There was a part of Corinne that kept waiting for her mom to show up at the flagpole.
Corinne wasn’t supposed to get away with this.
Corinne wasn’t supposed to have this. To have him.
When she saw her mother standing outside her apartment building, she thought for a moment that it was finally happening, that she’d come to haul Corinne away.
Her mother had never been to Corinne’s apartment building before. No one in her family had. Corinne was allowed into their world, with limitations. With rules. With the understanding that their way was the way, and that Corinne tacitly agreed with them. But Corinne’s world was the world.
“Do not love the world or the things in the world.
If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.”
Her mother was standing at the door, pressing Corinne’s buzzer.
Corinne walked up behind her, carrying an overnight bag, looking like she’d slept on someone else’s pillows. “Mom?”
Her mom turned around. “Corinne?”
They both stood there. Corinne lifted her chin.
Her mother was holding a paper bag. “I brought you kolaches,” she said.
“Kolaches?”
Her mother seemed distracted. Bothered. She was looking past Corinne, to see where she’d come from. “There’s a bakery, just around the corner. I went there with Marta, from church.”
Corinne nodded. She could see her mother’s breath.
“And I thought”—her mother was still looking past her—“Corinne used to love kolaches.”
“Come inside,” Corinne said. “We’ll have some.”
“Oh no.” Her mother’s face fell. “I couldn’t.”
Corinne moved past her to unlock the front door. She held the door open. “Mom. It’s cold out. Please come in.” Come inside, there isn’t a man in there. I’m obviously stumbling away from one.
Her mother stepped into the foyer, clinging to the paper bag. “I was just going to drop these off.”
Corinne headed up the stairs, and her mother followed, looking around the whole time, like something might jump out at her.
“Do you remember when we used to eat kolaches?”
“I think so,” Corinne said, opening her apartment door. “From that little grocery store, right?”
“That’s right.” Her mom took a small step inside. “We lived right above it.”
Corinne dropped her overnight bag as soon as she could. “Can I take your coat? I’ll make some tea.”
Her mom looked around the living room. “Oh no, I can’t stay long.”
“I’ll just make some for myself then,” Corinne said, walking toward the table.
“You don’t drink coffee?”
“No, I do. I just never learned to make it.”
Her mother turned to her, managing to look even more concerned. Like Corinne really was a godless heathen if she didn’t have a coffee maker.
Corinne swept papers and dirty mugs off her table. Everything was the way she’d left it last night. Why did that feel as damning as an unmade bed or an extra toothbrush by her sink? “Have a seat, Mom.”
Her mother sat. Still wearing her winter coat and her snowy boots. Still holding the paper bag.
Corinne went into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. “What’s the bakery called? That you found with Marta?” She was just going to brave her way through this. Even if it wasn’t bravery making her arms and legs move.
“It’s a Czech bakery…”
Corinne came back to the table. She set her laptop aside.
“Is this where you work?” her mom asked.
“It is.”
Her mom frowned at the table. Like she didn’t want to know this. She didn’t want to be here. She’d only been stopping by—which had obviously been a mistake. Look how good Corinne was at leading people off their path.
Corinne reached for the paper bag. “Do they need to be warmed up?”
Her mom looked at Corinne’s hands. She held on to the bag. “No.”
“I’ll get a plate for them.”
Corinne came back with three plates. (Corinne only had three plates. They’d come in a pack of four, and she’d broken one.) Her mother was sitting on the chair with the bag in her lap, like the situation would get worse if she relaxed even a little bit. She was wearing a printed skirt under her coat, and warm tights. She still wore her hair in a slightly immodest braid, with wavy tendrils falling around her face. That was probably what landed her her second husband. Those bohemian curls. It was the only thing Corinne had inherited from her. Her mother was small and plump, not fat, with big blue eyes and soft features. Corinne’s eyes were blue, too, but less convincingly, and her features were flinty and sharp. Corinne looked like her father—she must, because she didn’t look like anyone else. Maybe he was to blame for the rest of her, too.
Corinne set the plates on the table.
“Were you out having breakfast?” her mother asked. Hopefully.
Corinne didn’t know what to say. She still tried not to lie. And she hadn’t had a bite to eat at Enoch’s house. He’d left before she even woke up. Corinne had rolled out of bed and into her car—she probably still smelled like him. Would her mother touch her? Would she recognize the smell of the Millers’ dirty laundry?
“I’m still hungry,” Corinne said. “Is Earl Grey okay?”
Her mother looked down, she looked sad.
When Corinne came back with the tea, her mom had laid some of the kolaches out on one of the plates. She’d set the bag on the table.
“Oh,” Corinne said, looking at the round pastries, “I do remember these.”
Her mom lifted up her chin. “I used to buy them two for a dollar. We’d have them for dinner sometimes. Do you remember?”
“I think so,” Corinne said.
“Your favorite was the poppy-seed.” She pointed at one with a black center. “The woman at the bakery counter always thought it was funny that a little girl wanted to eat something so bitter.”
Corinne took it. “You have one, too. Don’t make me eat alone.”
Her mom chose one with red filling. Holding it gingerly. Like there was some rule about breaking bread with Corinne—there probably was a rule, but they’d already broken it. She’d already let Corinne back in. What was the boundary now? How far was Corinne allowed? She couldn’t see the line. She could only feel it.
Corinne took a bite. The pastry was mild and flaky. Nothing as buttery as a croissant. But more substantial. The filling was a bittersweet paste. It was familiar. Corinne thought maybe she did remember eating these. Even though she’d only been three. She hummed, for her mother’s sake.
Her mom hadn’t taken a bite. “You never see kolaches anymore, and when you do, you don’t see poppy-seed. When I saw they had them, I thought it must be a sign.” She glanced up, nervously, at Corinne. Signs and portents were dangerous to mention. Because you never knew who was sending them. They were like luck—too close to witchcraft. “I’d been praying about you just this morning, and there they were.”
She’d been praying about Corinne. She’d probably felt an ill wind. An angel probably flew directly from Enoch’s bedroom to wake her mother.
“I remember that apartment,” Corinne said. “Over the grocery store. My room was purple.”
Her mother’s shoulders dropped a little. Her eyes were cautiously eager. “That’s right. I painted it for you. It was hardly bigger than a closet. It was just you and me then. I’d just met your dad.” She meant Corinne’s stepdad, her first stepdad.
“There was a little kitchen, right? With a fern?”
Her mom’s blue eyes were bright. “Yes! I’ve never been able to grow a fern like that again! That one died when we moved. I grew it from a cutting our neighbor gave me. Peter. Do you remember him?” Her mother’s voice dropped—“He lived with another man. Even back then, in 1977. It was shameful. But he was always very kind to us. He gave me that fern. And he taught me how to make monkey bread. I still pray for him … Peter.” She shook her head. She looked down. Like she’d said too much. Maybe it was against the rules to even talk about bread. “Those were strange years,” she said. “We were so lost, you and me.”
I wasn’t lost, Corinne thought. I was where I was supposed to be. With you.
Corinne picked up her mug, trying to remember more. “I remember watching soap operas with you…”
Her mother smiled. Her shoulders a dropped a little farther from her ears. “You weren’t supposed to be watching those … If I’d known what a little sponge you were, I would have been more careful. I’ve never known another child with a mind like yours. You could memorize a scripture the first time you heard it. Do you remember Brother Miller, Bonnie’s husband?”
Corinne nodded.
“He used to say it was a shame you were born a girl. You could have gone onstage and done the whole Bible reading by heart!”
Corinne smiled. Her mother smiled back—and then her face fell. It was too much again, too far.
She wanted Corinne to remember the good times and the good places. She wanted her to remember the years when God’s light still fell on her, when she still had so much potential as one of His servants.
But there was no purely good memory. Not of Corinne. Corinne was tied to her mother’s sinful years and had never managed to wash that sin away. She’d carried it with her right into the Lord’s house. Right into the Millers’ house. Right into her own apartment.
Corinne, who was just coming home. Whose face was unwashed. Whose mouth looked kissed.
Her mother stood up. “I should go. I was just in the neighborhood, you know, and I thought of you.”
“I’m glad you stopped by.”
“Next time I’ll call.”
“You don’t have to. This was nice.”
Her mother was already moving toward the door. Corinne got up to follow her.
Normally her mom would hug her good-bye—she’d always been a warm person, she’d always been loving. The other sisters at church always said that she was too soft, that there was too much slack in Corinne’s leash.
Today she just squeezed Corinne’s arm. She reminded her about Sunday dinner. Corinne walked her down to the front door and watched her get into her car.
When Corinne got back up to her apartment, she went to the table to put away the extra kolaches. Her mother hadn’t touched hers. Corinne found a Bible tract stuck inside the paper bag. She took it out and opened it. There was an illustration of Jesus—His eyes shining, His arms outstretched. You, Too, Are a Child of God, it said.
She met Enoch for dinner. She brought the kolaches.