“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are full of the bones of the dead and every kind of impurity.” Matthew 23:27
A clump of hair fell from Sapphira’s temple revealing blood and bone beneath. She snatched it from the vanity, spread super glue along the perimeter of the tissue, and reattached it to her skull.
John popped his head into the bedroom. “This is your thirty-minute warning, Phira,” he said in a poor imitation of a robot. His self-satisfied chuckle bounced down the hallway and into the bedroom like one of those obnoxious tiny rubber balls the kids liked so much.
She frowned, and that stupid hole in her cheek reopened. If he’d just leave her be, she’d already be done with her hair and makeup.
“Okay, babe!” Her voice was as sticky sweet as her morning latte.
More super glue to seal the puckering flesh below her cheekbone. A lot more. Sapphira tapped her foot and held the hole closed while it dried.
“Good enough,” she mumbled, scraping bits of crusty glue from her fingertips.
She picked up the bottle of liquid foundation and dabbed a generous amount onto a stained sponge, then began applying it to her face. Although the label indicated this shade was “Fair,” it still appeared dark against her deathly pale skin. She continued to apply it over her entire face, neck, ears, and chest before moving on to her hands. The rest of her skin, either too pale or rotting, would be covered by long sleeves and a smart pair of black slacks.
John’s crooning baritone voice filtered through the door. “You’ve brought me up from the grave—”
Sapphira shot to her feet, marched across the bedroom, and slammed the door. How did he expect her to be done in time for church with all that noise? Some people were so inconsiderate.
Back in her vanity chair, she brushed out her thin hair ever so slowly. There were few spots left that weren’t clinging on by super glue and a prayer. She tapped her foot—
Her foot? Where did it . . . ?
Sapphira scanned the floor beneath her, but only a dark smear could be seen on the carpet. She looked toward the door and spotted the foot halfway across the room, deep crimson blood soaking through the white, nylon sock. Throwing the hairbrush against the mirror, she growled deep in her throat.
Now she’d have to sew the whole thing back on, and she wouldn’t have time to curl her hair. What would Lettie say when Sapphira walked in looking like one of those moms who wear jeans to church—or worse, yoga pants. If only her trusty glue were strong enough to keep her foot secure.
With a heavy sigh, she sat on the end of the bed, removed the dirty sock, and started to stitch the skin together.
One, two, three, four. . . .
A drop of watery blood splattered onto the third stitch.
“Wha—?” Her fingers skimmed over her face, looking for the offending wound. Moisture met fingertips beneath her nose. Her brain must be oozing again. Such wonderful timing.
Ignoring the rhythmic drip against her ankle, Sapphira finished attaching her foot. Then she leaned across the mattress, snatched a tissue from the bedside table, and shredded it. After rolling the strips into balls, she shoved them up her nose. Breathing was overrated anyway.
The bedroom door swung open, and John stepped in holding a worn Bible and a stupid grin. “Ready to go?”
Sapphira ground her teeth in annoyance. “Sure, sweetheart! Just a sec.” She pulled on a clean sock, and bent down for her flats.
John appeared at her shoulder, and Sapphira craned her neck to meet his gaze.
“Ouch, hun. I never understand how you can turn your head so far. Are you ok?” His brow furrowed with concern as he searched her eyes. “You always look so tired. Maybe you should go to one of those sleep studies.”
Slipping her shoes on, she said, “You worry too much. I’m perfectly fine. In fact, I’ll be even more fine when we’re at church worshipping our savior.” She stood and pasted on a smile, careful not to reopen the hole in her cheek. “All set!”