“‘This is me standing in front of you saying I’m sorry for that ni-ight. And I go back to December all the time.’” I typically sang during an evening shower, but this song was cut short by the opening of the bathroom door. “Who is it?” I paused for a response. I wondered if it was my eight-year-old brother, Tyler, trying to sneak up and startle me from the other side of the curtain. He could always get a scream out of me and I have yet to find the humor in it, but this time it wasn’t Tyler.
“Lisa,” I internally shuddered at Britta’s judgmental voice and I immediately anticipated a cold assessment of my singing. “That’s not how it goes. ‘This is me standing in front of you swallowing my pride saying I’m sorry for that ni-ight.” The bathroom door slammed firmly shut.
“Come on, Britta! I can’t even sing your favorite song without a stupid comment! You’re the one who got it stuck in my head!” I clenched my fists and it felt like my body temperature was rising to that of the scalding hot water I was using. “Swallowing pride, yeah right.” I covered my face with both of my hands. O God, help me with pride! Half-lathered shampoo ran into my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, putting my face into the stream of water. “‘Give me eyes to see more of who you are,’” I sang again, quietly, hoping nobody could hear me. “‘May what I behold steal my anxious heart. Take what I have known and break it all apart, for you my God are greater still.’”
* * *
I got dressed and braced myself to clean the hair out of the shower drain. Mom had asked me and Britta to clean up our hair after our showers, but sometimes it stayed there way too long, and tonight just had to be one of those times. I brought over the trash can, wadded up a five-foot long strand of toilet paper, and began using it to pull hair from the grate. It didn’t smell, but it looked terrible, and when I was done, I covered it over in the trash can with some more toilet paper. I thought I must have been making the most amusing disgusted face in the world, so I froze my face and walked over to the small head-level mirror on the wall above the sink. I couldn’t take it, so I attempted a serious face. I looked at myself again and then looked away, self conscious. I looked again, widening my eyes and staring at myself until I started to creep myself out like I used to when I was ten years old. That’s not cool, Lisa. I folded my arms and stared scoldingly at my reflection, trying not to smile. It turned into another scary face. You’re ridiculous, I told myself. God, please help me, I’m ridiculous. I rolled my eyes.
God, I’m just as immature as I accuse my sister of being. I have two years on her as an adolescent, but I’m still a stinking whitewashed tomb! Oh, thank you for giving me an adolescent sister right now. I tried to sound convincing and believe myself. I recalled what the preacher said last Sunday about king Saul being like an adolescent who never figured out how to obey authority. He felt sorry for his evils just so that he could go back to doing what he wanted. God please help me be sorry for blowing up at Britta. And there I was, staring at myself making pained faces in the mirror. I turned away and put my forehead against the wall. God I’m sorry for being angry at Britta and at you. Help me change.
I grabbed my sweatshirt and opened up the door and turned off the bathroom lights, letting the steam waft out into the single light in the middle of the the hallway. Another light was on down the hall and I peered in to see Britta reading on her bed. I paused to put on my sweatshirt: I was cold since I had left my sauna, especially since it was the beginning of winter. I peeked my head into the opening in the doorway.
“Britta?” She looked up and I stepped into the room, leaning the door shut behind me. “‘This is me standing in front of you swallowing my pride, saying I’m sorry for to-ni-ight.’ I’m sorry for yelling at you from the shower.”
“It’s okay, Lisa.” She looked up at me from the book in her lap and I sat down next to her.
“Lisa,” she looked down, “I’m sorry for correcting you. I do that way too much.”
“You’re forgiven, Britta. I love you, I really do.”
“I love you too. Goodnight.” Britta smiled.
“Goodnight.”
I walked out into the hallway to find that the steam was gone: it had been taken up and borne away upon the air.