I'd been lying on the hammock in my mom's small back yard with one of her romance paperbacks when she walked outside and told me to go get changed.
"And I have to go with you?" I ask from my prone position, hoping she'll let me off the hook. My entire life we attended church services twice a year: Easter and Christmas.
"It would be nice if you'd go." I can tell she's trying not to put too much pressure on me, but she can't keep the hopeful look off her face.
She's wearing a flowy gauze skirt and top. She’s blow-dried her hair using a round brush and it looks full and beautiful. I'd heard the hair dryer blasting on my way out of the house a half hour ago when I'd walked out back with the book tucked under my arm, but I didn't think much of it. I don't know her routine yet; maybe she always gives herself a blow-out on Sundays.
Turns out, her routine includes something else I never saw coming.
God.
The old man upstairs and I are on weird terms right now, and I’m not keen on stepping into a church anytime soon, but I’m not going to deny my mother anything while she’s going through her chemo treatments.
"I'll go with you," I relent, trying to cover my reluctance. I scoot over and swing my legs off the side, swaying a little as I stand.
"You can't wear that to church," she tells me, her eyes running down my bare legs.
"Shoot," I say, snapping my fingers. "It's either this or that lingerie I sleep in."
"Very funny," she responds, jostling me with her pointy elbow.
We go in the house, and I do as I've been asked and manage to make it happen in the twenty minutes I've been told I have to do it in.
"Will this do?" I ask, walking into the living room, where my mom is seated on the couch. My hands are held out to my sides, palms up. I'm wearing the black slacks that were a staple of my work wardrobe and a royal blue blouse.
Mom stands. "You're perfect. Let's go."
She's quiet on the way there. Well, technically, that's not true. She doesn't speak, but she's not quiet. She taps a finger on the center console and plays piano on her knees. Even her pursed lips make sounds when she finally has to take a breath. Is she nervous or in pain or something? Maybe side effects of the chemo?
"All good?" I ask her when we park.
She nods. Clears her throat. Adjusts the sleeve of her top. "All good."
"Okay…" I draw out the word, trying to understand why she's acting so strange.
Heat rises from the hot asphalt parking lot, and I swear I feel it seeping into my heels. The temperature isn't too bad yet, but the asphalt retains the heat, baking us all from the bottom up.
As we walk, people wave to my mom. They say hello and call her by name.
What the hell?
Oops. Good thing that was in my head.
"People know you, Mom," I murmur, nodding at someone who looks at me with curiosity.
"Mmm hmm."
I wait for more, but nothing comes. My mom is a full-blown churchgoer! This thought fascinates me. We enter the large front doors and my mom parades me around, introducing me to person after person. They all know me. Or … they knowofme. I'm asked over and over what it was like to live in New York City, and if I'm glad to be back home.
It was a great experience, and yes, I'm thrilled to be back with my mom.
I say it over and over. I say it until I realize it's not just lip service. It's true.
Despite being forced to face Owen again, and the reason I've moved back, it is good to be home, to step away from the hustle and bustle and breathe again.
My mom leads us from the foyer into the sanctuary, where everything is polished oak. The pews are covered in a soft-looking, deep red fabric. It reminds me of Christmas—because, ya know, that used to be when we went to church. When we sit down, I run my finger along the seat cushion. Velvet.
Around us I hear hushed conversations, until all at once the hushed sounds disappear. As I look forward, I watch the man who stands at the center of the stage, the one responsible for quieting the masses. He's wearing a dark gray suit and navy-blue tie and he greets the room with a booming voice. I look at my mom to find that she has a serene look on her face. Maybe that's how I look when I'm practicing yoga. I hope so. If this gives my mother something she needs, then I’m all for it.
