Sliding my finger under the tape, I take a moment to admire the simple, yet elegant wrapping. Judging by the crafty, Americana feel of the inside of Nora’s house, I don’t even have to question if she wrapped this herself. Martha Stewart would be proud. Actually, she wouldn’t even bat a perfectly-placed eyelash. Martha’s not a very nice person, and her garden parties are kind of boring. The stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines on the coffee table tells me to keep this information to myself—it’d just break Nora’s heart.
Peeling open the paper, my eyes fall on a black, leather-bound Book of Common Prayer. This is the main prayer book for Episcopal churches. In it are all the prayers we say in every church service, as well as prayers for holidays, weddings, funerals, and other occasions. Seeing the gold cross embossed on the front reminds me how deeply I miss my Episcopal services. The stained glass, the hymns, the Nicene Creed, and prayer of confession. The pageantry always centered me, which is why the relatively bare walls of New Life and stripped down “you and God only” prayers were hard to adjust to. I’m used to it now, but this book feels like my entire religious experience all in one. More so than the Bible, honestly.
“Nora,” I whisper, my mouth gaping and my eyes moving between hers and the book. “It’s … oh my … really?”
She smiles, biting her bottom lip. “Is it okay?”
Dropping the wrapping paper, I turn the book over and flip through the pages. On the bottom right-hand side is my name, in the same gold as the cross. Kennedy Sawyer.
“Why did you? How …”
“I grew up in the Episcopal church. I’ve always loved the prayers.”
Meeting her eyes again, I step forward and give her another hug. “This is one of the best presents I’ve ever received. Thank you, Nora.”
My mind wanders to the words of the Nicene Creed. I can no longer view them through Anglican lenses only. Especially the bit that states we acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. Growing up, I always just took that to mean one should be baptized. But, in the walls of New Life and CU, baptism is a whole other thing. For now, though, I’ll snuggle in the soft comfort of my religious roots.
“You’re welcome, Dear.” Inhaling deeply, she pats the back of my head and squeezes me once, really tight, before letting go.
Quietly, she slips inside, and I lean against the rail, snapping a picture of the book and texting it to Mollie.
Mollie: From Gramma Abbot?
She’s fluid with terminology.
Me: Yes. Sweet, right?
Mollie: I like what I’ve seen so far. How’s the rest of the fam?
I pause a moment before I answer. The kids have been great, as I guess kids usually are, but after spending most of my life as an only child—since Jenny lived with her mom 75% of the time—I don’t really have a kid barometer.
Me: They’re interesting. And interested in me. I play with them, so it’s not really that hard.
Mollie: And the brother and sister?
Me: Julia (sister) and her husband Carl have been great. Joking around with me. The brother’s wife Lindsay has been sweet, but Geoff seems a little weird. Not rude. Just … weird.
Mollie chimes back rather quickly.
Mollie: Need I remind you that they have kids named Jacob and Marley?
I laugh, loving how Mollie found it as ridiculous as I did. Glancing up, I see said awkward relative shuffling toward me, alone with his hands in his pockets.
Me: Point taken. He’s here, though, gg. XO
Mollie: XO
Tucking my phone into my sweatshirt pocket, I look up to greet Geoff, only to find that he’s plodded down the steps and lit a cigarette by the pool, noticeably out of view of any windows.
Alrighty then …
I bend down and pick up the wrapping paper I’d let fall earlier, and when I look up, Geoff is eyeing me through a cloud of smoke seemingly suspended in front of his face.
“Don’t tattle,” he says, kind of lightly. His accent is much thicker than the rest of the family’s, and it’s hard for me to tell when people with southern accents are joking.
I just hold up my hands and shake my head, miming that I don’t intend to. I make for the door, but his voice stops me.
“I’m sorry if I seem rude. This isn’t easy for me.”
Oh, not easy for you? Here, let me console you …
Stop.
“What?” I ask, trying to sound innocent as I walk over to his smoky corner. Like I hadn’t heard his words clearly and then judged him without mercy.
Geoff takes a deep inhale and keeps it there, starting his sentence with a lung full of smoke, slowly exhaling as his words go on. “He wasn’t always like this, you know. It wasn’t always good.”
Tell me more about how my recovering alcoholic, pastor birth father wasn’t always on the societal up and up.
Seriously, Kennedy, stop. Before it flies out of your mouth.
“I, uh, can imagine.” I shrug and cut myself some slack, letting a little slide out of my mouth. “Given he signed his rights away … and didn’t really know about me until I was five … and didn’t meet me for a few years after that.”
Holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, Geoff takes one last drag before stomping the butt into the gravel beneath his feet. Once it’s out, he picks it up and shoves it in his pocket, I assume to avoid getting caught somehow, though his smell should give him away.