His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
At six years old, Jem didn't quite understand God. In the days that had passed since mama left, never to come home again, he found himself questioning the higher power that he was always taught to worship. Maybe it was his fault mama left, maybe it was his fault because he didn't understand God, didn't take Him seriously.
Maybe if he started taking Him more seriously, He would bring mama back.
His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
He kneeled on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, much like how he observed Auntie doing during her morning and evening prayers. His head was bent so low it was almost touching the floor.
Maybe, just maybe, if God was watching He would see just how serious Jem was being.
"Sir," he began, his voice shaky, unsure of how to start. Yes, he had been going to church every Sunday of his short life, but he still was not quite sure how to approach this matter. "I have a big favor to ask of you."
His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
"I really miss my mama," he continued, tears beginning to burn in his eyes. Ever since mama left, he was unable to think about her without crying.
He missed everything about her. He missed her smile, her laugh, the way she moved as though she was walking on air, the way she would dance with him and the baby, the way she made Atticus happy. He would stop at nothing to bring her back, even if meant giving up everything he loved most in this world – his treehouse, his books, even his own life. He'd rather have mama back than have anything at all.
"You see, I would do anythin', anythin' to have her back," his voice was shaking now. He closed his eyes tight, pressing his clasped hands against his forehead, thinking that the intensity and desperation in his request would make God see just how serious Jem was being. "I'll give you anything, I'll do anything to have you bring her home. The preachers who talk at church say that you can perform miracles, so I know that you can do this for me."
His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
It had to be his fault that mama was gone. It just had to be, there was no other explanation. Earlier on that dreadful day, mama had been feeding them breakfast and reading them books and laughing with him and Scout.
And then she was gone.
There was no other explanation, really. It had to be his fault. The baby was still cute and sweet, there would be no reason why mama would leave because of her. And mama loved Atticus, so there had to be something Jem said, something Jem did, that made her go away.
"Tell mama I'm sorry," his voice was soft now, almost as if the shame that was building up inside of him was rendering him mute. "Tell her I'm sorry for whatever I did. Tell her I'll do whatever I can to get close to you so that she can come back. I'll do anything, I'll go to church every day, I'll pray every hour, I'll give away every book and toy I own. I just want my mama to come home."
"And I'm sorry for whatever I did to you, God," he added quickly. He knew, even at six, that he was a sinner (well, that was what the preachers at church said that everyone was), and maybe if he plead for forgiveness, God would hear him out and accept the boy's apologies. "I promise to be closer to you, I promise to pay attention in church, I promise to like church. I won't swear when nobody notices any more, and I'll be nice to the baby."
His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
Tears were escaping from his closed eyes, and he pursed his lips together to stop them from quivering. "God, I don't know if you know this, but we need mama," he explained, trying his best to seem rational. "I don't know how we are going to get on without her, I don't care if I never have friends or never do good at school, you can take everything away from me so long as I can have mama back. I know it would make Atticus and Scout awfully happy – I would give you anything to make everyone happy again."
"What if I forget her?" His breaths were short, it was getting harder for him to breathe. "What if I grow up and never remember her again?" A sob threatened to escape from his throat. "Scout's never goin' to remember her," he remarked, making him grow afraid. How was it fair that Scout had so little time with mama? Why was it fair that they all had such little time with mama?
His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
"I'll do anything," he repeated for what felt like the millionth time. "God, I promise that I would do anything for you if you bring her back. I'm good on my word, you can ask anyone who knows me, so I won't disappoint you for doin' this for me." He was pleading now, hoping that anything he said to this unknown figure would make a difference. Once, he remembered a visiting preacher told the congregation that God listens to every prayer that is sent up to Him, and that in one way or another, He answers them.
That means, at least to Jem, that God had to bring mama back.
His treehouse.
His books.
His own life.
Jem didn't understand it. He didn't understand how a God, who was loving and merciful, could do something so awful. However, he couldn't let God know that – it would risk not getting mama back. Maybe if he worked really hard, just as he did with his school work, God would see that he was trying his best, and maybe then he would bring mama back.
He would do anything, anything at all, even if it meant losing everything else he loved, just to have mama back. Even if he lost everything, so long as he had mama, life would seem much better than it did now.
"Please, please, please, please, please," he said firmly, his voice rising slightly with each word. "Please, God, listen to me. We need mama, and I would do anything, would give you anything, to have her come back. I promise I will be good for the rest of my life, I won't cause trouble, I'll be nice to my sister, I'll respect my Auntie, I'll be perfect if you make mama come back home. Amen."
Hopefully, God heard him.
And hopefully, God would bring mama back.
