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Authors: Jana Bommersbach
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shouldn’t have died. It astonished her that this could have happened. In Northville, of all places.
The hearts that were broken belonged to people she knew and loved. Nettie, who’d already lost so much and now this. Poor old Gertie, whose grief had to be unbearable. Her mom and dad. Neighbors. Cousins. Her mind swept the few streets of Northville, and Joya couldn’t imagine a single citizen who wasn’t heartbroken.
Even if there’d been time—even if she could have gotten off work on the spur of the moment and could afford a last-minute flight to Fargo, Joya wouldn’t have gone home for the funeral. Not now. Not with the biggest story of her life staring her in the face.
She’d send a condolence card and next week she’d call Gertie, and for now, she’d say a prayer for Amber.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, October 20, 1999
Gertie Bach was always the first to arrive at the church basement the days the Judith Circle handled the funeral dinner.
As Circle president, she was in charge and took her responsibilities seriously. By the time everyone else arrived two hours before the funeral mass, she’d have everything set out for the makings of the casserole they always served.
But nobody was expecting Gertie today—not when it was Amber they were cooking for. That hadn’t stopped Gertie from coming even earlier than usual. At seven a.m. she pulled up to the side of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church—the tallest building in Northville, next to the water tower.
She’d driven the eight blocks from her two-bedroom home without the usual anxiety she felt lately whenever she was behind the wheel. She’d have to give up the car soon, but really, she’d never had an accident and the few close calls weren’t her fault, anyway. Losing her independence, losing her mobility, becoming one of those old people who has to be hauled around everywhere, always bothering someone…Gertie dreaded that day. Whenever she put the key in the ignition, she said a special prayer to St. Christopher to get her wherever she was going without hurting anyone. Today there wasn’t a single soul on Main Street during her trip to the church, which was a blessing, since Gertie was operating only on autopilot.
She had gotten into the car in her driveway without bemoaning, as she did every single day, that Leo Marx hadn’t put in his garden this year, which was a sure sign he was ready to die. She’d started the car without her prayer and if St. Christopher—who wasn’t even officially a saint anymore, but Gertie didn’t care—were indeed watching over her, he was disappointed he wasn’t called on to help today.
Gertie pulled out of the driveway without seeing the Johnson boy’s car parked at Linda Myers house again, and her not even divorced yet. She’d made the first turn without noting the White Church was almost through the regular painting that gave it its name. She was halfway down Main Street without noticing the drug store remodeling she’d been monitoring all summer. She never saw the two pickups she could have hit in front of Harley’s Hardware that always opened early for the farmers. Her friend Rose had a prize-winning garden across from the church that was in full bloom—the Peggy Lee roses were particularly wonderful this year—but Gertie didn’t see a single petal. She hadn’t even looked in the car’s mirror to realize she’d forgotten to comb out her roller curls. She looked like she was on her way to the beauty parlor.
Gertie entered through the church basement door and made her way immediately to the back steps, climbing slowly to the sanctuary. This was automatic, too, since her memory banks knew these steps like a pair of old shoes. Once her cane hit the marble floor of the main church, its echo brought her back to the present moment.
She found herself at the back of the massive, ornate church where she’d been baptized eighty-two years ago, a church she’d cleaned and tended and fussed over all these
The hearts that were broken belonged to people she knew and loved. Nettie, who’d already lost so much and now this. Poor old Gertie, whose grief had to be unbearable. Her mom and dad. Neighbors. Cousins. Her mind swept the few streets of Northville, and Joya couldn’t imagine a single citizen who wasn’t heartbroken.
Even if there’d been time—even if she could have gotten off work on the spur of the moment and could afford a last-minute flight to Fargo, Joya wouldn’t have gone home for the funeral. Not now. Not with the biggest story of her life staring her in the face.
She’d send a condolence card and next week she’d call Gertie, and for now, she’d say a prayer for Amber.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, October 20, 1999
Gertie Bach was always the first to arrive at the church basement the days the Judith Circle handled the funeral dinner.
As Circle president, she was in charge and took her responsibilities seriously. By the time everyone else arrived two hours before the funeral mass, she’d have everything set out for the makings of the casserole they always served.
But nobody was expecting Gertie today—not when it was Amber they were cooking for. That hadn’t stopped Gertie from coming even earlier than usual. At seven a.m. she pulled up to the side of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church—the tallest building in Northville, next to the water tower.
She’d driven the eight blocks from her two-bedroom home without the usual anxiety she felt lately whenever she was behind the wheel. She’d have to give up the car soon, but really, she’d never had an accident and the few close calls weren’t her fault, anyway. Losing her independence, losing her mobility, becoming one of those old people who has to be hauled around everywhere, always bothering someone…Gertie dreaded that day. Whenever she put the key in the ignition, she said a special prayer to St. Christopher to get her wherever she was going without hurting anyone. Today there wasn’t a single soul on Main Street during her trip to the church, which was a blessing, since Gertie was operating only on autopilot.
She had gotten into the car in her driveway without bemoaning, as she did every single day, that Leo Marx hadn’t put in his garden this year, which was a sure sign he was ready to die. She’d started the car without her prayer and if St. Christopher—who wasn’t even officially a saint anymore, but Gertie didn’t care—were indeed watching over her, he was disappointed he wasn’t called on to help today.
Gertie pulled out of the driveway without seeing the Johnson boy’s car parked at Linda Myers house again, and her not even divorced yet. She’d made the first turn without noting the White Church was almost through the regular painting that gave it its name. She was halfway down Main Street without noticing the drug store remodeling she’d been monitoring all summer. She never saw the two pickups she could have hit in front of Harley’s Hardware that always opened early for the farmers. Her friend Rose had a prize-winning garden across from the church that was in full bloom—the Peggy Lee roses were particularly wonderful this year—but Gertie didn’t see a single petal. She hadn’t even looked in the car’s mirror to realize she’d forgotten to comb out her roller curls. She looked like she was on her way to the beauty parlor.
Gertie entered through the church basement door and made her way immediately to the back steps, climbing slowly to the sanctuary. This was automatic, too, since her memory banks knew these steps like a pair of old shoes. Once her cane hit the marble floor of the main church, its echo brought her back to the present moment.
She found herself at the back of the massive, ornate church where she’d been baptized eighty-two years ago, a church she’d cleaned and tended and fussed over all these
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