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Jake’s probably at home worrying about me right now, but I can’t help that. He’s always going to worry about me. Said so the day we got married.
I left the trailer in a kind of a whirlwind. Told him I had to go to the store to buy some tampons. It was the only excuse I could think of. Instead of heading to Walmart, though, I drove three miles in the opposite direction, where I’ve been parked for the past ten minutes, trying to work up the nerve to walk up to the door.
There’s no use asking what I’m doing here. Have you ever felt so compelled to do something you couldn’t even explain it to yourself? Maybe that’s why the salmon always travel up those streams to spawn. They probably don’t have a clue why they’re doing it. They just know that if they don’t, something inside them will break or they’ll die a terrifying, violent death.
I’m staring at the sign of Orchard Grove Bible Church. It’s got one of those changeable message boards where preachers can put little wisecracks. This one says Honk if you love Jesus. Text while you drive if you want to meet him. I wonder if it was the pastor who came up with it or someone else.
I feel like the biggest idiot in the history of the world. I don’t even know what I’m going to say once I go in. But I feel even more stupid sitting out here in the parking lot, so I finally get out of the car and head up the walkway. The church has two entrances. I wonder if I’m supposed to use the big one that leads straight to the sanctuary or if they want you to use the side door on weekdays. Does it matter?
I try the smaller door, but it’s locked. So is the main one. Great. There’s not any way for me to get in. I’m about to go to the car and run to Walmart since there’s absolutely nothing else for me to do here when a man comes out of the little house beside the church.
“Can I help you?”
It takes me a few seconds to recognize him without the fancy shirt and tie. He’s in athletic pants, the kind that swish when you walk, and an LA Lakers hoodie.
LA Lakers? Does he know what decade we’re in?
I’m so startled to see him like this, I don’t know what to say. I’m about to stammer something about forgetting my Bible here on Sunday when he comes towards me and stretches out his hand.
“I’m Greg. Is there something I can do for you?”
I’m staring at the ground. The pastor’s wearing faded faux leather slippers in the snow.
I take his hand, feeling a swoosh in my stomach like I haven’t experienced since the first few months of the pregnancy.
“I was actually looking for somebody.” My face is hot. I remind myself to be assertive. There’s nothing in this world more annoying than a mousy woman. I square my shoulders. “That old lady who spoke after the sermon. Your, umm, your grandma. I mean, your grandmother-in-law. Is she ... Does she happen to live here with you?”
The pastor squints his eyes at me. I’m almost certain he’s got some Native American heritage, but there’s a small chance it’s Hispanic. Or maybe a little of both.
“Grandma Lucy?” he asks.
I nod my head, trying to convince myself that he probably has two or three people a month show up in front of his house wanting to know the same thing.
“She’s not actually a relative,” he explains. “That’s just what people in the church call her. She lives down on Baxter Loop. The big farmhouse there with all the goats running around.”
Goats? I don’t know what part of town he means, but I guess that’s what GPS is for.
He tilts his head to the side.
“Did you need her for something?”
I force myself to laugh. “Oh, nothing serious. It was just that, well, she said something I’ve been meaning to talk to her about.”
He nods his head. Maybe he does get regular visitors stopping here asking about her.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say.
“It’s really no trouble. I’ve got to salt this walkway anyway.”
I wonder if he’s going to change into winter boots first. Or at least shoes that are designed for outdoors.
“Be careful not to slip,” he tells me as I make my way back to the car.
Safe inside Jake’s Pontiac, I open up Google Maps.
I’ve got to find this Baxter Loop.