"Perfect!" My enthusiasm is an overshot. I am an alien wearing Lucy skin, trying to mimic her usual behavior so her mom won't worry.
Eggs are one of the few things she can make with reliable success-plus some chicken recipes and casseroles. For church events, she always volunteers to bring the beverages. Sometimes my dad cooks, or-if he's at the church late-we order in, gleefully. If he's not home, we eat on the couch in front of the TV. My dad always walks in and pretends to disapprove. Well, looky here, he says. The Takeout Twins ride again.
As I sit there stabbing at my eggs, I start to wonder: Did I actually wash my hair in the shower? Or did I stand under the water, staring into nothing?
I dry my hair on autopilot, vacant eyes staring back at me. My mind hasn't done this-gone hypnotically empty-since my mom got sick. The first time, I mean. Since my mom got sick the first time. How long will it take me to internalize that it's happening again?
"Hey, kiddo," my dad says, ducking into my room as I finish my makeup. "I just got a call from Miss Rosa. She's under the weather. Would you mind heading over early to play some prelude music?"
"Oh. Sure. I'll head over there." In light of my unconvincing portrayal of someone who is fine, I'm relieved for an excuse to leave the house. Besides, it'll be nice to reconnect my hands to the piano. Until I was fourteen, I played competitively. Somewhere along the way, swimming nudged it out of place. But muscle memory is a funny thing, saving skills beneath your skin.
Alone in the church, I sit at the piano and press the keys gently, feeling out the resistance. Piano keys and pedals are like car brakes-they all do the same thing, but sometimes the necessary pressure differs from model to model. This piano is second nature to me. When my dad accepted the call to be White Hills United Methodist's pastor, my mom was still working at the hospital. Some nights, if my dad had to work late, I'd hang out here with him and practice. That was before my mom got her job as a school nurse so she could have summers off with me.
By the time Mrs. Edelman-our congregation's earliest early bird-is settled in her pew, I've decided on a lineup of hymns I know by heart: "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," "Abide with Me," "How Firm a Foundation." The first is my hope, the second my prayer, the last a personal failing.
Lukas waves at me from the third pew, where I normally sit with him. He's early and by himself, which means he drove separately from his parents-probably in case I needed him. He's always thinking of things like that, always making himself available.
"You okay? " he mouths.
I nod, a quick jerk of my chin telling the lie for me.
Playing the prelude, it turns out, is a godsend. Since I'm up here, people won't approach me to say hi, so I don't have to pretend to be okay. Lukas gamely chats with them in my stead, doing a convincing everything is great routine, as usual.
As I move through my selections, the words scroll in my mind. What the heck is a bulwark anyway? And I wonder if every pastor's kid knows that Martin Luther himself wrote "A Mighty Fortress." It's something my dad likes to announce proudly, as if Martin Luther is his son instead of a forebear. The hymn always makes me think of Psalm 46: God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Really, God? Where? I mean, seriously. Give me a dove with white flapping wings. A rainbow stretched over our house. Give me literally anything-a feeling, a holy light, a burning bush. A barely flickering bush! One little match strike in the boxwoods outside our house.
In my attempt to avoid the congregation, my eyes settle on the altar.
And this is how I wind up initiating an epic stare-down: me versus Jesus Christ our Lord.
From my seat on the piano bench, I narrow my eyes against His alabaster ones, thinking: Blink. Come on, blink. He refuses.
This is because He's a sculpture-which, in a staring contest, really seems like cheating.
He stands on the altar, stone arms wide and ivory palms up-a pose that used to look welcoming. Now He looks halfway to a shrug. Your mom has cancer again and there's nothing you can do about it. He's right. I feel helpless, hapless, planless.
No member of White Hills United Methodist filing into the pews would believe the nasty voice in my head is mine. I substitute-teach elementary Sunday school, I play the "Hallelujah Chorus" on the pipe organ with gusto every Easter, and I've been able recite the books of the Bible in chronological order since I was six.
And I love this church-the stained glass, the carved wood, the familiar faces. I love my dad's little office and the kitchen downstairs and the rec room, even though it's old and musty. I know every closet and nook; I've watered every plant in the courtyard a hundred times. I love Christmas here, our tall evergreen and the candlelight, every drawn-out "gloria" that fills the rafters as we sing.