I probably couldn’t bribe my Lord and savior with any form of chocolatey cookie—even if they were made from scratch. I didn’t even use the egg beaters. I did everything by hand, and I doubted it made the least bit of difference to my soul. But at least I felt somewhat prepared to face St. Cecilia’s parish if I came bearing treats.
Besides, it gave me something to hold so the women didn’t see me shake. My hands hadn’t stopped trembling since I pulled into the church’s lot. Every hallowed step echoed in the stone halls and chiseled that fracturing courage in my soul.
I was scared, and that wasn’t what the church taught. I shouldn’t have been nervous in the hall, shouldn’t have twisted when I cast a side-long look at the confessional.
And yesterday I shouldn’t have run from the evening Mass.
Mass was supposed to be a gift to the faithful, a way to commune and meditate on matters beyond ourselves. I’d even corrupted that. I’d attended to try and understand why I acted the way I did in the confessional, but Father Raphael’s sermon, his prayers, his soothing baritone had stirred too many feelings in me.
The feelings weren’t holy. They weren’t pure. Those shivers delighted me and nearly made me squirm in the back pew. When I closed my eyes in prayer, I imagined him there, with me, beside me.
Over me.
Even now, I fantasized about it. I took a breath. It didn’t soothe me nearly as much as that last touch, that secret sin within the shadows of the confessional. In that moment, everything had calmed, quieted, and blessed me in a simple peace.
If only I could feel that way again. Was wanting that peace a sin?
Was anything I wanted not a sin? Even self-doubt and insecurity was dangerous. I was supposed to be filled with grace. Instead I had cookies and coffee.
And waiting outside the women’s meeting did nothing when my mother was already inside.
Laughing.
Grinning.
Preaching the good news of her sobriety to anyone who would listen…and those who hadn’t asked to hear.
“There she is!” Mom grinned and patted the wooden folding chair at her side. “Honor, baby, I saved you a seat.”
The vivacious and grinning woman was thirty pounds heavier, ten decibels louder, and three hundred and ninety days soberer than the mom I remembered just a few years ago. Her skin had cleared, though the dark was still a bit splotchy over her arms and legs. She chose vibrant outfits to cover up instead. Her hair grew back, styled with more enthusiasm than gel. She wore bright red lipstick—so she could smile and our Lord could see it all the way from Heaven, she said.
The chairs on either side of her remained unclaimed. It didn’t surprise me. The dozen or so other women clustered tightly on the opposite end of the circle, politely nodding as Mom enthralled them with a story from rehab. The radio played a quiet song, and Mom yelled over it, waving with an animated gesture to ninety-year-old Mrs. Ruthie.
“There she is.” Mom pointed at me.
Ruthie grunted. “Eh?”
“There! That’s Honor. That’s my baby.” She frowned and shouted louder, her voice echoing through the small room. “My daughter! All grown up.”
If Ruthie could see past her cataracts, she was certainly blinded by the brim of her burgundy hat—complete with a lace nest and beads. She nodded just the same.
“Lovely girl.” Ruthie said. “Just lovely.”
Mom patted her hand over her heart. “She looks just like her father, God rest his soul.”
That comment gained the attention of the women in the circle. I should have remembered most of them, though my family had stopped attending most of the public events when I hit high school, when Mom’s addiction got worse.
They appraised me, murmuring about my curly hair or the polite shade of my lipstick. At least I wore the professional, responsible, knee-length skirt, though it meant nothing. I could just as easily pull up the pleads and shed whatever virtue I had left.
They murmured something about my father. I knew I looked like him. So did Mom. She mentioned it every day, every time she looked at me. She saw Dad in the mocha shade of my skin, the dramatic arch of my eyebrows, and our shared, silly smile.
I was better than a picture to her, she said, but I doubted she really remembered Dad towards the end. Most of that time was still a blacked out blur to her. Another life.
She didn’t even remember the day Dad died.
I did.
Mom gave me a kiss on the cheek. I shrugged her away as I nearly tipped the cookies and coffee.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “Just dropping this off.”
“You brought cookies!” Susan, one of the youth group troop moms clapped her hands. “Your mom was right. What a blessing you are, coming home and helping her and us like this!”