Can I Get An Amen? (12 page)

My mother kept her gaze on the aisles, waiting for the Arnolds to make an appearance. When they finally did arrive,
my parents gave them a small wave, which they returned, before they took their front-and-center seats, which almost seemed to be reserved for them. After the dreaded first encounter was over, my parents’ stress level seemed to diminish palpably.

When the service began I could see that Thomas Cope was something more of a showman than John Blanchard, using grander gestures and more high-flying language. Aside from the delivery and variance in content, however, the services were largely interchangeable from week to week, the wildcard always being whether Communion was being offered. I followed the rest of the church as we stood and sang “Blessed Assurance” and then read responsively Psalm 150. When the prayer concerns began, I flipped through the church bulletin in my lap, almost tuning out the booming voice calling for the faithful to “come together in the spirit.”

Together, we silently asked the Lord to protect twenty-six-year-old Michael, who was leaving for a tour in Afghanistan: “Lord, shelter him in your secret place, Lord. Protect him and his fellow soldiers as they stand against darkness, and let no weapon formed against them prosper!” As the minister spoke, the words seemed to gain speed and strength like a growing wave. There were murmurs of agreement throughout the church. Reverend Cope stopped and patted his brow, as if allowing time for the prayer to reach heaven, and when he began again, his tone had softened. “And Lord, we hold up to you this morning Ellen”—my head lifted ever so slightly, like an antelope alerted to a lurking lion—“who at thirty-one is struggling with infertility and divorce.” I froze, feeling the blood rush to my face as my stomach dropped. I looked at my mother, whose eyes remained squeezed stubbornly shut, and then at my father, who looked as confused as I did. Reverend Cope paused dramatically before continuing.
“We ask you to fill her heart with love and her womb with light, healing both, by your stripes, Lord.”

“Amen,” my mother whispered.

I was frantic, furious. I grabbed a felt-tipped pen and a sheet of “Hello, my name is…” name tags, which were always kept in slots with the hymnals for visitors.
WHAT THE FUCK??!!
I wrote on one of them, before sliding it forcefully to my mother. She glanced at it quickly, then pursed her lips and shot me her most menacing look, warning me not to make a scene. This was a common tactic when one of us was angry with her, to see our rage and raise it.

I crossed my legs away from her and slid toward the end of the pew, turning as much of my back to her as possible while still officially facing forward. I wanted to walk out, to get up and leave and refuse to ever come back. But I knew such a scene would only confirm to my parents’ less well-informed friends that the prayer request
was
, in fact, for Ellen Carlisle. Seething and humiliated, I scripted the monologue I planned to deliver in the car on the way home. How could she possibly think it was appropriate to air that here?

Throughout the rest of the service, I made sure that my body language was speaking for me. Reverend Cope said the Lord’s Prayer, and then the offertory began. “And this morning, as you are called upon to tithe,” he said, addressing the congregation, “I ask you to consider the church’s need for an expanded youth center, to better serve our young members who are just beginning their walk with Christ.” I quietly snorted and rolled my eyes. This would be my last visit to Christ Church.
That
I guaranteed.

I heard my mother as she rustled around in her purse in search of the checkbook, which she gave to my father. When the usher arrived at our aisle with the collection plate, which was to
be passed down the pew from parishioner to parishioner, I handed it roughly to my mother without looking at her. Seconds later, I felt the cold metal rim tap my arm. I glanced down at its contents before returning it to the usher. Although my parents’ check was folded in half, I could see that it was in the amount of one thousand dollars. “You give out of your own need,” my mother used to say. “The more of a sacrifice, the less you can spare it, the more pleased the Lord is.”

As the ushers made their way from row to row, the rest of the parishioners placed their checks in the red velvet–lined brass tray. Lynn and Edward Arnold had exchanged affectionate glances as Ed placed in his check, which almost seemed to land with a thud. I looked subtly behind me, to see just how full the church had been for my mother’s little prayer request.
Fucking full,
I thought to myself as I glanced from face to face.

And then I saw them.

Philip Kent was closing a leather-bound checkbook case and putting one of his Montblanc pens back in his inner jacket pocket. Parker Collins was staring straight ahead, with picture-perfect posture and an almost indiscernible smile on her face.

T
he moment the service ended and the congregation began to mill about, I grabbed my coat. “I am getting out of here,” I hissed. Keeping my eyes focused on the exit, I marched down the aisle, excusing myself as I sidestepped and squeezed between bodies. It was a relief to feel the blast of cold air as I pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked out into the clear November day.

After making my way across the parking lot, I leaned against my father’s black Mercedes, which was becoming conspicuously dated by the standards of my parents’ circle, and kept my eyes on the church’s front door, ready to bolt at the first sign of Parker. Tapping my foot like a metronome, I counted the seconds and became increasingly furious that my parents had the
audacity
to linger. Kat would never just
sit
here like this, waiting for them as they clasped hands and double-kissed friends and acquaintances.

The congregants had started to make their way outside,
forming cozy little groups as they stood chatting on the sidewalk. When I saw my mother’s silver bob emerge from the church, I gestured wildly for her to hurry up. She ignored me and rested her hand on the back of a chubby gray-haired woman with a body like a penguin. The penguin squawked in delighted surprise at the sight of my mother and the two began talking. My father stood with Reverend Cope and another older man who looked like a well-fed, aging Baldwin brother. I did not yet see Parker or Philip and surmised that they must be collecting their children from Sunday school. Seizing my opportunity, I darted into the crowd and interrupted my father.

After greeting Reverend Cope and the Baldwin with a quick hello, I asked my father for his car keys. “I’m not feeling well. I think I need to lie down.”

My father played up his parental concern just a bit for the benefit of his audience. “Why, sure, honey,” he said, reaching into his pocket with a creased brow. “Would you like me to walk you to the car?”

“No, I’m fine. Just feeling a little nauseated.” I scurried back to the car, got in the backseat, and lay down, hoping that I couldn’t be spotted by a passing Parker. As I lay there, with my knees hanging off the seat and my head wedged uncomfortably against the door, it occurred to me that this was probably the least elegant and mature way to handle the situation. Rather than hiding like an escaped convict, I should graciously approach Philip and Parker and exchange warm but restrained hellos; I should take whatever subtle barbs Parker might throw my way squarely on the chin and then tell her how nice it was to see her. Though I had no intention of budging from the backseat, at least I was able to identify the best course of action. That had to count for something.

. . .

After a few minutes I heard the passenger door swing open. “Well,” started my mother, sounding as upbeat as an Osmond, “you’ll never guess who I just saw. Parker Collins!”

“Are you kidding me?!” Still lying down, I smacked the leather seat back. “After what you just did, you are going to come out here and tell me that you saw
Parker Collins
.” Parker’s name came out in a mocking version of my mother’s singsongy southern chirp.

“Well, first of all, yes, it was lovely to see Parker.” Her tone was reprimanding and superior. “And as a matter of fact, I had a rather nice chat with her and her husband. She said that Lynn Arnold recommended this church and they’ve been coming for a few weeks now.”

“What?!” I gasped. “You talked to them?”

“Yes, I most certainly did. My goodness, Ellen,” she said, clearly ashamed of my behavior as I cowered in the backseat. “That man is your
employer
. And for your information, I told him how grateful you were to have that job.”

I covered my face, picturing Parker’s poised little smile as she listened to my mother go on and on about sad, childless, unemployed Ellen, and what an act of mercy it was for Philip to hire me.

“And I have no idea why you are so upset. Parker used to be one of your good friends.” On this I couldn’t entirely fault her. She never knew what happened with Parker, never knew that we weren’t just friends who drifted apart.

My father opened the driver’s side door and peered into the car while my mother and I initiated a brief and tacit cease-fire. It was clear that he had delayed joining the melee for as long as possible and decided to take preemptive action on the part of my
mother, unaware that we hadn’t even gotten to the bit about my loveless heart and lightless womb. “Ellen,” he began sternly, “your mother can’t be blamed for Thomas Cope’s interpretation of her prayer request.”

“Interpretation? How many ways are there to interpret that?” I said, lurching into an upright position. “He pretty much nailed all the bullet points, wouldn’t you say? And do you realize that Parker Collins is the
last
person on the planet I wanted to know that? You completely violated my privacy.”

Confused by the reference to someone named Parker, my father, who had never been much involved with our social lives, started the car.

“Ellen, you need to shed your pride,” scolded my mother.

“You need to cut all the religious shit! I don’t want to hear about how pride cometh before the fall. You
humiliated
me!”

“I will not apologize for requesting prayer for you. The Lord
answers
prayer.” She sounded more desperate than assured. “Where two or three are gathered in his name,” she began, referring to Matthew 18:20. But I cut her off, feeling my hot, red face tighten as I was hit with the full force of my aching sadness. I thought of the words that had come silently, the quiet pleas that had found their way to my lips, all those nights when I lay awake wondering if I was going to get pregnant, then whether Gary would come back.

“You think I haven’t prayed!?” I demanded. “You think I haven’t gotten down on my knees and
begged
God to give me a child?” I furiously swatted away the tears. “You think I didn’t pray that my husband wouldn’t
leave me
?” The sobs escaped from my chest and I could no longer speak. I collapsed weeping in the backseat, oblivious to everything but my grief.

. . .

The next morning, I woke up feeling that specific numbness that comes after all your pretenses are stolen. When you feel naked and beaten and lifeless. Shaking me wouldn’t have been enough to elicit a response. So in many ways, it was the perfect day for my first encounter with Parker.

It was just before lunch that I heard her unmistakable voice coming from the reception area on the floor below, echoing up to the mezzanine, where the partners had their offices. She was calling after her children, whose wild footsteps clamored across the marble floor toward the floating staircase. “Careful, Austin!” she yelled, and I could picture one of the towheaded children from the pictures on Philip’s desk leaping up two steps at a time. “Remember what happened when you slipped!”

A tall blond boy appeared first, dressed in a striped button-down and a pair of jeans. He looked to be about five years old and was followed by Parker. She held the hand of a little girl while balancing a toddler boy on her hip. From her seated position in church, I hadn’t noticed that she was pregnant.

“Ellen Carlisle!” she crooned upon seeing me, flashing me a perfect, bright white smile. She was wearing tan riding-style pants, tall, expensive-looking boots, and an olive cable-knit cashmere sweater that was stretched over her rounded stomach. Her straight blond bangs grazed her eyebrows and her long hair was pulled back into a smart ponytail. The overall look was frustratingly chic.

“Parker Collins,” I said. I intended it to come off as a cheery greeting, but instead it sounded like we were about to take twenty paces and draw our guns.

“Kent now,” she said with a smile. “When Philip told me that you were working here, I just
couldn’t
believe it.” There was an angle to her head and a narrowness in her eyes that suggested she wasn’t marveling simply at the coincidence, but rather at the state of my life. I felt vindicated in the fact that this was, after all, the same old Parker. I could indulge in my decades-old grudge without remorse.

Instead of taking the bait and explaining how I had found myself working for her husband, I focused on her children, getting up from my desk and squatting to talk to them.

“Hi!” I said to the oldest boy. “What’s your name?”

“Austin,” he said quietly as he tried to kick scuff marks onto the shiny wood floor with his shoe.

“And this is Avery,” said Parker, gesturing to the pretty little girl with the curly blond hair and her father’s intelligent eyes. She looked at me carefully, as if trying to discern something un-knowable.

“I’m three and a half,” reported Avery proudly, holding up three fingers on one hand. “I don’t have half a finger so I can only hold up three.”

“That’s right.” I laughed. “That’s very smart.”

The toddler made a series of noises that sounded like a demand to be put down, before wriggling out of Parker’s arms. “And that is Alden,” she said as he ran over to a potted ficus and began pulling the leaves off. “He’s my handful.”

“And you have another one on the way!” I exclaimed like a good little Girl Scout, pointing toward her belly.