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“Whatever you’re about to say,” I cut her off, “and whatever the end of that sentence is … I’m gonna leave you alone with it. I have had enough damned self-reflection this whole Thanksgiving break. I think it’s about time you have some of your own, to show you what this town is turning you into.”
My mom’s jaw drops halfway down her neck. And that’s just how I leave her: jaw-dropped and speechless, as I head toward the main chapel myself, ready to find a seat—and maybe Toby, too.
Well, that’s how I try to leave her, but the moment I’m inside the chapel, she grips my arm and pulls me behind a potted plant. She’s in my face at once. “How dare you say that!” she hisses, nearly inaudible as the chapel fills with the noise of incoming people. “I am not some anti-feminist, scheme-hearted villain you claim I am!”
“You’re right. You’re not,” I agree with her, catching her off-guard. “And that’s exactly why I said what I said, Mom. Shouldn’t we both be trying not to repeat our past mistakes? Shouldn’t we both be trying to do better here? Better than in New York? Better than in Chicago? You said it yourself: Spruce has a heart. You were born here. That means you have that heart, too.” I gently take hold of my mom’s arms. “Find that heart in you again, Mom. Find that heart … and do the right thing.”
Despite the indignant way my mother’s jaw remains dropped, something softens in her eyes, like crying without tears.
Then my father finds us, returning from some conversation, and smiles as he kisses his still-stunned wife on the cheek. Totally oblivious to her state, he takes her from me and walks down the aisle toward some seats.
After a moment to collect my emotions—and remind myself why I’m here at all—I slowly follow the two of them at a distance, then scoot onto the bench next to my dad. My eyes continue to float over the sea of heads in search of Toby. I know he’s out there. He has to be. He told me once how he goes to church sometimes, depending on his family (i.e. his dad’s hangover state and whether his mom worked late at Lucille’s). As I finger my phone in my pocket, I remind myself I don’t want to be the one to break my own word and call or text him out of desperation. It needs to be Toby who decides to talk to me and work things out. That’s the only way.
The ball is in his … whatever.
And while I think about the country boy who currently keeps my heart in a jar up on a shelf in his little backyard shed, my eyes spot a different face, seated right up in the front of the room. At first, I don’t recognize him from behind, dolled up in a shirt and tie, and even despite his perfect part of hair. But when he turns his face slightly to talk to someone, recognition hits me like a red slip of fabric flung in front of the face of a bull.
It’s Hoyt fricking Nowak.
At once, I have an instinct to hop off the bench, march up to that front row, and knock that smirk right off his face. Even if he hasn’t seen me yet—and isn’t actually wearing a smirk right now. But in the spirit of everything Toby said to me, which has burned deeply into my mind, I push down all of my rage, take a breath, and simply resign myself to glaring at the back of Hoyt’s head. That results in my foot bouncing agitatedly in place.
The room quiets as the reverend—a surprisingly young man in his twenties—takes the pulpit and gives us a broad smile. He starts out by thanking everyone for coming and for joining him on a lovely Sunday morning for prayer, reflection, and communion. “I see some new faces,” he also adds, and his eyes land on me with a deepening smile. “I’m glad you all have joined us. Though I must say, you all might be gettin’ the raw end of the deal. My dad only recently stepped down, and I’ve got an awful big pair of shoes to fill. Not that his feet were particularly big,” he then adds, inspiring a modest wave of chuckles. “But … well, you know. If we haven’t met yet, I’m Trey Arnold-Davis, and my sermon today is about a deceptively simple virtue: honesty, and forgiving ourselves when we face our inner demons and find, in a moment of weakness, that we cannot stand up to them. Oh, oops, before I forget.” He clears his throat and lifts a tiny sheet of paper, reading from it. “The ‘Overcoming Trauma’ group led by my dear husband Cody has been moved to Tuesday evenings, and he politely asks we not start calling them Trauma Tuesdays.” Another light wave of chuckles. “In all seriousness, it is an important group, and they do amazing work in helping us live with and move past our worst wounds. And now,” he says grandly, spreading his hands, “a word about truth.”
