“No, I’m going to make breakfast.”
“We don’t have time for breakfast. The service begins in a half an hour. I don’t want to be late.”
“Church?”
“Of course, church. That’s what people do on Sundays.”
In point of fact, it was not whatIdid on Sundays. I went to beer busts on Sundays—not to mention I’d been avoiding church for the four months I’d been there. Before her stroke, I’d simply refused to go with her. I’d only been once and that was for the pancake dinner. I wished they also had pancake breakfasts. I was hungry.
I considered refusing, since I didn’twantto go. But that meant she couldn’t go, which would lead to her doing her best to make me miserable for at least the rest of the day—if not longer.
“Okay, give me ten minutes.”
“Wait,” she said. “Could you zip my skirt up. I can’t quite—”
Apparently, she was having issues getting her fingers to do the things she wanted. I went over and zipped the short zipper on the side of her skirt.
“Thank you,” she said, clearly embarrassed she hadn’t been able to do it herself.
“You did a pretty good job getting dressed by yourself,” I said to be nice.
“Hurry up. I won’t forgive you if we’re late.”
Cheswick Community Church—not to be confused with the big box store, Keswick’s—was north of Masons Bay right before you got to Big Turtle Point. A small, white church from like a million years ago, it was plunked on a little hill and looked out on Lake Michigan. Behind it was a pole barn the church used for events, like the pancake dinner.
We parked and I helped Nana Cole out of the SUV, up the walk, and into the church. She was doing better with the walker—though she might just have been tired. Hard to tell.
Inside the church there were two rows of wooden pews with an aisle down the center and two narrower aisles on the sides. The walls were cream-colored, a fan hung down from the high ceiling, while six stained glass windows told Sunday school tales.
The church was only about a third full. Mostly older women sitting in ones and twos. The sticky smell of too much perfume and dusting powder was strong. Two of the women were Dolores Abbott, I think, and her daughter, Cheryl Ann. Dolores saw us and waved us over to a couple of empty spots in her pew.
“I’m so glad you’re up and around,” she said to Nana Cole. Then she quickly switched gears. “Cheryl Ann, you remember Henry. The two of you were going to go on a date.”
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Have you seen Opal?” Cheryl Ann asked, as though it were a logical question.
“We had coffee yesterday.” Her eyes filled with tears, and I said, “It was just coffee.”
“I haven’t seen her for a while.”
I felt bad enough to say, “I’ll tell her to call you next time I see her.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized they made it seem like I was seeing Opal all the time. “Not that I see her, like, you know, much.”
“Should we leave you two alone?” Dolores asked, as though Cheryl Ann and I were having an entirely different conversation.
“Mom,” Cheryl Ann said. “You’re being gross.”
Dolores turned to my Nana Cole and said, “I don’t know what to do with her. She’s so emotional.”
“I’m sure she’ll grow out of it,” Nana Cole said.
I was sure she wouldn’t.
Organ music had been playing since we walked in. I didn’t recognize any of it. The organ and organist sat on the right side of the church facing away from us. All I could see was a cloud of white hair. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she was missing notes here and there. Or at least not hitting all the right ones.
Without looking closely, Nana Cole said, “Sue Langtree is back.” Then she took a good look around the church. “Ivy Greene isn’t here.”
“You mean, Mrs. Hessel,” I replied.
