"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 know of me. 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.
For the next hour, I do as I'm supposed to.
I stand when I'm supposed to. I bow my head as I'm instructed. And I pray. It's been so long since I prayed that I don't know if I'm doing it right, but the pastor says there is no wrong way, and I hope he's correct.
When he's done talking, the choir comes back out and we sing one more time. The pastor closes the service with a final prayer, and then dismisses the congregation.
Whew, I didn’t burn up. Maybe this God thing isn’t so bad after all. My mom stands, but she's a little slow to get to her feet.
"Are you okay?" I ask, reaching for her.
"I'm fine," she answers, gently pushing away the hand I've offered her. "You try sitting in one position for an hour when you're my age and tell me if your bones don't protest a bit."
She's only fifty-five. If it weren't for the cancer, I'd tell her she's too young to be making statements like that. Maybe that's what it is, and she just doesn't want to say it.
We walk from the sanctuary and melt back into the crowd once more. There is more chatting. More people to meet. And then I'm introduced to the man whose voice I just listened to for an hour.
"Pastor Greg, this is my daughter, Autumn." Mom rests her palm on my upper arm and smiles warmly at me.
"Well, Autumn, it's sure nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." He extends a hand, grinning in this earnest way that makes me like him automatically. He's probably about my mom's age. His blond hair is thinning on top, and he reminds me of a cuddly teddy bear. He's not overweight, but he looks soft.
"It's nice to meet you too, Pastor Greg." I'd tell him I've heard about him too, but, well, I haven't. And I can't lie while standing in church, directly in front of the pastor. God might smite me.
Pastor Greg turns his attention to my mom. "How'd you like the service, Faith?"
One side of Mom's lips turn up into a rueful smile. Pastor Greg shakes his head and clucks his tongue. Clearly I'm missing something, but I just watch their interaction instead of asking.
"Would you tell a chef if you didn't like his food?" the pastor asks.
"Probably not," Mom answers, still grinning.
Pastor Greg chuckles. "So I can't count on you for an honest answer about my sermons?"
"Probably not," she repeats.
Pastor Greg laughs again, but I'd call it a chortle. Loud enough to make some people standing nearby look over with interest.
Was my mom flirting with the pastor?
Go Mom.
Before I can think any more about it, he looks my way and tips his head. "It was nice to meet you. If you'll excuse me, there are some other folks I need to talk with."
He shuffles away, and I watch him go.
“He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring,” I say off-handedly, thinking about how much I was expecting him to.
“What?” My mom seems surprised by my comment. “Oh, he’s been divorced a while back. That was before I joined the church.”
I open my mouth to respond but someone else fills the empty place the pastor left behind. She's an elderly woman named Margaret, and once she learns where I've just moved from, she talks at length about the time she spent living there and working on Broadway. Of everyone I've met today, she's my favorite.
Mom taps my shoulder, signaling she's ready to go, and I’m relieved. There is only so much churching I’m capable of and two hours is my limit. I extract myself from the conversation as politely as possible.
"Will you be here next week?" Margaret asks hopefully. I look at my mom and she looks hopeful too.
"Sure," I tell her.
Oops. I may have just lied.
We finally make it out to our car after more goodbyes.
"You're the belle of the ball," I comment, backing out of our parking space.
"They know I'm sick," she answers, waving me off.
"So if you weren't sick, they wouldn't talk to you?"
Mom flicks my thigh with the side of her hand. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do. Are you hungry?"
"Starving."
I smile. "Creamed spinach it is."