Page 68 of The Love Operation

This time the little licking boy locks eyes with me. Unblinking. Defiant. And then, in slow motion, he reaches into the ear of the older gentleman next to him, plucks out a hearing aid like it’s treasure, and pops it into his mouth.

I am aghast. Agog.

Isaac turns to me—probably because I let out some unholy sound of agog-ment.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

I grab a Bible and flip through it, pretending to follow along, but I haven’t the foggiest what the priest is saying.

Beside me, Isaac’s posture remains attentive. His family—neat and composed, like an orderly row of disciples—haven’t noticed a thing.

I sneak another glance at the child, who now removes the hearing aid from his mouth and shoves it back into the man’s ear. Only then does the man stir, fingers fluttering in vague confusion. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. He’s in church. He’s trapped by reverence.

Laughter crouches in my throat, ready to pounce.

Dear God, help me.

But even God must see the humor in this because the kid looks at me again—and smiles a toothless grin. This tells me he’s older than I thought, which makes it even worse.

I lose it. My body shakes like a plane in turbulence. Not even a scowl from Isaac’s mom or his sharp elbow to my ribs can stop the tears from streaming down my face.

I try. My effort is valiant. But I know when I’ve lost. I nod to the little boy in appreciation and excuse myself.

In the vestibule, it takes a solid ten minutes to get control of myself. But when I open the door to go back in, the laughter bubbles up all over again.

There’s no going back in there. One look at that kid’s face, and I’m toast.

So I stay out. I even skip communion. I know it’s a faux pas, that my absence will likely be frowned upon, but it’s better than guffawing in the middle of a sermon.

“Your mom already hates me,” I say once we’re in Isaac’s car, heading to his parents’ house.

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“You didn’t see the look of outrage on her face. I might as well have juggled communion wafers.”

He smiles, half amused. “She’s a little on the strict side. We’ll explain. It’ll be fine.”

But I’m not sure it will.

I adjust the dress Isaac convinced me to wear today. I’d planned on a very presentable, spring-appropriate blazer, but he said I’d fit in better in a dress. That gave me pause. But the second I saw all the women in his family, I knew he was right. Now, post laughing fit, I’m glad I wore the dress.

“I am so sorry,” I tell his mom the second we step inside. I tell everyone the story. They all laugh.

Except Patrice.

She smiles politely. “Come to the kitchen, Cordelia. Let’s get lunch ready.”

All the women—Patrice, Isaac’s sister, his sister-in-law, and me—head to the kitchen while the men go outside, where lunch will be served. It’s subtle, but unmistakable: Isaac wasn’t lying when he said his family was “on the traditional side.”

Patrice orchestrates the food prep. The ladies set the table. The men join us only when Patrice calls them over. If anyone needs anything, Patrice runs to get it.

Isaac’s mother: Patrice Thompson. Ageless. The lady of the house.

Chief identifying characteristics (preliminary, of course): On the stern side. Clearly takes pride in caring for her family—and expects everyone else to do the same. Makes hosting look effortless but likely keeps a mental tally of who didn’t offer to help. Probably has a favorite child but would never admit it. Definitely treats the men differently from the women.

Physical exam: Tall, regal White female. Pearl earrings. Stylish shoulder-length golden-brown hair—salon approved. Scented like rose water and competence. Hugs are brief but warm.