Salty But Lit

The engine of the Wagoneer cut out, leaving us in a sudden, ringing silence. Outside, the afternoon sun baked the church parking lot's asphalt, trying to melt the snow, but inside, we lingered in the warmth. We sat there for a few minutes, neither of us ready to move, just clicking our aluminum cans of sparkling water against our teeth. I took a final, sharp swallow, the bubbles stinging my throat, and set the can in the cupholder with a definitive thud.

“Shall we?” I asked, my hand already on the door handle.

As we stepped out, the cold, crisp air hit us, thick and heavy. I noticed Sam’s posture shift immediately. His shoulders tightened, and his stride broke into a hurried, uneven rhythm. Suddenly, his fingers clamped around my hand, his grip almost painful.

“For a second,” he whispered, his eyes darting toward a couple near the side entrance, “I thought that was them. My heart just about hit my throat.”

I followed his gaze. I squeezed his hand back, trying to ground him. “No, Sam, look closer. It’s not them. She just has that same ‘Dutch perm,’ the tight, silver shelf of hair that your mother and many other ninety-year-old women in this zip code seem to favor.”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath, and we kept walking.

When we pushed through the heavy oak doors, the scent of lilies hit us like a wall, sweet, cloying, and unmistakable. The atrium was a sea of hushed whispers and rustling fabric. Small clusters of people stood in the shadows, most of them a generation or two older than us, their faces etched with the kind of weary sorrow that comes from attending too many of these.

We moved into the sanctuary. The space was soaring and airy, filled with the bright, brassy resonance of the Big River Symphony quartet. The music didn't feel mournful; it felt triumphant, vibrating through the wooden pews and into the soles of my shoes. We walked down the left aisle, past the altar. Habit almost pulled me to my knees in a genuflection, but I caught myself. This wasn't the ornate, ritualistic Catholic world I’d grown up in; this was a Congregational church, Barbara’s home for sixty years. This was where she had chaired committees, organized bake sale, and lived out her quiet, steady life.

We slid into a pew six rows from the front. I moved all the way to the center aisle, wanting a clear view. A side door opened, and Barbara’s family filed in, a somber procession of black wool and silk, taking their places in the first three rows.

The pastor, a woman with brown hair and a soothing voice, began to speak. She didn't paint a portrait of a saint, but of a woman. She called Barbara a "pillar," but she emphasized that Barbara’s strength wasn't just in her checkbook; it was in her presence. "She was a faithful servant who didn't need to tell you how deep her faith was," the pastor said, leaning over the pulpit. "She showed you by how she treated the stranger, the neighbor, and the friend. She was a truth-teller, someone who could hold her own opinion firmly but listen to yours with an open heart."

As she spoke, my mind drifted back to a rainy afternoon at a garden dedication. Barbara had been there, radiant as ever. She’d leaned in and told me, with a bit of a mischievous glint in her eye, that she’d be flying down to Florida soon on a chartered jet with my in-laws.

I remembered the dark joke I’d made to my friend Betsey afterward: “I guess I have to stop praying for that plane to go down if Barbara is on it.” But the joke had a bitter edge. I remembered grabbing Betsey’s arm, my voice low and desperate. “Betsey, I need you to tell her. Someone needs to tell Barbara the truth about what Susan has done to us. She needs to know who she’s really flying with.”

“I will,” Betsey had promised. “I’ll tell her.”

A sudden sob broke the silence of the sanctuary, snapping me back to the present. Barbara’s son was at the podium now. He looked fragile. “Before my mother passed,” he said, his voice cracking, “she said something to my wife. She called it the best gift she could have ever given her...” He stopped, choking back a sob, unable to finish the sentence. He never told us what the words were, but the look of peace on his wife’s face in the front row said enough.

The service flowed on, a tapestry of stories about Barbara’s bright outfits, her booming laugh that could reach the back of the hall, her love for a stiff martini, and her well-worn Bible. She was a force of nature. As I listened, a pang of envy twisted in my chest. To me, Barbara was the blueprint of what a mother-in-law should be. I only knew her because of Susan, which was the ultimate irony. I had to thank my enemy for introducing me to my hero.

When the final hymn began, we stood up. Sam leaned into my ear, his breath warm. “I hope you have a shit-eating grin on your face,” he whispered.

I frowned, looking at him sideways. “What? Why?”

He didn't say a word. He just tilted his head toward the upper right corner of the sanctuary. High on the wall, a small black camera lens was pointed directly at the congregation.

“You know my mother is watching the livestream,” he whispered. “She wouldn't miss the chance to see who showed up and what they’re wearing.”

I looked at the camera. I didn't grin, but a small, sharp smirk touched my lips. I thought of Susan, sitting alone at her computer, peering into a world of grace and love that she had no part in creating.

Later, the Wagoneer became a sanctuary of our own as we pulled out of the lot.

“That was a lovely service,” I said, watching the church fade in the rearview mirror. “I hope that when my time comes, I’m remembered like that. With that much genuine light.” I paused, my voice hardening just a fraction. “No one could ever say those words about your mother. Not a single one of them.”

Sam stared at the road ahead. “What do you think Barbara said to his wife? The ‘gift’?”

“I don't know for sure,” I said, leaning my head against the window. “But I know what I hope she said. I hope she said, ‘Thank you for loving my son. Thank you for being the daughter I chose.’ And Sam? My gut tells me that on that last plane ride to Florida, Barbara finally had that talk with your mother. I think she told Susan exactly how cruel she’s been to us.”

I thought about the strange, polite notes that had started arriving from his parents around his birthday, the sudden, desperate attempts at being “nice."

“It’s too little, and it’s certainly too late,” I said. “I’m done being sad over them. I want to be like Barbara; I’m choosing joy. We tried to change them, but they’ll go to their graves exactly as they are, miserable and living in the dark. I’m stepping into the light instead. Like the priest said this morning, I’m going to ‘stay salty but lit.’”

Sam reached over, found my hand, and squeezed. This time, his grip wasn't tight with fear. It was just steady.