CC: It Wasn't Just Sunday

I hope I brought out the frozen beef for lunch. 

“Ma’am … “

I can’t imagine the extra hours I would have to put into our dinner had I not.

“Sorry, excuse me ma’am…” 

Wait, what about the frozen vegetables? I worry, gently rubbing my fingertips against my forehead, smoothing the lines that are starting to form. Voices begin to resound around me, but I can't seem to find where it's coming from. With my hands over my ears, the sounds become muffled. But it’s not enough. I need it to stop. Can someone please make it st—  

“MA’AM.” I jump, then quickly look to my left to see an outstretched book. A young lady stares back at me with a smile, “Sorry for startling you, but would you like a hymn book? We are singing ‘O come to thy altar’ now, and it’s not televised on the screen,” she says in a low voice, pointing at the screen hovering at the upper left corner of the church. 

My face turns so hot that I quickly look down and run my hands over my dress, straightening the invisible wrinkles. I rub my hands down my dress a couple more times, while quickly glancing around to make sure that no one noticed. I lock eyes with someone, Mrs John, but she quickly turns away. Some others are staring too. 

What's going on? Did I not dress appropriately for church? I'm wearing light makeup and pearl earrings today. Those old ladies possibly can't find anything to pick on today. I'm not in the mood for their cr—, right? rig—

“Yes,” I whisper. Then, in a clearer tone, I reply, “Yes, that would be lovely,” looking at her again, then taking the hymn book from her hand. “Please, what page can I find the song?” I ask. 

She smiles softly then replies, “Page 72, ma'am.” 

“Thank you, dear” 

“Of course. Enjoy the service!” she exclaims, then goes on to the next pew, offering a hymn book once again. 

I quickly joined in singing the hymn, catching up to everyone else, who were already on the last verse. I can’t believe I didn’t hear anything until now. Flustered, I take out my handkerchief from my purse and quickly dab on my forehead, feeling sweat soak into the fabric. By the time I’m done, the presiding pastor is already saying the closing prayers. 

“Finally, let us pray for our loved ones who have left this world to be with Christ in heaven. We should rejoice because through their faith in Christ, they are saved, and they have gone to be with the Lord and remain with Him eternally in heaven... AMEN.” I pray for my father, remembering his tragic death from cancer a few years ago. Tears swell up in my eyes, and I dab at them and blink quickly, hoping they subside. 

I feel the warmth of a familiar hand gently rubbing on my shoulder. “It’s going to be alright,” I hear, and immediately relax. Hearing those words, I say a silent prayer, and slowly the sadness gradually subsides. 

“Thank you all for coming, and have a blessed Sunday!” the pastor says, and the service comes to an end. 

The closing procession immediately follows, and soon after, everyone is filing out of the church, embracing one another before leaving and saying their goodbyes. I speak to some women too on my way out, but I can hardly remember the conversations. Their words jumble up in my head, and I cannot form a coherent response to them. 

The Sunday sun beats heavily against us, and all the women have their fans out. Our perfumes mingle with the air, and it suddenly becomes hard to breathe. A sharp pain goes through my head, and I quickly rub my hands against my temples, hoping to ease the pain. I definitely need to take a short nap before I start making Sunday lunch. 

Excusing myself from the conversation, I begin to walk away. “I don't think Mrs Benedict should be here,” someone says before I get too far. Why shouldn’t I be here? Dismissing them, I survey my surroundings, looking for a man in a dark blue suit. I walk to the corner near the church doors, where I saw him last. 

“Claudia?” Someone calls out. 

I turn to my left to see an elderly woman approaching me. Her short curly grey hair covers her head with a fascinator pinned at the top. She's wearing a simple black gown with pearls decorating her ears and neck. Once she's in front of me, I notice her grave look. She takes hold of my hand and gives me a firm squeeze. Peering into her eyes, I try to figure out what’s wrong, but I’m met with eyes that look so terrifyingly sad, I pull back in shock. But she takes my hand again and tightens her grip, stopping me from leaving.

Dreadfully, I ask, “Mariam, what’s wrong?”

But she doesn’t reply, instead, with tears brimming at her eyes, she says, “I’m sure you’ve heard this all day…” her voice thin, “Have a happy Sunday, my dear, and know I’m always here for you.” But Mariam barely gets the words out of her mouth. Her shaky voice and sad expression frighten me, and as if noticing my discomfort, she gently smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Honey, are you ready to go?” Sharply, I turn back towards the church doors at the sound of his voice. My husband faces me with a huge grin on his face. I return with a smile and begin to approach him, just to feel the pressure of Mariam’s hands on mine. 

In confusion, I forcefully pull Mariam's hands away, and she almost falls, but someone catches her. I want to help her, but I have to get to him now. Without apologising, I start to walk away, but a hand grabs onto my arm. The young lady from before stares at me. But her cheerful expression is replaced with a sad one. With glassy eyes, she tries to give me a smile, but fails horribly.

Slowly, I search the faces of everyone around me. And they stare back at me. All with the same expression. All just like Mariam. 

Then I turn to her again. Someone is holding her up. She is trembling so much that my anxiety heightens, and my throat constricts. I can't swallow, I can't move, I can't speak.

Clearing my throat, I finally ask, “What happened, Mariam?”

She looks at me with tears streaming down her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words don’t come out. Instead, she turns away from me, and I hear her sobbing. I knew then (or I remembered?)

As if pulled by a force, my head turns sharply back to the church doors. Standing large and imposing, with its beautiful carvings of the cross stretching across it and its rich brown colour, he was meant to be standing there. 

But he isn’t

An immense pain goes through my head, and I cry out, falling to my knees. A voice begins to play in my head, and I clutch it so tightly, hoping to make it stop. But the voice repeats the same words:  “Katelyn Jones, James Benedict, Dorothy Cullen, and Mary Johnson, with death comes life with God in heaven. May their souls rest in peace. AMEN”

James benedict, James benedict, James benedict. 

He’s dead. He’s not here. He was never here. Then how did I get to church? James always drives. Who did I plan to make dinner for? Whose hand was on my shoulder? When was his name called? Beads of sweat form on my forehead, and I can barely stand. I'm shaking, and the trembling of my hands refuses to stop. I wrap my arms over myself and hunch over when a piercing scream sounds in the air. 

It echoes all around me, the last worse than the one before. 

It's so painful to hear that I begin to claw at my ears, trying to drown the sound. My throat hurts so much as if someone drove a knife into it, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. 

I hear the scream again, so piercing that I choke.

Then I realise, it's ME.