(Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)  

It is Sunday. Her boys sit with her in their normal spot, fourth pew, left side. She takes the middle so no one has to ask her to scoot in. She passes Brett and Finn peppermints. They are too old now to be bribed this way, but they don’t complain. They slowly unwrap the candy, the crinkle lost among the softly plinking piano and the rustle of bulletins. She looks at the chancel, at Jesse. He is wearing gray slacks today and a black button up. His tie is plaid—black and dark green and bright white. He catches her eye and smiles at her.

               Her heart skips. He does not smile at her in church.

               She looks at her phone. It is 10:08. She tries to stay in the moment, with the music and the stillness, but she feels almost sick. She wonders if she will be sick with this baby like she was with Brett and Finn. She glances over at them. Finn is flipping lazily through the hymnal and Brett is picking at something on his shoe. The peppermint wrappers lay discarded in the pew beside them.

               They will not notice anything this early, she reminds herself. She is more worried about her sister and her mother. Her clothes will not fit for long, and when she buys new ones, they will comment on it.

               She glances behind her, scanning the sanctuary for them. Her sister doesn’t always come, but it’s unlike her mother to be this late. A knot of worry starts to wind itself around her guts. Or maybe that’s just the hormones. She swallows what tastes like bile. She didn’t eat any breakfast. Perhaps that was a mistake.

               The pianist ends her playing and Jesse stands, making his way forward to the pulpit. Rebecca checks her phone again, looking for a text from Cindy. She wonders if she should call her mother, just to be sure. Maybe it would ease some of the queasiness.

               Jesse offers the congregation a welcome and an invitation, but Rebecca is too distracted to listen. She leans over to Brett and whispers, “Do you see Grandma anywhere?”

               Brett turns fully around in the pew, almost stands up so he can look around the room. He sits down again, shaking his head at her.

               Her phone buzzes. It is Cindy calling. Calling. During church.

               “Aunt Cindy is calling me,” she whispers to Brett. “I’ll be back.”

               She rises from the pew, and she hears Jesse falter for just a moment. She imagines his eyes following her. She marches up the side aisle, phone still buzzing in her hand. She exits the sanctuary, and slides her finger over the screen to answer her sister’s call. “Hello?” she asked, frantically. “Cindy? Is Mom okay?”

               “What?” her sister asks.

               “I don’t think Mom is here at church, and neither are you,” she says, feeling more bile at the back of her throat. She moves towards the restroom. “Why are you calling during church?” she asks.

               “Oh, Bec, I didn’t mean to scare you,” her sister says. “I didn’t think you’d answer, and I was going to leave you a voicemail.”

               She almost rolls her eyes. “Couldn’t you just text instead?

“It was too much!” she answered defensively.

“What’s too much?” she asked, pushing open the bathroom door.

               “Well, I got us a spot at Old Stone Wall, you know that brunch place you’ve been wanting to try. Anyway, bring the boys after service. I have a table already.”

               She yanks a paper towel from the dispenser, wets it thoroughly and presses it to her neck. “Where’s Mom?” she asks.

               “Oh, Mom is here with me,” Cindy answers happily. “It was actually her idea. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, it’s not like her to play hookie.”

               She laughs despite how sick she feels. She does not want to go to brunch with her mother and sister. She wants to hide for the next eight months and then tell them someone dropped a newborn on her porch. “It sounds so nice, Cindy, but I don’t know if I can today.”

               “What?” her sister nearly screeches, and she pulls the phone away from her ear at the pain. “What else do you have to do?”

               Cindy knows there is nothing else that Rebecca has planned on a Sunday. She never has any plans. Ever. “I’m just a little under the weather,” she admits. She imagines Cindy’s calculating scowl as she tosses the wet paper towel into the trash bin.

               “Are you sure? It’s not just because you and Alan were going to come here, is it?”

               She shudders slightly at the memory. Old Stone Wall was only a month old, and Alan had just booked them a reservation for Mother’s Day. It was the day he was killed. “Maybe that’s it,” she breathes, thankful that Cindy has given her an out.

               There is a scuffle on the line, and she hears her sister arguing with someone before her mother’s voice floats through the speaker. “Listen, Bec, sweetie,” her mother says in her most placating tone, “Just come out with us. We did this for you, honey.”

               She is charmed by the thoughtfulness. She hates disappointing people. “I’ll see how I’m feeling when church lets out,” she says.

               “Alright, honey. We’ll see you in a bit,” she says.

               Cindy comes back on the line, “Bec, it’s okay if you’re ill. Really.”

               “No, I’m fine,” she lies. The bile is climbing up her throat. “I’ll see you there. I’m sure it will be lovely.” She almost chokes on the last word. “I have to go,” she says.

               “Right!” Cindy exclaims. “Church!”

               “Yeah,” she swallows. “Bye.” She ends the call before Cindy can say anything else, then moves into a stall, and heaves over the toilet. There is nothing inside of her to bring up. Shakily, she takes a square of paper from the dispenser, and wipes her face. She flushes and returns to the sink.

               The door opens and in walks Myrtle Abbot. Myrtle is roughly 108 years old and she has never in her life minded her own business. “You look a little green, Rebecca,” Myrtle says sourly.

               “Oh, must be something I ate,” she says weakly, offering a smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

               Myrtle eyes her suspiciously as she shuffles into a stall. “I’ll make sure to use the other sink, so I don’t pick up any germs,” she says from behind the locked door.

               “Yes, good plan, Mrs. Abbot,” she says as she scurries out the door. She wonders if Myrtle would suspect her. If she did, could she tie it to Jesse? Surely not. They have been so careful.

               The thought sends a shot of ice through her belly. Not careful enough.

               She returns to the sanctuary, to find Brett and Finn nudging each other mean-spiritedly during a rendition of The Old Rugged Cross, sung by Fred Baldwin, who is in his late fifties and starting to go bald on top. His voice is strong and rich. It reminds her of wood smoke and dark chocolate. She snaps her fingers at the boys, giving them her best mom look. They quiet immediately, and she offers each of them another peppermint. They take them reluctantly. Brett carefully unwraps his, but Finn opens his loudly. The harsh crinkling makes Rebecca’s skin crawl. She resists the urge to shush him.

               She tucks her phone back into her purse. The screen turns on as she does. It is now 10:22. She looks up, knowing Jesse will be moving to the pulpit now that Fred is finished with his song. This is always the hardest part of the service for her. She sits here every week, pretending to listen to what he has to say about God and faith and a life lived in community, but all she can ever think about is how his hands feel sliding over her body. She wonders if he ever thinks of her when he’s sitting on the chancel, waiting to preach. She wishes she could stop thinking of him and listen to his sermon instead. She stews with guilt.

               Today, she also wonders what will happen when he comes to see her on Tuesday. Is it possible to have any more normal Tuesdays with him? Will anything ever be normal again?

               He is preaching from the book of 1 Kings today. She thinks this is a strange selection, as he had chosen something from Matthew last week. Or perhaps that was two weeks ago. She doesn’t know. She fidgets with her hair, with her skirt, with her necklace. She tries to remember a time when she loved his preaching, when she could sit through a sermon without burning with shame. How does he do this every week? He makes it look so easy. Perhaps he isn’t ashamed at all. Perhaps she doesn’t need to be either. 

               Jesse is already finished preaching. Either his sermon was shockingly short, or she has spaced out for a solid twenty minutes. She isn’t sure which one it is.

               The pianist, Ellen Cleary, is playing again. People around her are standing. She fumbles with the bulletin, with the hymnal. Brett sees her struggling, and passes the hymnal he already has open. She is grateful for the care he shows her. Brett has always had a kind heart, and it has only gotten bigger since Alan’s death. It’s like he can’t take anyone else being in distress. She takes the corner of the hymnal, holding it between them so they can share.

               She is not singing. She doesn’t have the words. She is staring at Jesse, singing with a smile on his face, wondering how he can look so happy when their entire world is about to cave in on them. She glances down at the page. She has forgotten how to read music, how to decipher words. She stares at the page in bewilderment, her stomach twisting with sickness.

“Are you ok, Mom?” Brett whispers. Somehow, the song has ended. Jesse is giving his benediction and Brett is staring at her like she is too fragile to be standing. “You don’t look right.”

If her ten year old son has noticed this, so will everyone else. “What do you mean, I don’t look right?” she asks.

“You’re really pale,” Brett answers softly.

Ellen is playing the postlude now. How has she missed the whole service? Around her, other members are sliding up pews to the aisle, or gathering their belongings, or chatting with their friends. She feels like she is nailed to the floor, as if one step towards the door is too many. She wants to lay down in the pew and sleep. She is suddenly, desperately tired.

“Sit down, Rebecca,” Jesse says to her, his hand coming to her shoulder. He pushes her down slightly. She does not have any strength to resist him. The anxiety inside feels like lightening. She looks up at him and she wishes he could cup her chin here, or touch her cheek, but it would be too familiar. It would give away the secret they have kept to themselves.

“Mom and Cindy wanted to take us to brunch,” she says, softly. The words slide from her but she hardly hears them.

“You look like you need to lay down,” Jesse says.

“I just need to eat something,” she argues. “And get my…” she eyes the boys, who are watching her with concern, “emotions under control,” she finishes.

“Are you thinking about Dad?” Brett asks. “You used to get this way whenever you thought too much about him.”

Brett has no idea what a gift his words are. Now she can hide behind them. “Just a little anxious, I guess.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” he says. From the other side of him, she sees Finn nodding.

Now she is crying. The boys feel like the only proof she has that Alan was ever a part of her life. She wonders how they will react when they find out about her and Jesse, about the baby.

Jesse has his hand on her shoulder. He has taken a seat next to her in the pew. He will not run his hand over her hair here, but she wishes he would. She wishes and wishes and wishes, but no amount of wishing has ever brought her anything she wanted. She wipes her eyes. She can feel other eyes on her, but she knows they will not stop to check on her. They are used to seeing her cry as they mutter to themselves things like “poor woman” and “what a shame” and “I don’t know how she does it” as they pass by her grief. As if she has a choice. As if she has chosen widowhood willingly.

Jesse’s hand slides down her back and she is suddenly alive with tension. He feels her stiffen and lets his hand fall away from her. Only then does she realize that no one is left in the sanctuary. He has chosen to sit here with her today rather than greet the congregation as they leave the church. She turns towards him, searching his eyes. There are unsaid words there, but she knows what they are. If it were Tuesday, not Sunday, he would be free to say them. But it is not Tuesday, and they still have to pretend for a little while longer.

“Are we going to get brunch with Grandma?” Finn asks, “or are we going home?”

Finn’s impatience has replaced his compassion. She smiles weakly at her son’s annoyance at being delayed. She stands, feeling slightly shaky. “Why don’t you come with us?” she asks Jesse.

He seems surprised, but he smiles at her invitation. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

He has been to enough family events that this will not seem strange. He has always been a close friend. No one will know, she thinks as she composes herself. No one will know unless she tells them.