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After the service, Audrey drifts after her family into the meeting hall for “coffee and”. The room is low-ceilinged, with scrubbed grey floor tiles and harsh fluorescent lights. To step into it from the nave–so ornate, so rich–has always felt jarring to Audrey. She wonders at this, when it seems she of all people is most well-acquainted with a picturesque facade.
Her mother is on the outskirts of a group of middle-aged women, her friends, she says. Audrey wonders at this too. Johnny’s nurse is following her brother around patiently. Her father is holding court at the far end of the room, a big, important man surrounded by smaller, slightly less important men. He takes a bite of his donut and keeps talking, not noticing he has powdered sugar on the tip of his nose.
Audrey’s attention turns to the three folding tables under the windows, laden with styrofoam cups, plates, piles of napkins. Two large stainless steel coffee urns flank the assortment of cheap baked goods in plastic containers from the supermarket.
Audrey moves to the table, pulls away a cup and holds it under the tap for the decaf. As her cup fills, her gaze falls to the pile of donuts dusted in powdered sugar. A set of thin, freckled fingers captures one, bright red nails piercing the dough so jam oozes out. Audrey tries to hide behind her cup of coffee, but,
“Oh, hey, Audrey.”
Donna brings the donut to her lips, a napkin in her other hand held under her chin to catch the sugar that showers down. Audrey looks at her the same way she looks at everyone, a mix of guilt and envy. Next to Donna, she feels like the fluorescent lights and dirty tiles across from a stained glass window. Donna, who got the better home, the better father. The best friend.
“Hey, Donna.”
Donna smiles at her politely. She has a dusting of sugar on her lips. “I don’t usually see you at church.”
Audrey turns the cup in her hands. The styrofoam is thin, and she can feel the heat of the liquid against her palms. “I don’t usually go.”
“Laura always teases me for going along with my parents,” Donna says, and Audrey’s surprised, not at Laura’s teasing, which she would have expected, but that Donna would share that with her. Audrey’s been watching them since kindergarten, and it’s always been Laura-and-Donna, never Donna-and-Laura.
“So what, does that mean you believe in God?”
“Do you?” Donna counters, but she fiddles with the corner of her napkin, expression thoughtful. “I don’t really think about it.” She looks over her shoulder to the open doorway that leads to the nave. “But I guess it’s nice to think there’s some higher power out there, watching over us.”
Audrey nods and takes a sip of her coffee. Donna pops the last bit of donut into her mouth and folds her napkin into smaller and smaller triangles, then tucks it into the pocket of her jacket.
“You didn’t answer,” she says, catching Audrey with her eyes. “Do you think there’s a God?”
If there is a God, Audrey thinks, it’s not an all-powerful Father. I’ve had enough of those.
If there is a God, it’s the secret you swallow to keep the smile on your sister’s face. It’s deleting breathy messages from the answering machine in your father’s office. It’s doing a puzzle with your brother, one of the only things that will calm him down.
It’s dividing up a stash of white powder to flush down each toilet on the fourth floor of the hotel. It’s sneaking behind the perfume counter to steal away lists of high school girls’ names.
It’s a fast car for your eighteenth birthday and a straight, smooth road away from here.
She looks at Donna: naive, sheltered, going to brunch with her family just as soon as her mother finishes chatting with the choir director. She would give anything to take her place.
Audrey doesn’t answer her. Instead, she rubs her thumb lightly over her mouth. Donna’s eyes widen, and she gives Audrey an embarrassed sort of smile as she turns away to meet her family, wiping powdered sugar from her lips.