Level 2 (Memory Chronicles) (5 page)

Has Beckah ceased to exist? Or has she moved on to another plane? Up until the last six months of my life, I had little interest in church and religion, but I knew enough about heaven that I’m pretty sure this can’t be it. Could it be some sort of purgatory? Or even hell?

I get the impulse to hear Pastor Joe’s sermon about heaven, to see if it might give me some clue as to where we are and where Beckah might now have gone. He preached it the first Sunday I attended Central Christian with my grandmother, after being banished by Mother for being a security risk to her job. It was also the first time I met Neil.

I search through my folders until I find it, and I’m in.

Ward, Felicia. Memory #31655

Tags: Ohio, Neil, Heaven, Amazing singing voice, Church

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The bitter January wind whirls brittle leaves around the shiny black leather pumps Grammy insisted a proper young
lady should wear to church, and it whips at my shin-length skirt. I have one hand at my throat, clutching the cashmere of my Burberry scarf, a relic from a time when I could actually sort of afford one. I’m glad Grammy doesn’t consider plaid as unladylike as flats and as sinful as skirts that fall above the knee.

My other arm is linked with Grammy’s, and we are inching up the stairs that lead to the grand front doors of Central Christian Chapel. When I saw the handicap accessible ramp leading into the back door, I nudged her in that direction, but this is another comfort Grammy deems improper. She’ll come in the front entrance or she’ll stay home.

Once we finally reach the door, I push it open, only to be greeted by a wildly overenthusiastic girl my age.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ward!” She rigorously shakes Grammy’s hand and then mauls me with a hug. “You must be Felicia! Your grandmother has told us so much about you.” She pulls back and beams at me, seemingly unfazed by my stiff posture and deer-in-headlights expression. “Come, we’ll have Mr. Eaton escort your grandmother to her usual pew, and you’ll sit with all of us up front.”

“Good morning, Savannah,” Grammy says. I expect her to make a stand, but she nods primly and gestures at an elderly gentleman who must be Mr. Eaton. “Enjoy the sermon, Felicia. I’ll see you at the end of the service.”

“I’ll introduce her to the whole group,” Savannah says. My insides clench at the thought of meeting so many new people. She prods me in the side with her pink
crystal-encrusted Bible. “Let’s go! We want to make sure we get seats on the left side. It has the best view. You’ll see.”

Since Grammy has clearly dismissed me, I follow Savannah, wondering what kind of view she could be talking about. There are moderately impressive stained-glass windows along both sides of the chapel, depicting angels and people from biblical stories, but I can’t see that the ones on the left, which appear to be mainly from the Old Testament, are any more worth viewing than the New Testament scenes on the right side. The space behind the pulpit is sparsely decorated. There’s a cross over the baptistery and two doors, one on either side, that lead to the two sets of steps flanking the chancel. An upright piano and a scattering of empty chairs occupy the left side of the chancel, a single half pew the right. All in all, it’s a spare building, a pale imitation of the richly adorned cathedrals of Europe.

“Here we are.” Savannah stops short of the pew in the second row and gestures as if presenting me my prize winnings on a game show. “The best seats in the house.”

I shrug off my coat and fold it into my lap as I sit down, hugging it to me in an attempt to keep the intoxicating effects of Savannah’s bubbly energy cocktail from spilling over and soaking into my pores. Savannah sits beside me, unzipping but not bothering to remove her jacket. “I’d keep that close.” She pats my coat. “It does tend to get drafty in here.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I hope I don’t sound as crabby as I feel.

If I do, Savannah doesn’t remark on it. She points out various people to me and feeds me tidbits about their small-town lives, barely taking breaths between her exclamations. Soon enough a group of girls files in from the other side of the pew and squishes in next to me. Savannah introduces us. Their waves and greetings seem muted after Savannah’s, though they are still far peppier than I am used to this early on a Sunday morning.

The girl to my right adjusts her glasses and then reaches over me to squeeze Savannah’s arm. “How was your date last night?” she whispers loudly.

Savannah flutters her eyelids and takes a deep breath. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

Glasses Girl pulls back and nudges me in the ribs with her elbow. “What about you, Felicia? Do you have a boyfriend?”

The word “boyfriend” dredges up thoughts of Julian. Not that he was really my boyfriend, or that I’ll ever see him again. “No.” I don’t feel the need to elaborate.

Thankfully, Glasses Girl turns away and starts up a hushed conversation with the other girls. Savannah checks her watch and tells me the service is starting.

As if on cue, the door to the right of the pulpit opens, revealing an ancient woman who hobbles in and sits at the piano. She arranges her sheet music and perches a pair of bifocals on her nose. Other musicians trickle in and find their seats. I feel Savannah tense beside me, and there is a collective holding of breath. Then an unassuming young
man with unruly brown curls enters, guitar in hand, and closes the door behind him. The congregation breathes out in what seems like a mix of relief and anticipation. I half expect them to start clapping.

As the band launches into a hymn I don’t recognize, the young man makes his way over to the pulpit, swings the guitar strap over his shoulder, and starts strumming. He looks heavenward and sings in a pure, rich baritone. The effect on the crowd is immediate. Savannah and the other girls gaze at him with rapt expressions. He’s incredible, even to someone like me, who, thanks to my father’s work as a composer, has attended countless concerts by world-class singers.

It’s both the emotion in his voice and the words he sings that penetrate me to my core.
“Blessed be the tie that binds . . . When we asunder part, / It gives us inward pain; / But we shall still be joined in heart, / And hope to meet again.”
Too soon the hymn is over, and there are tears brimming in my eyes. I hastily wipe them away with the end of my scarf, hoping no one has seen.

The young man backs away from the pulpit and sits in the last empty chair on the far left. An older man in a suit advances reverently to the microphone. “That’s my dad,” Savannah breathes into my ear. “He’s chairman of the deacons.” Her intrusion startles me, but she seems oblivious.

“Thank you, Neil.” After a pause Savannah’s father makes some church-related announcements, asks for prayer requests, and gives a report of Reverend Lewis’s adventures in East Africa, where he’s on his month-long mission.

Pretending to pay attention, I study Neil from the corner of my eye. Objectively he’s not the type who would usually turn my head. He’s cute enough, in an earnest, squeaky-clean kind of way, if a bit on the skinny side—but nowhere near as striking as Julian. He’s clearly focused on what Savannah’s father is saying, and rewards his clunky attempts at jokes with generous, dimpled smiles.

“Let us now go to the Lord in prayer,” says Savannah’s father.

All heads bow around me as he begins to pray. Neil is totally immersed in the act of talking to God, eyes squeezed shut and lips mumbling. It’s such a raw, personal moment that I have to avert my gaze. I study my hands, noticing the chip in my nail polish on my ring finger. Grammy will be apoplectic if she sees.

“Let us all stand and raise our voices in praise of Him!” Savannah’s father relinquishes his place at the pulpit, and Neil bounds up, guitar ready to rock. The congregation stands as the band plays an up-tempo tune. Everyone seems to know the words but me.

“Are the words printed in those?” I ask Savannah, indicating the leather-bound volumes on the back of each pew.

She giggles. “No,” she whispers into my ear, and pulls out papers from her purse. “We’re too modern here for those old things. Here’s a bulletin.”

I check the song text and sing along, grudgingly at first. The energy in the room is infectious, and soon I can’t help but smile as my voice lifts praises upward.

In the middle of the fourth song, Savannah peels off her jacket and lets it fall onto the pew behind her. She pulls her hair together over one shoulder and smiles brightly at me. “If anything can lift your spirits, it’s Neil Corbet and the Central Christian Worship Band.”

The final song is a slow, meditative number, and everyone, including Neil, closes their eyes for this one. Again I feel like I’ve interrupted a private moment, so I close my eyes too and let the congregation’s voices wash over me. Neil’s voice soars above them all, and a wave of happiness, so rare these days, spreads through my body.

The music stops. The spell broken, we all sit down again. The worship band members put their instruments down in their chairs and make their way to seats saved for them in the audience. I can’t help but notice that Neil eschews the front rows for a place toward the back next to a couple who could be his parents.

Savannah’s father returns to the pulpit and introduces Pastor Joe, the youth pastor, as the one who will deliver the sermon today in Reverend Lewis’s absence.

Pastor Joe takes the stage. He’s in his midthirties, casually dressed in khakis and a sweater, with thinning reddish hair and a ruddy complexion. He has a serious look about him, but his first words surprise me: “Is heaven boring? Are we just going to sing and listen to angels strum harps all day, every day for the rest of eternity?”

The youth group around me titters.

“Some people say that if that’s all heaven is, then they’d
rather take their chances in hell. They say unrepentant sinners have all the fun, which we know not to be the case. Now, I’m not going to tell you all the reasons you don’t want to be in hell. Instead I’m going to tell you why you do want to go to heaven.

“Revelation chapter seven, verse sixteen tells us that in heaven, ‘Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat.’ Folks, that means there is no more suffering in heaven. We can lay down our burdens at the foot of the Lord.”

Pastor Joe goes on with his sermon, but I let my mind wander, catching only bits and pieces: “. . . where moth and rust do not destroy—God’s city is adorned with jewels and its streets are paved in gold—for I go to prepare a place for you . . .”

He speaks for a good forty minutes, so long that even Savannah’s attention wanes. She’s doodling hearts in the church bulletin around the notes she’s taken on the sermon.

Finally Pastor Joe leads us in the final prayer and dismisses us.

Savannah folds her papers into her Bible and gathers up her jacket and mittens. We both stand, and Savannah pulls me into the aisle.

“Doesn’t Neil have the best voice?” she says as we join the crowd making its way to the front exit. “We keep telling him he needs to try out for one of those talent shows on TV.”

“He does.” I unfold my coat and put it on, debating whether I should ask Savannah to tell me more about Neil. I know she must have the scoop.

But before I can decide what, if anything, to ask, Savannah does a scan of the sanctuary and breaks out in a flurry of spastic waving. She touches my arm. “It was such a pleasure to chat with you!” And then she rushes off, pushing through the few people behind us, back toward the pulpit, where her friends stand.

I continue my slow march toward the doors and shake my head at Savannah’s use of the word “chat.” “Monologue” is more like it. And though I’m relieved to be released from her constant barrage of information, I can’t deny that it was nice to have someone treat me like I’m a normal human being rather than a social pariah.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s Neil.

“Felicia?” There is a note of uncertainty in his voice, though I instantly thrill at the way he says my name. It has never sounded so beautiful.

“Neil?” I phrase it as a question, though obviously I know it’s him.

He relaxes and smiles warmly. “I see my reputation precedes me! Excellent.”

“You’re only the shining star of the world-class Central Christian Worship Band,” I say.

“You liked it?” He seems surprised but pleased. “Your grandmother tells me you play piano. You might have noticed we can use some fresh blood.” He’s right about that.
No one in the band other than Neil looks a day under fifty.

“You want me to try out?” I purse my lips, a pound irritated but a pinch grateful that Grammy has apparently been talking me up.

“You wouldn’t have to try out.” His tone is casual, inviting. “I’ve heard some of your recordings, and someone with your talent is welcome to join anytime. Mrs. Fogarty and her arthritic fingers would thank you.”

“It’s nice of you to think of me.” I look down and busy myself by buttoning up my coat. I fiddle with the top button that always gives me trouble. “But I don’t play anymore.” I can’t even look at the piano without thinking about how horribly I let down my father.

Neil doesn’t say anything, but I see a flash of concern play across his features. “I don’t know if I should say anything, but—”

“You shouldn’t,” I blurt, cutting him off.

Neil seems to consider this a minute, and then pats my shoulder carefully, as if I might shatter and spread my shards all over the holy house of God. “It was great to finally meet you.”

Grammy calls my name. I nod curtly at Neil and trudge over to where Grammy is standing with Mr. Eaton. As I guide Grammy back out the door toward her old Crown Victoria station wagon, I risk a peek over my shoulder and see Neil through the open door, still in the same spot, watching me with a bemused smile. And I have to smile too.

I surface from the
memory and am met by Julian’s stare. He’s standing on the stair outside my chamber.

“Time to go.” He says it softly, as if he regrets waking me.

I lift myself up on my elbows. Seeing him here overwhelms me. What if he’s the one who took Beckah? He had access to her, after all. “What are you doing here? Do you know where Beckah is?”