One More Bunny in Heaven​​

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              My forehead had been pressed against the cool glass of the sliding door so hard and for            so long it was starting to hurt. Outside, my dad weed whacked along the fence separating us          from our Godless neighbors. It was the hottest day of the year. Mom put a fan on the                     dining room table behind me, but my clothes were glued to me. Usually that would have been         too much of a distraction to focus on anything else, but not the weed whacker. My dad had             said that the weed whacker was dangerous and to stay away from it. It had to be true, my dad         understood things in a way nobody else did. Even before he had told me to stay away, I                   never wanted to go near the weed wacker because the sound terrified me. Its buzz sounded             monstrous, like the machine could tear me apart. But my fear didn’t stop me from being                 mesmerized. So, there I stood,  intently watching.

​              My dad turned the weed whacker off not long after he started trimming what he called the

     “Burning Bush”– it turned red in the fall making it look like the bush God spoke to Moses

      through. At first, I believed that was why he turned off the weed whacker, God spoke to him

      through the bush. It would be wrong to interrupt if this was the case, so I gave my dad some

      alone time with God. While I waited, I climbed onto the chair behind the fan and began to              babble into it so my voice echoed robotically through the room. I only stopped after Mom              walked by and told me not to stand that close to the fan. I didn’t understand why she thought I        needed to back up, the fan wasn’t dangerous, but I still did as I was asked.

            Outside, my dad no longer seemed to be looking at the bush as though he were

      conversing, but instead he knelt over something white in the grass. The weed whacker was off,

      and therefore, not a threat, so I headed outside into the blistering sun and over to my dad.

             He was muttering curses. He didn’t notice me until I had already seen the bunny lying on

      its side with thick, bright blood gushing from its once pure white belly. Blood clumped on its          fur and the grass under it. Red meaty strings were slowly starting to make their way out of the        gash. Despite the heat, the bunny shivered with every heavy breath. It whimpered, pleading            for help. Isaw the fear in its eyes and my dad must have seen the same in mine.

             He held on to my elbows and leaned in, “Hannah, honey. Why don’t you go inside and

    have some ice cream? It’s too hot out here.”

          “Is the bunny okay?” I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was staring at me. Fear recognizing          fear.

          “No,” he paused, following my teary eyes to the bunny, “I’m going to have to kill it. So it        won’t suffer anymore.”

          I shoved him as hard as a six year old could shove a grown man. “That’s wrong, you can’t         kill it!” I yelled.

         “I have to.” Frustration formed in his reply, but he forced himself to soften again when he

     continued, “Why don’t you get the shovel from the shed for me and we can bury it a little

       grave?”

             With one last glance at the blood-soaked bunny, I ran across the yard as fast as I could. In          the shed, I tossed anything in my way. There was a snap. I told myself it was the frisbee that         Ihad thrown, but, still, it made me stop. I sat on an old lawn chair and unstuck my shirt from           my back and my hair from my neck. Earlier that day, my dad muttered to himself that it was          “hot as  Hell”. It made me wonder if that was where the bunny would go. The bunny may              have deserved to die. It could’ve been an evil bunny. Biting the other bunnies, stealing their            food. Or not.​​

            Maybe it was in Heaven, with God. It would never get this hot in Heaven, so the bunny             would be better off.

           "Hannah, where’s that shovel?” my dad interrupted.

            My head shot up and I noticed the shovel right next to the door. I dragged it along the

       patio, the scratching sound ringing in my ears, and dropped it between my dad and the bush.

         “Do you think the bunny will go to Heaven?” I asked him.

          He twisted his neck to reveal his tensed face. “No, bunnies do not go to Heaven.”

          I looked down at the bunny at his feet. Its skin opened up like a blooming flower where it

     was sliced. The bunny was no longer twitching, crying, helpless. It was almost relieving                 seeing it peacefully lying still in a pool of its own blood, knowing its suffering had ended. It           was a less terrifying image than the one created by my dad’s words. That the bunny’s suffering       was fo nothing. That the Heaven I was promised would be caged off from an innocent                     creature. It made no sense for God to love all His creations but not the bunny.

         “Why?” I asked him.

         “Because they are not like us,” he said.

         “Why?”

         “They are not made in God’s image.” He began to dig.

         His excuse confused me. “But didn’t God make the bunnies?”

         He jammed the shovel into the ground and leaned his weight onto it. “Hannah, I don’t

     have time for this right now. Go bother your mother,” he said, turning away from me to                   continue digging the grave.

             I stayed to watch anyway, making sure to stay silent so he wouldn’t get any angrier.

     When he seemed close to finishing the hole, I rushed to get the bunny for him. Its fur felt like a​

     cloud as I pet it, trying my best to avoid its bloody tummy. I faced the injury to the sky, toward

     God, so that the guts wouldn’t fall onto my feet.

           “Hannah! What are you doing?” My dad shoved me aside. He stole the bunny from my

     hands then tossed it into its grave, blood splattering around, stringy insides waving in the wind.

     “Go inside. Right now. We do not touch wild animals like that.”

            As I turned away from him, tears poured from my eyes, stinging my sunburnt cheeks.

     There was a repetitive slicing sound coming from behind as my dad buried the bunny. I didn’t

     bother looking back before rushing into the house through the sliding door.

           The air inside was cooler, but I still felt inflamed. I hid under the dining table, forcing

     heavy breaths. The sight of my own tummy going up and down sent shocks through me. I

     pressed my eyes, trying to erase the memory of the bunny’s fear as it struggled to breathe,               when it saw its own blood pouring from its belly and knew it meant the end. That same blood         stained  the cartoon unicorn's white fur at the center of my shirt. I tried to wipe it off but the           small dots had already begun to absorb into my shirt, even if they were still a bit sticky. While       I wiped around the blood on my shirt, I whispered to myself, “God still loves the bunny, just           like He loves you,” over and over as though it would magically make my dad believe it too.

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                                                                    ————————

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          It wasn’t long before Mom found me and offered, “Why don’t we make some cookies?”

     I shook my head, but she wasn’t going to accept that answer. She knelt down and tickled

     my sides until I began to laugh and squirm. The rug scratched on my arms and back as she

     grabbed me from my armpits and pulled me out from under the table. She held me in her                 sweaty arms and took me over to the refrigerator.

          “Grab the cookie dough for me, please,” she said.​​

​           I used all my strength and flung the door open. The refrigerator was a cool paradise from

      the mid-July heat. I leaned inside with my head against one of the shelves for a tad too long.

             “Did you forget about the cookie dough, Hannah?” Mom asked.

              I hugged the tub of cookie dough to bring it over. Mom took it with a kiss on the head.

      She lifted me again so I could wash my hands. She leaned in closer when she saw the dribble          of red flowing down the drain. Instead of saying anything, she pressed her lips into a smile and

      brought me over to the stepping stool.

             I stood tip-toed as she hugged me from behind and put on my apron. She held my hand,

      my fingers held painfully tight onto the spoon to dig out the dough. I refused to turn my head

      toward the window to the backyard. The weed whacker was buzzing again by then, the sound

      closer than before.

             “Why don’t you go wait in the dining room? I’ll meet you there after I get these in the

      oven,” Mom assured me once we ran out of room on the pan.

              The leftover terror made my legs feel weak at the thought of leaving her side. But the

     heat from the open oven quickly became too much to bear, so I went into the dining room. I           took a seat behind the fan again, but didn’t play with it. In order to do that, I would have had         to face the backyard. Instead, I stared at the plain white wall until Mom came back with                  crayons and a Noah’s Ark themed coloring book. She neatly colored the two elephants gray            while I scribbled the boat red until the oven buzzed.

             When she walked away, the sound of a car door slamming shut came from behind me. I

     swerved my head around to see two of our neighbors getting out of their car with grocery bags.

    The woman had a disheveled look about her as she grabbed a little girl from her bright pink

     booster seat. She looked a year or two older than me, but I wasn’t entirely sure, since no one            had told me. They had moved in back in the fall. There was another woman that lived there

      with them, but her car had been in the driveway all day.

            Mom caught me staring, “Would you like to bring them some cookies?”

            My eyes widened, unsure if she really meant it. I had never met the neighbors because

     my dad didn’t like them. He said that they went against God and that they would go to Hell,           but when I asked him why, he told me I was too young to know. I was meant to stay away               from them, we all were. I was scared to say yes, I didn’t want to get in trouble with my dad              twice in one day.

            “I don’t think it’s a good idea to eat all these cookies, just the two of us,” she said.

             I nodded and followed her back into the kitchen. She searched the cupboard for a

      Tupperware container that wasn’t stained orange at the bottom. Mom was short so she had to

      stand on her tip-toes when she reached for the middle shelf. I imagined my dad walking in and

      asking what she was doing. What would he do? I was worried for her. She needed to hurry up        if she actually wanted to share the cookies.

            “What about Dad?” I asked.

              She organized half the cookies into the container. “Dad doesn’t need to know

      everything.”

            “But what if he finds out?”

            “Don’t worry about that,” she replied. “Go run and change your shirt before we go,

      please.”

      I ran up the stairs, nearly tripping twice. I grabbed the pink shirt at the top of my dresser

      and replaced my bloodied one. I went back down the stairs more carefully, not wanting to               make too much noise in case my dad had come back in and I hadn’t heard.  Luckily, he must           have still been outside because Mom was waiting at the front door with the cookies in one             hand and holding out the other for me to take.

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                The neighbor’s house was larger than ours. The first floor was brick and the second               floor was white, except for where the siding overlapped and was dark with dirt. My dad had           been complaining about it, saying their house looked unkempt and made the rest of the street          look bad. But their garden was perfectly neat, even freshly weed whacked. It did smell like            poop though, but Mom explained to me that was just the manure keeping the plants healthy.

               It was only a few seconds after Mom hesitantly knocked that the disheveled woman from

      before came to the door. She was more put together than earlier, having put her dark hair in a

      bun. A flash of confusion appeared on the woman’s face when she saw me and Mom.

              “We thought we’d bring over some cookies. We made too many and,” Mom looked at me

      and added, “sharing is caring,” as though trying to assure herself rather than teach me a lesson.

              The woman’s tension melted away. “Oh, thank you. That’s so sweet!” she beamed and

      ushered us inside.

              I hadn’t thought it would go this far. I assumed we would hand over the cookies and

      leave, with a quick chat about the heat at most. But, there I was, in the house of some strange

      sinners. It was surprisingly normal, other than the shockingly cold breeze when we got inside.

     My slimy hand was still gripping Mom’s. I hid behind her leg and observed the living room

     while she spoke to the woman.

            The walls were decorated with pictures of the women and the little girl. The three of them

     at the beach, meeting Santa, and even the girl’s Kindergarten graduation. The father wasn’t in

     them though, just the two women. They must have been sisters. Adopted, of course, as they

     looked nothing alike. The dad must have been one of those ungodly men who had babies only       to run off. No wonder the woman had been so disheveled, what an awful situation. My dad             said that’s why marriage is important, it ensures protection from the evil men. At least this             woman had her sister there for her.

             Mom wiggled me forward and out of my thoughts. “Hannah, say hello to Miss Wilson,”

      she instructed.

              “Mrs,” the woman swiftly corrected, muddying my theory.

              “Right, sorry,” Mom apologized uncomfortably.

              Mrs. Wilson shrugged it off but decided not to wait for my hello before guiding us to the

      dining room. She sat us and the cookies at the table next to a window. I didn’t understand how

      Mom was letting this happen, we didn’t have time to waste getting comfortable and chit-                chatting. I pushed up on my chair to make sure my dad was still outside, that he hadn’t                    noticed we were gone. My breathing calmed when I saw my dad shuffling around the patio             tiles. My eyes  inspected the yard but the bunny’s grave wasn’t visible, it must have been too         close to the tall wooden fence to be seen from the house.

               Mrs. Wilson excused herself and headed upstairs. I turned to tell Mom that we needed to

      get going before we got in trouble, but our host came back too soon. She was with the other

      woman that lived there. Nobody introduced her to me before they got to chatting about the

      cookies. There was something oddly boyish about her and it made me uncomfortable. She had

      short hair with gray streaks she hadn’t bothered to dye and she stood so unlady-like. She wore

      long cargo shorts with a T-shirt that was too big for her. I prayed for her sake that she didn’t

      leave the house in clothes like that, people would judge her.

                It wasn’t long into the conversation that I noticed the other woman also seemed much

      less outgoing than Mrs. Wilson. Women and girls were supposed to be welcoming to visitors          and it wasn’t like she was unwelcoming, but she was strange, unlike anyone I had ever met.            She sat at the table across from me, only ever acknowledging my presence with a head nod             that I didn’t respond to. I cuddled into Mom as she spoke to the women, sniffing her floral             perfume to block out the unfamiliar smells of the house.

             “Mama, I almost finished the Titanic. Come look,” the little girl had appeared in the

      doorway. She was talking to the woman I didn’t know the name of, meaning Mrs. Wilson must

      be the supportive sister. That’s why she corrected Mom earlier, her husband must have been

      away in the military, or something. The strange woman must have become what she was                because the girl’s father left her to raise their baby alone. Pride flowed through me, I had

       figured it out.

            “Lyla, please say ‘hello’ to our neighbors,” Mrs. Wilson instructed her.

             She did as she was asked and focused on me, investigating me with her eyes. It made me

      uncomfortable. Everyone was watching, seemingly waiting to see if one of us would speak to        the other.

            “Why don’t you show our visitors your project?” Mrs. Wilson attempted to redirect

      Lyla’s focus.

            Lyla looked unsure, but zoomed out of the room and up the stairs. We followed her path

      down the faint yellow hallway. She had already disappeared. I hated going into other people's

      bedrooms; they always smelled strongly like whoever's room it was and it grossed me out. So,

      when I realized we would be going into Lyla’s room, I firmly planted myself in the hallway            and put the collar of my shirt over my nose.

         “She has a thing, I’m sorry,” Mom said to the women, bending down to gently pull my

      shirt off my nose.

              Mrs. Wilson assured her it was okay and the other woman told a confused Lyla, “It’s

      alright, I'll wait out here. I just saw it.”

             Lyla reluctantly allowed this and started showing off a huge boat made out of Legos to

      Mom and Mrs. Wilson. I didn’t care to pay attention to Lyla being a showoff, I was irritated.          This other woman didn’t trust me to stand alone in her hallway. I side-eyed her and she made a

      confused face in return.

             “My daddy says that you’re going to Hell,” I told her.

             “Well, that’s his opinion,” she replied quickly and even laughed.

             “Y’know, Bunnies can’t go to Hell,” I said, “But that means they can’t go to Heaven

       either.”

             She scrunched her face in a way that made me think she was either disgusted or confused.

       I did not like this strange woman. She was judgemental, but at least she did seem to be a good

       listener.

             “You shouldn’t worry about things like that. You’re too young,” she said, watching Lyla

       as she threw Lego people off the boat with a “pssshhh” noise each time.

              I looked her up and down. She confused me. She alarmed me. Why would she not care

      about going to Hell? Did she enjoy this heat? While observing her, I noticed a ring on her              finger, in the same place my parents wore theirs. She must’ve been a widow. Maybe her                  husband was in the army too, but died. It must be her grief that made her so off-putting. I                couldn’t ask, though. Mom had told me that after I met a widow at church once. But if she             were a widow, wouldn’t she want to get to Heaven so she could be with her husband?

          “Do you wish you were like bunnies?” I asked her.

          This confused her, “How do you mean?”

          “You don’t go to Heaven or Hell.”

          “That comforts me more, so sure,” she replied.

            Lyla had finished showing off her boat then, so I couldn’t ask the other woman any more

      questions.

           “Well, we better get going. But thank you for having us. And thank you, Miss Lyla, for

      sharing your wonderful work with us,” Mom said, making her way out of the bedroom. She

      didn’t say anything about my conversation with the other woman, she must not have heard it

      over Lyla’s sound effects. That, or I had embarrassed her so badly she wasn’t going to                    mention it until we got home and that’s why she was finally in a rush to leave. Even if that              was the case, I

      wasn’t going to argue with her about leaving before I had the chance to redeem myself, I                would rather have her mad at me than my dad.

            “It was nice meeting you,” the other woman said to Mom and me.

             Lyla grabbed her mom’s  hand and pulled her into her room as she gave a lively goodbye.

             Mrs. Wilson guided us out of the house, talking to Mom about how Lyla would be taking

      the bus next year with me. I wondered if she was trying to signal that she wanted us to be                friends, but that wouldn’t be possible. As we passed a window, I checked to make sure my              dad was still in the backyard. He was sprawled on a lawn chair, looking as though he was               asleep. We were safe.

               When Mrs. Wilson opened the front door, I started sprinting home ahead of Mom. It was

       almost dinner time, so the air was cooler now, more breathable, but still not as cool as inside           the Wilson’s.

             “Hannah, get back here,” she was playful when she spoke. I wasn’t in trouble, at least not

       with her. I paused for her to catch up with me. “What did you think of the Wilsons?”

             I was worried to tell the truth, it felt like a betrayal to my dad.

            “C’mon, tell me what you thought.” She shook my hand with a smile.

            “They were interesting, but nice,” I hesitated before adding, “but where are their

       husbands? Where’s Lyla’s dad?”

             “They don’t have husbands,” she said plainly.

              I felt foolish, it seemed like she had expected me to figure something out. My cheeks

       began to redden on top of the sunburn that was already there. She didn’t even answer my              second question, but I wasn’t going to push it. She may have finally been getting worried                about my dad figuring out where we were and I didn’t want to add to her stress.

                  Once we were only a few steps away from the house, Mom leaned down and                        whispered, “Dad doesn’t need to know about our adventures, okay? This can stay between us        girls.” She said with a wink too, which made me smile.

                That night, when I prayed, I asked God for three things. First, that my dad would never

        find out about my adventure with Mom, and if he did, he wouldn’t get mad. Second, that I              would get to visit the neighbors again, afterall, Mom did need to get her Tupperware                      back.  Third, for the bunny to get into Heaven.