The Mothers(15)

Nadia had told Luke the kissing story once and he’d laughed into his pillow.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“Aw, come on,” he said. “That shit was so long ago. And how you think she hates you? You never even talk to her.”

“I can tell by the way she looks at me.”

“She looks at everyone like that. That’s just how she looks.”

He’d rolled over in bed, burying his face in her neck, but she twisted out of his arms, feeling under the covers for her panties. She never stayed long when she visited him. It was thrilling at first—fucking in a pastor’s house—but after, the thrill faded into panic and she imagined footsteps outside the door, keys jingling, cars pulling into the driveway. Luke’s mother dragging her naked out of the bed, shaking her wrist. Luke thought her paranoia was funny but she didn’t want to give his mother another reason to hate her. She had hoped someday that Luke might bring her home, not sneak her in his bedroom when his parents were gone, but invite her to dinner. He would introduce her as his girlfriend and his mother would drape an arm across her shoulders and guide her to the table.

Her father turned the silver Chevy Malibu into the parking lot, cruising toward the church entrance. She felt her stomach thrum.

“I could find another job,” she said. “If you just give me a little time—”

“Go on,” her father said, unlocking the door. “You don’t want to be late.”

She had never been in Upper Room during the week, and as soon as she pushed open the heavy double doors, she felt like she was trespassing. The church, crowded and bustling on Sunday morning, was now wrapped in quiet, the halls darkened, the main foyer, with its sprawling blue carpet, empty. She felt almost disappointed by how plain the unoccupied building seemed, like how once at Disneyland, Space Mountain had stopped mid-ride and the lights flashed on, revealing that she was only in a gray warehouse, riding along a track with tiny drops that had only seemed exciting in the haze of special effects. She followed a dark corridor toward the back of the building, past the Sunday School room where she had reported, dutifully, from kindergarten to the eighth grade, past the choir room and the pastor’s office, down to the first lady’s office at the end of the hall. The room spread regally in front of her, mahogany furniture gleaming under the sunlight, tiny potted palm trees sprouting out of every corner. Mrs. Sheppard leaned against the desk, her arms folded. She was tall—at least six feet—and in her red skirt suit and matching high heels, she towered over Nadia.

“Well, come on in,” she said. “Don’t just stand there.”

She had always seemed intimidating, if not because of her height or her title or the way she walked slowly as she talked, like a panther stalking its prey, then because of her odd eyes. One brown and one blue, the coldness of that blue eye forcing Nadia to stare at the ground whenever the first lady passed her in the church lobby.

“How old are you, honey?” Mrs. Sheppard asked.

“Seventeen,” Nadia said softly.

“Seventeen.” Mrs. Sheppard paused, glancing in the doorway as if she expected a better girl to walk through it. “And you going off to school somewhere in the fall?”

“Michigan,” she said, but her response felt bare, so she added, “ma’am.”

“Studying what?”

“I don’t know yet. But I want to go to law school.”

“Well, college girl like you must be smart. You ever work in an office?”

“No ma’am.”

“But you worked before. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Doing what?”

“I was a cashier once, in the mall. And I also worked at Jojo’s Juicery.”

“Jojo’s Juicery.” Mrs. Sheppard pursed her lips. “Well, look. I never had an assistant and I never needed one. But my husband seems to think I could use some help. So let’s find you something to do, okay?”

She sent Nadia to bring her a cup of coffee from the pastor’s office. As she headed down the hall, Nadia glanced out the window overlooking the parking lot. On the lawn in front of the church, little children played tag in the grass. Summer day camp, she figured, but she still paused, squinting, as she spotted, in the midst of the chaos, Aubrey Evans. Of course Aubrey would spend her summer at church—of course she had nothing better to do. She was wearing a stupid safari hat and baggy cargo shorts, and she loped slowly toward kids who scattered as soon as she drew near. She let most escape her grasp, but in the end, she caught a slow one, sweeping him into her arms as he squealed, kicking his little legs in the air. In another life, maybe, Nadia could have been like her. Playing in the summer morning, scooping up a child who smiled, grateful to be caught by her.

—

HER FIRST WEEKS working at Upper Room, Nadia and her father fell into a routine: wake early, eat silently, and climb into the loaner car. He would drop her off on his way to work. On the drive over, her father would complain about the different steering or how he hated sitting this low in traffic, but she knew he only missed his truck because while it was in the shop, he couldn’t serve Upper Room. After work, he lingered in the kitchen, patting his pockets like he’d stepped inside a stranger’s house and didn’t know what to do with himself. Should he leave his shoes by the door? Where was the bathroom? He eventually filed outside to lift weights in the backyard, like a prisoner quietly biding his time.