The church is huge,bordering on megachurch. It takes up so much real estate that when the people who go there ask for directions, they use the word ‘campus’.The preschool rooms are on the west side of campus. Pastor Blake’s office is in the east part of campus.Of course, Pastor Blake, also known as my stepfather, is no longer here. I don’t know who took over for him. After revered pastor Theodore Blake died the day after we graduated high school, I stopped going to church. My mandatory presence was no longer required, not that any of the churchgoers would’ve wanted to see my face anyhow.
Thanks to my stepfather’s former role here, I have a good idea where the current pastor’s office is. Which means, I have a good idea of where to find his assistant, Wilma.
The buildings are all tanned stucco monstrosities, and the office building is no different. I pull open the metal door with the handle padded to keep the intense summer sun from burning people’s hands. My stepdad’s office was four doors down on the right, and just like I thought, there is a placard on the wall declaring this to be Pastor Thomas’ office. I step inside and walk up to the desk where a large woman with white curly hair and a floral pattern dress sits.
“Wilma?”
The woman's eyes lift, her fingers poised on the keyboard. “Yes, dear. I’m Wilma. And you are?”
“Lennon Davies.”
I see it. It’s only there for a tiny second, but I see it.Fear. Exactly what I was expecting.
Wilma quickly paints over the feeling with an apologetic smile. “Right, yes. I should’ve recognized you.” She searches my face, then says, “You resemble your mother.”
A laugh builds, but I manage to keep it inside. Whoever my father is, I take after him. Aside from the dark hair, I look nothing like my mother.Wilma just lied in God’s house.
“Anywho…” Wilma stands and comes around the desk. Her dress falls all the way to the floor, and on her feet are thickly cushioned sandals. Wrinkles feather almost every inch of her exposed skin. She looks like the quintessential old woman.
Her hands reach for mine, and my breath catches. She squeezes me tightly and shakes her head as if there is something she just doesn’t understand. “Your mother had the most generous heart. She was always the first to offer her help, no matter the task. She organized the annual bake sale, helped plan and run vacation Bible school, and took control of the meal train for those who were ill or unable to cook for themselves.” Wilma’s eyes fill with tears. “We just couldn’t believe it when... when…” Her breath catches.
“It’s okay,” I say soothingly, extricating one of my hands and patting her forearm.
Wilma lets me go and walks back to her desk for a tissue. She dabs at her eyes and sniffs. “You must be devastated. A heart attack at such a young age.” She shakes her head at what she believes is a travesty.
“Yes,” I reply. Now both of us have lied in God’s house.
“I know it’s not pleasant, but as her only family, you’re going to have to make some decisions.”
I blink at Wilma. She’s leaning on her desk, the used tissue balled up in the hand she’s using to support her weight.
“What kind of decisions?” I knew I needed to come back here, but I never actually stopped to think about everything I’d need to do once I got here.
“The funeral arrangements. Usually the family makes those plans.”
“Oh. Right.” What was I thinking? Of course I’d have to plan the funeral. And it can’t be the kind of funeral my mother deserves. If my mother was as well-loved as Wilma believes she was, the people in this place expect something worthy of that. If I grab her urn and run, I’m going to give this town even more to whisper about.
And then it hits me: I don’t even know if she’s being buried or cremated.
“Wilma, I don’t have any idea where to begin.”
Wilma’s hand swipes at the air in front of her. “Don’t worry, Lennon. First you’ll meet with Pastor Thomas, and we’ll go from there.”
“Great.” I nod, glancing at the open door a few feet past Wilma’s desk. “Is he in?”
“He was on his way down to the sanctuary. He should be back any minute though. He was going to get my great-granddaughter and walk her back.” Her face lights up with realization. “Actually, you might remember her. She was in your Sunday School class. Ellie Chapman?”
I taught Sunday School my senior year of high school, and it was the only bright spot in an otherwise dreadful Sunday morning.
A smile turns up my lips. “I remember Ellie. She was adorable. She carried around a stuffed tiger and liked me to count the number of goldfish she got in her little paper cup.”
Wilma beams. “That’s our Ellie. You’ll get to see her in a minute. She came to watch choir practice. Music makes her happy.”
Wilma’s voice catches on the wordhappyand her eyes fall to the top of her desk. She clears her throat and reaches down to straighten a stack of papers that already look pretty damn straight to me.
The brief friendly air between us has evaporated. “I’ll just take a seat then,” I tell her, sinking into one of the two chairs in front of Wilma's desk.
Wilma sits back down in her seat, and I pull out my phone. My email is mostly junk, but I like to go through it every day and delete all the crap. Makes me feel accomplished.
