I was shocked by Sunday’s arrival, but not surprised at my lack of sermon material. I’d always been meticulous about my work, beginning on Wednesday and working every morning straight through until Sunday’s a.m. perfection.
This Sunday, I had nothing. I showered, fought with myself to ignore that woman with me, then turned the water to bone-killing cold and buried my face in it. I dried off and grabbed the first suit my hands came across in the closet. I think it was the same one I’d worn the week before but somehow couldn’t remember anything before Monday, before Nineveh.
At the church, I stood sweating outside the entrance to the pulpit, pulling on my collar, which was suddenly choking me, my heart thumping along to the morbid sounds of organ and badly harmonized hymns. Before I could open the door, though, I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned, tears burst from my eyes. It was she. It was the girl. And she was real.
I threw my face against her neck, smelled sweat and patchouli, and let my weeping increase to deep guttural sobs. She quieted me with back pats and shushes, and then took hold of my shoulders. “Come with me, Stephen. I have something to show you.” Her voice sounded different than I’d imagined, melodic, gentle, and I was trapped in the sound of it, and turned to go with her, dropping my cassock onto the sofa in the fellowship lobby as we moved towards the door.
In the parking lot she asked me, “Which one’s your car?” I pointed to a silver Honda Accord, and she walked to it, opened the passenger door and got in, while I stood there, feet melded into the concrete.
She knew my name. How did she know my name? Why is she here? What could she possibly show me? In my mind’s eye I envisioned her again, in the shower, naked, and felt a familiar twitch in my crotch. Goddamn, Stephen, pull yourself together.
I opened the car door and got it. She had her seat belt on, and was sitting still as glass, and I was afraid to look at her or breathe too closely for fear of shattering her into millions of shards. I turned the key in the ignition, and more gospel music surrounded me. My hand was a blur as it shot out and disconnected the sound from my ears.
“Where are we going?” I asked, before I put the car in reverse. “To your house,” she stated flatly. I nodded and drove from memory.
I opened the door for her, and she walked in as though she’d been here a hundred times and could navigate her way with eyes closed. She headed into my office, and as I walked in behind her, she was already booting up the computer. She never looked at me, just talked to the air. “I’ve met your parents, Stephen. I think there is something you need to know.” I didn’t speak, just nodded an agreement, and watched her fingers fly over the keys she knew so well.
Then, “How do you know my name?” She turned and looked at me with an expression of curiosity. “I was sent here to help you. I am here for you.” She turned back to the blinking screen, and finally pulled up the website she’d been trying to locate. It was a site for an adoption agency in Philadelphia. My breath nearly choked me, thickening in my throat. Confusion broke out in beads on my forehead, and I wiped my sleeve against it, then took off my suit coat and tossed it across the room.
“What is this about?”