothing better.”
I dug my fingernails in again, harder, and I thought about what Pastor John had said, and I imagined going up to God at the gates and hearing Him tell my sins. He had a list that covered both sides of a page, and every day it was getting longer, and he said oh, sorry, you’re not allowed. I’d ask if I could have an opportunity to find Him and to take Him in, and He’d say no, it is too late because you are not a good person. I was a liar and a thief, and I almost killed my brother, and I had hate in my heart, and I did not deserve the glory of heaven. God was a kind judge but all judges could tell who was good and who was guilty. And so even if there really was a heaven, I knew for sure that I’d never see my dad again.
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