As I scoop a portion into my mouth and the flavor hits my tongue, a hand covers my mouth through a quiet laugh at a sudden memory.
The first and only time that I’ve ever seen Tripp truly, properly black-out drunk, was in our twenties. He’d come back home after a night out with his friends, stumbling through the house and telling me how badly heneededa bowl of beef flavored ramen, specifically. Nothing else would do.
I cooked it for him in the microwave, and when I gave it to him, he’d dropped a straw into the bowl and sucked down all of the steaming broth before finally passing out on the stairs. He never did touch the noodles themselves.
With my food choked down, Aislin gathers my supplies, offering me a too-tight hug and a kiss on the cheek before she heads back out into a world that doesn’t feel like it should exist right now.
After dropping my dirtied bowl into the sink, I make a slow climb up the stairs and into our bedroom, heading for the closet.
Reaching to the high shelf, I pull down the latching container stored there and carefully rest it on top of the mattress. My hand swipes a thin sprinkling of dust from the top of it before I lift the lid to pull out a grey stuffed rabbit, its body made of corduroy and its ears long enough that they reach from the top of the head to the bottoms of its feet.
I hold it tightly to my chest, rubbing the powder soft fluff at the bottom of an ear between my index finger and thumb as I make my way back down the stairs and into the living room. And for the second time in my life, I return to the couch to let it swallow me up along with my grief.
Mother Nature announces her displeasure with a rumble from the dark clouds hanging in the sky above me. It’s nearly noon, but the sky is so darkened that it feels either much earlier or much later.
Neighbors have pulled in early from what was meant to be a day trip to the beach with their families, now rescheduled because of the forecast. My arms cross over my chest as I leave our quiet neighborhood, the sandals on my feet not offering much, if any, protection from the sprinkles starting to fall from the sky.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’m doing.
The only thing I know is that I woke up alone again and nearly drowned in the silence.
A droplet of incoming rain smacks against the tip of my nose and I raise my head, offering an angry glare to the Heavens above me; or to whatever else it might be up there. I’ve never been a big believer in signs, but maybe I should be. Maybe it’s not a coincidence that, for the first time in months and only a matter of days after my husband left me, it’s raining.
I stay on my undetermined path, walking as the droplets turn to sprinkles which turn to pouring rain. A sudden crack of thunder makes me jump, and I tuck underneath the awning of the nearest building for shelter.
Pulling my phone from my pocket to order a ride, I let out a groan at the two percent charge left in my battery, and I shove the device back into its place.
The heavy door next to me pulls open, a man sticking his head out of the gap with a smile.
“Would you like to come in?”
I study him and the white band trapped beneath the collar of the black clerical shirt covering his torso, and I offer a shake of my head.
“No. Thank you,” I say with a smile. “I’ll just wait here for the storm to pass, if that’s okay.”
“Come in,” he tells me again, this time, extending a hand in my direction. “I insist.”
For a second, I consider running across the street to hide out in the coffee shop there, but then I consider the possibility of slipping in my not-suitable-for-rain shoes and cracking my skull open on the asphalt, and I heave a sigh.
As I follow the man into the building, I’m surprised by how small it is. It’s nothing like the churches that Tripp and I were members of when we were younger. Only fifteen or twenty pews line the floor. The sanctuary is small and intimate. It probably offers a closer relationship between the congregation and their priest.
“I don’t know if I should be here,” I admit, offering a quick glance around the nave before turning back to the man in front of me. “My husband doesn’t believe anymore and— I guess I’m not sure if I do. I really don’t think I’m supposed to be in here.”
“Take a seat and wait for the rain to pass,” he insists, gesturing toward the row of pews to my left. “You were led here for a reason. Maybe that reason is simply to stay dry.”
My lips pull into a tight smile and I lower my head as I begrudgingly slide into one of the pews. My fingers tick through the pages of a Bible tucked into the seat in front of mine, letting the worn paper slide against the pads of them.
Somewhere in the depths of our garage, the pink leather cover of my Bible is collecting dust or mold in a box with the few mementos that Tripp and I took from our homes.
With a smile, the older gentleman tucks his hands behind his back and pivots, taking a few steps away before I finally call out to him.
“Father, can I—” I sigh. My fingers fold and unfold a page of the book in front of me, my teeth nibbling at the inside of my lip before I offer the man in front of me my attention. “How does God choose whose prayers He answers and whose He doesn’t?”
“You feel that He hasn’t heard you,” he says, pulling his lips into a tight line.
He steps into the pew in front of mine, settling into a seat as he turns to face me. He reminds me very much of what I remember of Tripp’s uncle, Patrick. Tall, with his hair cut close to the scalp and neatly combed. Patrick must be twenty years this guy’s senior, but it still feels like he’s the one seated in that pew.
“No, that’s not it.” I shake my head, clearing my throat of the tightness creeping into it. “I think He heard me. I just think He laughed at me. I prayed over my husband when he lost his family, and then I lost mine. We wanted to build a family of our own, and we almost had it; we weresoclose. I spent three days talking to God when our son stopped moving, asking Him to let them be wrong. To let his heart start beating again; and the day that he was born sleeping, I—”
