Ethel Rohan - The Daughter of God

Ethel Rohan

The Daughter of God

Every night before bed, Jesus and his sister traded secrets. Jesus went first, whispered into his sister’s ear, his hand light on her shoulder, small as a dog’s paw. They laughed, told each other how they’d faked sick at school, sneaked extra honey onto their fruit, or stolen cakes from the market. Their mother scolded, ordered them to sleep.

Over time their secrets grew, one trying to outdo the other. One night Jesus, his voice shaking and lower lip bloodied, admitted that he wished he could be just like everybody else. Jesus’ sister hugged her big brother. He smelled of grass and sheep. Trust me, she told him, it’s no fun being ordinary. She, too, confessed her biggest secret yet. She wished she could swap places, be the daughter of God.

When Jesus was fourteen and his sister twelve, he leaned in close, his breath warm and milky, and told her that he was in love. She searched his face, squinting against its radiance. More, he was running away with his beloved the next morning. She recalled her brother and fair-haired Rachel talking by the well, laughing and drawing in the dirt, and strolling through the tall grass together, the vultures circling overhead. Rachel as startling as sunlight inside a drop of dew. Jesus’ sister tasted pebbles. Outside, the sheep bleated and a donkey brayed. Jesus and his sister argued. She dug her fingernails into his bony shoulders. How did he imagine he could escape? The dogs also started up, barked and barked.

Jesus’ sister couldn’t sleep, a relentless noise in her head like the crash and clang of pots. She went to their mother and father. Mary clutched Jesus to her chest, her blue eyes unmoored. Joseph circled the pair, his hands pulling on his beard. They had always felt a little afraid of the boy. Now they trembled and flinched, two snared goats. Jesus’ sister sniffed their terror, her lips curling back. To them, she was never more than the sin of their flesh.

They pounded Jesus with pleas, reason, guilt. Jesus’ glow hemorrhaged, like watching clouds swallow the sun.

He met her eyes and jumped to his feet. “How could you?”

Her chest tightened and her tongue felt skinned. She couldn’t speak and tried to put the words into her face. He had to stay the course, couldn’t he see? They all had.

Jesus knocked shoulders with his sister and continued out past her, out of the house. Mary and Joseph hurried after him, calling. Jesus’ sister sank down onto her brother’s still warm bed. She felt a sharp pain in her face, as if a hand was inside her head, trying to rip out, to fly at God.