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Show in my father's house/ 327 for making me change schools. Once the first painful steps were taken, I was grateful to settle into relationships that were more localized and available. The other resentment, the branding, was something I had covered over as with a soft cloth, trying to understand him and to act civilly toward him when he was in my mother's house. I glimpsed some measure of his burdens at that time, how the pressures of leading our group and caring for the sick weighed on him. He was often so ill with his stomach ulcers that he could not eat when we did, but only drank milk or murky rice water- And when my mother's cooking had enticed him to eat against his judgment, I heard him hacking in the bathroom, his obstreperous stomach rebelling against nourishment. The sounds reminded me that he was a human being, and I thought of my body and then his body, how his mind and flesh endured so much every day while I kept to myself, refusing to be at the disposal of anyone. Sometimes it was hard to believe that I was really his daughter. Always, when he stayed with my mother, the phone rang in-with cessantly or someone called at the door. AlongAthe patients were those in the group who wanted him to lift their burdens. I heard them talking as I sat at the kitchen table doing my homework. I couldn't ignore the sounds of weeping or anger that floated through my bedroom door. Men and women came to him, sometimes bringing their children along. Sometimes the voices were familiar, the voices of my childhood; more often, they were the voices of newcomers, the strangers who were joining the group. "There is a Ford for $600 at a car lot, but Brother Brandon is selling one just like it for $725. I know we shoud try to |
