Page 68 of Ezekiel
Slowly, with great fear welling up inside of me, I watched as Elder Temple’s body slowly spun around to face me, looking up at me from his place there on the first floor of our home.
That fear held me still, panicked and frozen to my spot there in the stairwell, pressed against the wall.
“Donotembarrass me again, Ezekiel.” His father bit off each word, cold as ice. “You’ve done nothing but embarrass and shame me since the day your mother first birthed you. You are not worthy of the Temple name. Do try to find some kind of respect for your birthright. Or else.”
His words hung in the air as he stomped out of our home, slamming the door behind him.
Zeke stood there against the wall, just as I stayed frozen in place on the stairs. Neither of us spoke.
The silence that surrounded us both was deafening.
“Zeke,” I finally said softly, but he put a hand up, halting my words.
“Don’t.” His words were harsh, laced with a pain that echoed deep in my soul. He did not want my pity, but how could I not? I could picture a young Zeke, struggling with his hearing, being lashed at verbally, and likely physically, by such a brute of a father.
Zeke turned and ran down the hall, the slam of his office door echoing through the house as harshly as his father’s slap just had.
That man had just hit his own son in our home. In front of his wife. I could barely string two words together as thoughts raced through my mind. Slowly, I slid down the wall until I was sitting, perched on a step.
Was he right? Were they all right? Zeke, his brothers? Delilah? Ruth? Was this place as toxic as they all said it was?
It couldn’t be. That wasn’t my experience, not in the slightest. My parents…
My breath hitched with a sob as I thought about my own childhood. Never, not in a million years, could my parents have laid a hand on me. They could not have even spoken to me in such a manner. Yet, I had just witnessed this heathen and brutish behavior. All for being late for work? At the church?
I heard the door to Zeke’s office open, his footsteps echoing against the floorboards as he moved through the house. The backdoor sounded, then slammed shut. Quickly, I stood from my position on the stairs and ran after him. I stopped at the back door, watching as Zeke fled across the snowy grounds, off towards the wooded land behind.
Should I go after him? Or should I stay?
I wrestled with what to do. Regardless of what I chose, I could do nothing in only a robe. When I saw he wasn’t immediately returning, I made my way back to our bedroom to dress.
While I dressed, I was able to cool my own emotions down to a dull roar. If Zeke needed space, I would give him space. If it were me, if I had just gone through that, I would not want to be bombarded with questions or with pity. And I wasn’t sure I could give him much of anything besides those two things just then.
I busied myself with anything I could think of, trying my hardest not to worry about my husband off in the woods in the cold early March weather.
Mid morning passed into lunch time and then into early afternoon before I heard the backdoor opening again, this time with none of the earlier anger and frustration.
I had cleaned the house, done laundry, and was now busying myself with a book that I had found on Zeke’s shelves. Granted, I hadn’t actually retained a single word of it.
I stayed there on the sofa in the living room. If Zeke wanted to talk, he could come find me. I would give him the time he needed. I heard his footsteps near the living room and tried to appear engrossed in my book. In reality, I had no idea what was happening in it. I hadn’t been able to focus all day.
“Talia?” His voice was soft, quiet, and reserved.
“Hey,” I answered in a whisper, my eyes lifting to his. The cold had reddened his cheeks. Even the tips of his ears were red. He had taken his coat off, his slim frame leaning against the entrance to the living room, his eyes downcast.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“You havenothingto be sorry for, Zeke.” I set the book down beside me, urging him to hear me. “Nothing.”
“Yes, I do,” he nearly groaned in frustration, his hand swiping through his curly locks as he walked fully into the room. “My father. And… then I just left. And after last night? Then I —” he spoke rapidly as he began to pace.
“Stop.” The word was harsh, firm and final. It got his attention as he turned to look at me. “Hear me, Zeke. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I do though,” he pleaded with me, sitting on the edge of the other side of the sofa. “I shouldn’t have just bolted like that.”
“You did what you needed to do. Do you think I don’t understand that?” I insisted.
“How could you? And after my father just stormed in here and…” his words trailed off, as if he wasn’t sure how to continue.
