Unforgotten by Kristen Heitzmann

of the year. His cell phone rang, and he told Monica the status and the doctor’s stipulations. She had taken all the children out to the park, and they’d have to find ways to keep them occupied for the next few days at least. No swarming Nonna. Only one person at a time. And he wasn’t the best choice anymore.
    “Pray,” he told Monica. And he should too. He hung up and looked at Rese. “Is it okay if we go to the church?”
    “Sure.” She looked relieved, actually. He must be really grim.
    They took the stairs down and out to the street, then walked the few blocks to the church. Mount Carmel had been the center of life in his neighborhood since the basement church was built in 1907. Now the triple-arched entrance between the two rusty-red brick towers embraced him. He and Rese arrived as the donne anziane, old women in their black scarves and thick stockings, were descending the pale stone stairs from the midday Italian Mass. Many of them greeted him, and he forced a smile as he led Rese inside.
    He lowered his head and settled on the kneeler. How many times had he ended up there, hoping God could fix something he’d messed up? He must have some kind of record for getting it wrong. In Sonoma when everything blew up, he’d tried to give it all to Rese; the deed, the money, tried to let her go, thinking that was God’s will. But when she wanted him to stay, it had seemed right to bring it all to Nonna, whose approval mattered as much to him at twenty-eight as it had at eight.
    But Nonna had asked for help, not a battle. Lord . He deserved the tongue-thrashing only she could deliver. Or could she? How much progress would be lost, and how frustrated would she be? He dropped his face to his hands. Lord, heal her. I’ll leave the past to the past. I don’t need answers. Just bring her back .
    He dropped his forehead to his hands and sank down until his backside rested against the pew with his knees still on the kneeler. He could remember Momma scolding him for slacking into that position. “Keep a straight back for the One whose back was scourged for you.”
    He meant no disrespect but drew himself up again anyway, sensing a perpetual incense inside the walls, not from the burning of gray powder, but of prayers raised to heaven in silent anticipation and faith. He could almost hear the murmur of whispers in the rafters and added his own.
    Into your heart, into your hand,
    All that I am, naked I stand.
    Selah, O Lord, Selah. In the silence you find me.
    Selah, my Lord, Selah. In the stillness refine me.
    His lyrics. The problem was he couldn’t get still, couldn’t find the silence. He needed the road. He stood up and motioned Rese out ahead of him, dropping down to genuflect before leaving. God had heard him, he was sure. But he didn’t know what the answer would be. And he couldn’t stand still to find out.
    ————
    Lance’s stride leaving the church meant trouble. He had obviously not found peace and comfort, even though she’d been amazed by the beauty inside, the adoration it inspired. Rese hadn’t expected the wealth of stained glass and marbled pillars, the carved and painted scenes along the walls and ceiling. She hadn’t thought to find any of that in a neighborhood church.
    But she hadn’t expected anything that had happened so far. A quick explanation of their plans, a sincere effort to set things right, a chance for Lance to bring his efforts for his grandmother to conclusion—that was what she’d expected. Now she worked to keep up as they descended the sun-warmed steps.
    “Lance?” she puffed.
    He didn’t respond for two blocks, or when they reached his apartment, or when he searched through the keys by the door and raised a ring wordlessly to Rico, who was practicing a drum riff with Star at his feet. Rico didn’t pause, merely nodded.
    Back downstairs and out the back this time, Lance used one key to unlock a lean-to in the courtyard, then wheeled out a Kawasaki so stripped it