“Okay,” he shouted, and we raced to the safety of the tetherball.
As Nicholas and I played, I remembered playing the same game many times with Olivia. I wondered how she was in the hospital. I hoped well on her way to recovery.
Chapter Eleven
I had trouble falling asleep Saturday night. I tossed and turned with worries for my brother and for Olivia. I finally drifted off at five in the morning, but my sleep was tortured with dreams.
Mark and I raced through our parents’ house, the old one, the one of our childhood. We careened through the dining room, kitchen, family room, and living room in a continuous loop around the stairs until we were silly with dizziness.
Carmen sulked in her upstairs bedroom, listening to the same annoying pop song on her boom box over and over again. Occasionally, she yelled at us to be quiet.
Heedless of Carmen’s threats, I hounded Mark who held my beloved stuffed wolf, Humphrey, for ransom. I changed directions, hoping to trap him in a corner, and swung open cabinet doors in an attempt to hit him on the head. An old hand at our game, Mark fell for none of these tactics and whooped at my near misses.
Frustrated, I felt hot tears prick my eyes. “Come on, Mark. Just give ’im to me. Please. I didn’t mean to trip you in front of Olivia.”
We both knew this was a lie. I had purposely snaked my left foot out in front of my brother as he’d run out the front door to see Olivia that morning. While Mark brushed dead leaves and dirt off of his blue jeans and red sweatshirt, Olivia and I dissolved into giggles.
Mark yelled something back, but it escaped his mouth in a cacophony of bells, loud and insistent. He yelled again, in the kitchen now, shaking Humphrey over his head and enticing me to pounce, but the harsh bells overpowered his cries . . .
I opened my eyes and arched out of a tight ball. The clock on my nightstand read ten ’til nine. I cursed its existence. The phone continued to ring with mounting urgency.
Unable to ignore the clatter, I grabbed the receiver.
“Good morning, India. I hope that you’re up.” A voice filled with reproach said. “I’m ready to leave for the service.”
“Ina?” I rasped. My mouth tasted like something akin to a week-old litter box. Not that I had ever tasted one; I just imagined that it tasted that bad.
“You are awake, aren’t you? I hate to be late for service.”
“Yes, yes, I’m awake. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I will be waiting by the car.” She hung up.
I dropped the phone back on its cradle and fell back into the bed. After a few seconds of staring at my ceiling and tickling scant images of the dream from my mind while debating how to weasel out of church that day, the awful taste in my mouth forced me to my feet.
Grappling for my glasses, I stumbled over castoff shoes as I struggled to the bathroom. When my teeth were brushed and other urgent matters attended to, I flew back to my bedroom and threw on a lame outfit that clashed horribly with my shoulder bag and five-dollar flip-flops.
Ina fidgeted by my car, wearing a prim polyester suit complete with pill hat. Green, of course. Nearly tripping in the gravel driveway, I debated telling Ina that being one of my mother’s flock and a Protestant she should wear an orange suit, but thought better of it—she’d set an Emerald Isle hex on me for sure.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
The question didn’t deserve a response, and I didn’t get one. On the way to Stripling Presbyterian Church, where my mother officiates as pastor, Ina blathered on without my encouragement or involvement.
“I’ve been thinking of becoming Catholic, you know. All good Irish people are Catholic.”
I grunted a response, hoping it was a coffee hour Sunday, heavy on the donuts, low on the coffee.
“But on the other hand, it’s a little late now. Catholics have so much more to think about. I really don’t think I could fit confession into my schedule. Plus, think of all the bingo you have to play to be accepted. You know, I’m always on the run. Busy, busy. And the kneelers. I don’t think I can kneel that long anymore. Nope, these old bones couldn’t take it. Of course, you can be Catholic. You’re young and have a lot of kneeling in you yet. You’re sharp enough for bingo, too. “And”—she added the
I ignored her and spun the car around the town square and into the church’s parking lot.
A couple of dozen sedans and minivans sat in the lot. Attendance dropped in the summer months with lawns to mow and barbecues to stoke. Add in a holiday weekend and you had a ghost congregation. Ina scampered out of the car and into the building without waiting for me.
The church, consisting of three stories and the standard bell tower, is located on Stripling’s central square. Constructed in regimented Western Reserve architecture, the building has sharp corners, red brick, and leaden windows. The congregation’s elderly janitor tended the lawn and gardens with fatherly devotion. Deciding I’d dawdled long enough, I stumbled through the heavy wood doors into the church. The morning ushers were already gone.
I walked into the sanctuary in the middle of the prayer requests. A parishioner raised his hand.
“Yes, Lester,” my mother called on him from the pulpit.
“I think we should all keep the Blocken family in our prayers. Their daughter’s in the hospital,” Lester said.
A murmur fluttered through the church as I grabbed an empty pew near the back.
My mother held her composure even though she knew the congregation must know about Mark’s part in Olivia’s accident. Gossip was Stripling’s favorite pastime. “Yes, of course. We will pray that she makes a full recovery. Olivia is a close friend of India’s, and we are all concerned for her well-being.”
Members of the congregation glanced at me. I gave a weak smile. Ina flashed me a beady look.
During the sermon, I shredded my church bulletin into hundreds of tiny pieces.
After the service, it was indeed a coffee hour Sunday. I wove my way to the church’s fellowship hall, trying not to shove unobservant church-goers into the walls—especially those who stood between me and a maple crème stick. Pastors’ kids must always demonstrate the highest levels of restraint.
As I made my way, the congregation’s Mesozoic parishioner, Melba, a young ninety-seven, asked me if I had decided where I was planning to attend college in the fall. Rather than tell her, for the one hundred and second time, that I had already commenced from college and graduate school, I said that I was contemplating a school on the East Coast, knowing full well that my flippant comment would reach my mother.
With donut in hand, I moved to the outskirts of the room. I was savoring my donut when a pair of small arms wrapped around my knees.
“Hi-hi,” Nicholas said.
An oversized bite of donut lodged halfway down my throat. Bending over, I began coughing. Nicholas patted my back.
His high voice chimed. “Hold up your arms, hold up your arms.”
I did as instructed and created a spectacle. Several parishioners eyed their own pastries with concern. With my arms in the air like a street punk caught shoplifting cigarettes, I hacked.
Carmen, the ever-nurturing mother, handed me a glass of water. “Drink.”
Nicholas watched as I guzzled the liquid. His voice trembled. “Will Dia die?”
Carmen patted her son’s dark head. “She’ll be fine.”
“I’m fine, Nicko,” I croaked.
“See, she can talk. If she was really choking, she wouldn’t be able to speak,” she said.
I massaged my throat.
My mother entered the fellowship hall, free of her robe and stole. As she passed, she shot a pointed look at my neck. No doubt, she had already heard about my near-death experience by oversized pastry. My father
