Choose Me (15 page)

When she finally spoke, her voice was just above a whisper. “Are you okay now?”

“Oh, sure,” I said sarcastically. “Good as new.”

She looked down at her hands, which were interlocked in front of her, as we walked the next block without talking. I waited
for her to ask me what kind of cancer I had, which was usually the next question.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said nonchalantly. “I’m not going to die or anything like that. At least not anytime soon.”

We fell silent as we walked past a Burger King and Popeye’s Chicken interspersed with an Italian bistro and a tapa bar. She
kept nervously locking and unlocking her fingers at waist level, probably trying to decide whether it was appropriate to ask
more questions or just keep quiet. I decided for her.

“Anyway, the chemo’s supposed to cause your hair to fall out, but I was one of the lucky ones I guess. Kinky roots, ya know.
I felt like Samson, like my strength is in my hair. As long as I don’t cut my hair, the cancer won’t come back.”

“So, is that when you stopped praying? When you got cancer?”

“I don’t remember when it was, exactly.”

“Why do you smoke if you had cancer?”

“Why do people continue to have sex after they’ve had an STD? Why do people still sin after they’ve been saved? It’s hard
to be good. I
am
trying to quit. There are days I don’t smoke at all. I’m sure there’s something you do that you wish you could stop. Like
picking your nose or biting your toenails.”

She laughed and I was glad I was able to lighten the mood.

“I do not pick my nose,” she said.

“But you bite your toenails.”

“No.” She held up her hands. “I do bite my fingernails.”

“You see?”

“Biting your nails isn’t dangerous to your health.”

“It could be. You have dirt under your nails and when you put your nails in your mouth, it goes down into your stomach—”

“Okay, you win. But seriously, if you want to quit, I can say a prayer for you.”

“Are you serious?” I smiled, and started to laugh, but then I realized she was being earnest.

“Yes, I am.” She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Right here?” I looked around uncomfortably, as people walked around us, glancing over their shoulders to see what we were
going to do. But we were in Wicker Park, the home of eccentrics and freaks, so someone praying in the middle of the sidewalk
was not an oddity.

She stepped into the nearest doorway and I had no choice but to follow. She slipped her hands into mine and the softness of
her touch gave me chills. She closed her eyes, her lips moving as she prayed silently. I tried to be receptive of her intent
even though I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Feeling slightly dizzy and weak, I tried not to squirm as sweat trickled
from my temples, neck, and down my back. I thought maybe it was her touch, maybe it was the prayer, maybe it was just a combination
of the heat and coffee. Maybe.

“You can open your eyes,” I heard her say.

I didn’t realize I had closed them. She still had my hands in hers, but I felt like she was still talking to me with her eyes,
calling me closer. She pressed her lips together, perhaps to moisten them, maybe to give me a sign. I wasn’t sure. I found
myself unable to tear my eyes away from her lips, especially the thick bottom one, which looked swollen.

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t hear anything,” I said.

“Yeah, but did you feel it?”

I didn’t answer. Tentatively, I took a step toward her, but she abruptly released me and leaned back against the doorjamb.
I leaned back on my side.

“I can’t believe you have two kids in college,” I said, and the way she looked at me with that one eyebrow cocked, I knew
she was thinking it was a line.

“That’s usually what happens when you get married at nineteen.”

I waited for her to ask why I didn’t have any children, but she didn’t. Whether she cared or not, I couldn’t tell. Nevertheless,
I changed the subject.

“You know, when I used to go to church, and they prayed,” I recalled out loud, “they always made a big production out of it,
you know. Praying loud, in front of the church. It was never quiet like this, peaceful.”

“That’s how it used to be in the church I grew up in. Loud and scary,” she agreed. “Do you know Matthew six, verses five and
six?”

I shook my head, slightly contrite.

“It says, when you pray, don’t pray like the hypocrites who do it on street corners so they can be seen by others. It says
you should go into a closet and shut the door, pray to God in secret, and that which He sees in secret, will be rewarded in
the open.”

“Man, you’re deep into this Bible thing. Quoting scriptures and whatnot.”

“I don’t know many of them, but Matthew is my favorite. I think it contains just about everything that God is about.” She
looked down, slightly embarrassed, like she had said too much.

But she had said just enough.

A MULTICULTURAL CONGREGATION
and an energetic, humorous young pastor made TCCC one of the most popular churches in the Austin
area. Because of its proximity to Mt. Carmel University, a Christian college, there were many students, recent graduates,
and faculty who had joined the church over the years. Those who moved out of the neighborhood years before were now coming
back as gentrification threatened the diversity and spirit of the community. There were the usual elders who had been in church
all their lives and the families who had recently moved into the neighborhood, but the majority of its members were young,
single or divorced professionals with a commitment to community outreach. The church ran a day care center and an after-school
program, had its own Christian elementary school, and offered tutoring for dropouts and English classes for the growing influx
of Latino immigrants.

Because of its large number of unattached members and the recently married Pastor Zeke who had just turned forty-five, the
church was dubbed the Singles’ Church. It was Pastor Zeke’s mission to marry as many parishioners as possible, because he
believed man and woman were not meant to be single. The problem, of course, was the dilemma that plagued many churches, and
society in general—women outnumbered men.

As always, I listened to the pastor’s words with my eyes closed because I found that I was able to digest the Word better
that way. Now and then, I nodded or clapped in case Pastor Zeke looked my way and thought I was sleeping. I liked Pastor Zeke
because he never raised his voice in order to get his message across. He was like a father who believed he could be more effective
when chastising a child with a low, even-tempered voice than when yelling. I remembered going to my mother’s church as a child
and how the pastor would shout from the pulpit, with accusation and condemnation, as if we were doomed to be sinners forever
with no chance for redemption.

Like many of the churchwomen, I had developed a misplaced crush on Pastor Zeke when I first joined the church, much like a
misguided student who idolized a teacher who paid her special attention. When I first heard the pastor’s Texas accent and
watched him pace back and forth on the lectern, his hands gesticulating with passion, I was mesmerized. But it was the pitch
of his voice that most captivated me, the way it resonated with the emotion and conviction of the beat poets from the coffeehouses,
and how he paused after every two or three words, stretching his syllables and then accelerating without attention to punctuation.
It was unlike any preaching I had ever heard. As the months went by, my infatuation was soon replaced by my passion for the
message, disregarding the messenger.

The topic for that Sunday’s sermon was the pastor’s dominant theme: “Single People, Marriage, and God.”

“Let’s turn to First Corinthians, chapter seven, verses one and two,” Pastor Zeke continued. “‘
Now for the matters you wrote about: It is good for a man not to marry. But since there is so much immorality, let each man
have his own wife, and let each woman her own husband.’
Amen?”

A scattering of “Amens” resonated throughout the church.

The Oak Tree Man had come to me in a dream the night before, the branches hanging over his face like imitation dreadlocks.
In the dream, I had succeeded in removing the hidden leaves and revealing its face, a face with nondescript features that
looked at me in anticipation, as if it wanted to speak but couldn’t because the mouth was missing.

“I don’t think you heard me. I said, ‘Amen’?” Pastor Zeke repeated, briefly interrupting my fantasy. I envisioned the customary
unbroken grin on his face.

“Amen,” I whispered along with the chorus of Amens.

“It would be a wonderful world if we could be like Paul and refrain from touching the flesh,” the pastor surmised. “But we
are not like Paul. Amen? Single people, this is not your time to sample this flesh, and sample that flesh, like a child in
a candy store. This is your time to get closer to Him. Amen?”

“Amen,” I answered again, louder.

“Let’s move on. Corinthians seven, eight,
‘Now to the unmarried and the widows, I say: It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am…’”

My mind wandered and I thought back on my dream, how the branches had reached down and stroked my hair, my face, and my neck.
Then before I could move, the branches wrapped themselves around my neck, then my chest and waist, twisting tighter and tighter
until I couldn’t breathe.

“‘
BUT,
’ Paul says, Corinthians seven, nine—are you still with me, people?” the pastor asked, then paused for effect, waiting for
affirmation that everyone was still listening. And here his voice dropped almost to a whisper into the microphone, slowly
and with dramatic effort. “‘
But…if…they…cannot control themselves, they should marry: for it is better to marry than to hum.
’ Let me reiterate that in case you missed it: ‘
It is BETTER to marry than to BURN.’”

I felt a nudge at my right side, and then at my left, which forced me to open my eyes, slightly startled. I knew Simone and
Maya were referring to my abstinence, but their teasing couldn’t touch me. When I was listening to the Word, their mockery
rolled off my back.

On my right, Simone smiled at me. I had finally convinced the little heathen to come to church. She had yet to officially
join and accept salvation, but each time she appeared, I liked to think she was one step closer.

To my left, Maya was looking intently at the pastor, as if she hadn’t touched me. On her other side sat Marcos and Lucas,
and then Alex, who looked like he was losing the battle to stay awake. The boys were fraternal twins, and though they each
favored one parent more than the other, they looked enough alike that people often asked if they were twins, even though they
never dressed the same. Sometimes when I looked at Maya with her nuclear family, intact and happy, I wished I had never divorced
and had worked things out with Anthony. But I knew the portrait of a happy family was a façade that involved a lot of hard
work and tolerance behind the scenes. I knew what my sister had endured, was still enduring, and I knew that everything I
had been through—dealing with infidelity, divorce, single motherhood—had to come to pass in order for me to get where I was
currently.

I closed my eyes again and returned to my meditative state.

“Now, people ask me what ‘burn’ means in this context. King James says ‘burn’ and leaves it at that; NIV says ‘burn with passion.’”
Again, the pastor paused for effect. “I’ma let ya’ll figger that one out for yourselves,” he said, switching to slang for
the sake of the teenagers in the audience. Laughter echoed throughout the church.

I had awakened at dawn with a start, my heart pounding like my head during a migraine, searching blindly for my new medication.
My doctor had said it would take at least a month before the hallucinations stopped. I found myself thinking about Adam, about
his cancer, how I had held his hands, not really giving a second thought to my touching him until afterward. I remembered
him leaning in closer and how I panicked because I thought he was going to kiss me. As always when I was unable to sleep due
to anxiety or worry, I began praying. It took a while before I was able to drift back to sleep.

“They say women
want
to be married, but men
need
to be married.” Laughter rippled up and down the pews. “But I tell you, there is a difference between needing and wanting.
And God gives you what you need, not what you want. The way I see it, men, ya’ll
need
marriage more than the women
want
it.”

I felt the poke again, harder this time, from Maya’s side and my eyes flew open, just in time to see some women glancing with
reproach at their husbands and nodding in agreement. With her head, Maya gestured toward Alex who had drool sliding from his
mouth in his slumber. Maya shook her head in disgust. The boys giggled.

“Uh-oh, I done started a revolution up in here.” Pastor Zeke chuckled at his own words, an intoxicating laugh that made people
respond with more laughter. “A spiritual revolution. Amen? Amen.

“Just remember, when you’re struggling to stay faithful. Remember His awesome power. Remember His ultimate sacrifice. God
said that He would, and He will. He said that He could, and He can. Now, all you have to do is believe that He is and it shall
be.” At his trademark closing remarks, the congregation began clapping in a steady rhythm until it broke into all-out applause
and praises. My eyes still closed, I whispered, “Amen, Amen, Amen,” my hands coming together like they had a mind of their
own, still throbbing from the earlier praise and worship.

After altar call, I got up, following Maya, greeting and embracing fellow parishioners as we walked down the aisle. As we
neared the last pew, a red, green, and black cap caught my attention as it streamed through the doors. I strained to get a
better look, but there were too many people blocking my view. I thought maybe it was Adam taking me up on my invitation and
though I didn’t know every single member of the congregation, I knew who wasn’t. Outside, I glanced around the parking lot,
but the cap and its owner were gone.