Nicole Young - Kill Me If You Can

Before I knew it, Sunday morning rolled around. Instead of getting dressed in ski gear for an outing after church like Brad and his sister Samantha would be doing back in Rawlings, I put on a mid-calf-length denim skirt over tall boots. Long johns underneath and a turtleneck over top along with my jean jacket completed my winter fashion.

I started my Explorer and let it warm while I had a cup of coffee. I’d seen the community church at the top of the hill in Port Silvan. I had no idea what to expect, only that I’d really enjoyed the people and sermons at the church back in Rawlings. I hoped I’d get the same warm welcome at my “home” church that I’d gotten as a stranger downstate.

I climbed behind the wheel and pulled down the driveway. Ten minutes later, I parked behind the traditional white church building. Bells in the steeple rang as I walked through the door. I snuck into a vacant back pew and fumbled to find the opening hymn.

The music swelled against the white walls of the spacious sanctuary. Stained-glass windows in cheerful colors showed simple renderings of Noah’s ark, a rainbow, a dove, and other religious symbols. A plain wooden cross filled the space above the altar.

There were about thirty people in attendance, many a trifle on the elderly side. I looked down at the notes in front of me, disappointed there weren’t more people my age.

Off to my left, a baby cried. I craned for a peek at the parents. Along the opposite aisle, a young woman stood at a pew with an infant around six months old in her arms. Blonde hair fell in thick waves to the woman’s shoulders. She looked frazzled as she tried first a pacifier then a bottle to soothe the baby. Next to them, a golden-haired girl not more than four years old doodled with a crayon.

The hymn ended and the congregation sat. A man wearing khakis and a flannel shirt stood at the podium and began the service.

The baby let out a wail.

“Was that an ‘amen’ I heard from the back corner?” the leader joked, getting a round of chuckles. He launched into announcements.

His jovial voice blurred into the background as I watched the woman try frantically to stop the crying. She looked on the verge of tears as she grabbed the four-year-old’s hand and left the sanctuary.

Empathy pulled at me. I snuck out the door behind her into the large fellowship hall. A rear corner served as a makeshift nursery, its boundaries formed by a sofa and plush rug. The woman sat in a glider, soothing the baby. The young girl picked through a toy box.

“Hi.” I stepped toward the little family. “Any way I can help?”

The mother looked like she was holding back tears herself. Her golden hair was tousled and one edge of her blouse had pulled out of her skirt. “He’ll stop in a minute. He’s just cranky this morning.” The woman patted the baby’s back. “I’m sorry if he disturbed you. I try not to let the kids get too carried away in there.”

“Disturb me? It’s so wonderful to see children at church.” I gave a quirk of my lip. “Not too many at this one, huh?”

“No.” She managed a smile. “Are you visiting relatives in town? We don’t get many tourists this time of year.”

I hesitated, not wanting to share too much information. Still, what did it matter after the clerk at Sinclair’s probably already broadcast the news? “Actually, I just moved to the area. I bought an old log cabin that I used to spend summers in as a kid.”

“Oh? Whereabouts is it?” she asked. The baby in her arms calmed to whimper level.

“Just past Cupid’s Creek.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “That must be the old Russo place. I’m surprised they let it out of the family.”

“It turns out they didn’t.” I shifted, giving a sidelong glance at the floor. “Bernard Russo is my grandfather.”

Her eyes opened wide. For some reason, I rushed to explain, or apologize, or something. “But I only found out I was related to him after I bought the house. I don’t even remember my grandfather and now I own his old hunting lodge. Weird, huh?”

“Was your mom the one that . . .” Her voice petered off.

“Killed herself? Yep. That was my mom.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, you didn’t. Don’t worry about it. It’s all water under the bridge. I’m okay with it. Really.” The more I babbled, the less believable I sounded. Even to myself. I gave a half grin. “Let’s start over. My name is Patricia Amble. You can call me Tish.”

“Hi, Tish. I’m Melissa Belmont. Everybody calls me Missy. I live up on River Street, in that rose-colored house toward the end.” She reached over and smoothed the toddler’s curls. “This is Hannah. And the baby is Andrew.”

“They’re beautiful kids. I hope they get some playmates here soon.”

Missy’s pretty features collapsed into a pained frown. “Oh, they will. I’ve already got another one on the way.”

I blinked, surprised at her forlorn tone. “Congratulations.”

“I wish I could say I was happy about it. But it comes as a big surprise. And at a bad time.”

I didn’t want to minimize her situation, but I also didn’t want to play into some pity party. “I’m sure you’ll make the best of it,” was all I could think to say.

At my words, a veil dropped over her face. I flinched with guilt. Maybe she’d wanted to talk to me about her situation and I’d just slammed the door in her face.

I backtracked. “What I meant to say was, is there anything I can do to help?” She’d probably never take me up on it, but it felt good to make the offer.

Missy gave a look of hope. “I’ll think about that. Thank you for asking.”

I glanced at her left hand and saw the flash of a diamond ring. “Is your husband in there? Because if you want to join him, I can watch the kids.”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t come to church.”

I reached for the baby. “Even more reason for you to get back in there. No sense in dressing everybody up and rushing over here if you don’t even get to hear the sermon.”

She hesitated a brief moment, then let me take the baby.

“I’ll come rescue you if he cries.” She stood and headed for the sanctuary. “Thank you, Tish. Hannah, you be a good girl.”

The door closed behind Missy. I sat in the glider with baby Andrew on my lap. He twisted up his face. For a minute I thought he was going to cry. But soon he found the zipper pull on one side of my jean jacket. Chubby fingers strained to drag the mechanism up and down the track. His forehead furrowed in concentration. Pudgy baby lips jutted out with the effort.

I drank in his clean, fresh baby scent. His warmth and weight there on my lap sent love flooding through my veins like a caffeine fix. I pictured my own kid bouncing on my knee. His head would be topped with Brad’s dark hair, he’d have Brad’s straight, serious lips . . .

Baby Andrew held his breath and grunted. Suddenly, a mini mortar exploded on my thigh. With my self-preservation instinct operating in full gear, I lifted the baby like a hot-air balloon and set him on the floor. I dug through the diaper bag Missy had left behind and found a rattle. Andrew shoved the toy in his mouth and sucked on it. His face turned red, then back to white, like an errant Christmas bulb.

The next few minutes passed in relative peace. Hannah occupied herself with a chunky manger scene puzzle. Andrew continued a project of his own. Then the odor hit.

Hannah spoke without looking up. “Andrew’s got a stinky.”

“I know. I think church is almost over. Your mom will be here soon.”

Hannah paused and swung her blue eyes my way. “You should change him so he doesn’t go ballistic.”

Her matter-of-fact tone as she said the big word made me smile. “Think you can help me with that?”