Free Distant Memory by Alton L. Gansky

think of worse things,” Lisa said.
    Nick rose and said, “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to use the little trucker’s room.”
    Lisa chuckled. “Okay.” She watched Nick work his way through the crowded dining area and down the hall that led to the rest rooms. Turning her attention to the window, she watched as cars drove by and pedestrians strolled along the concrete sidewalk. Nick had called the town Fillmore, and it looked like a sleepy bedroom community with a four-lane highway through the middle of it. Oak trees lined the street. There was a certain charm to the neighborhood, and some of the buildings looked like throwbacks to the early fifties.
    A structure across the street caught her eye. Its dilapidated condition struck her. Then something visceral moved her. The building was an old, whitewashed clapboard church with a towering steeple. Even from her position in the restaurant she could see that the building had been unused for years. It was a token of a different time, a monument to a different era.
    A scene began to play across her mind: Women dressed in bright, flowery dresses, white gloves, and broad-brimmed hats stood outside the church door; men in suits chatted with each other; children scampered across the lot in a playful game of chase. In the doorway stood a tall, gray-haired minister, dressed in a long black robe. He was holding a Bible and talking to a young couple. It was a happy scene, a peaceful portrait that beckoned to her. Emptiness welled up within her, a longing to be in that place at that time and surrounded by those happy - people.
    Massive waves of sorrow washed over her. Missing. Her past was all gone, having disappeared in an event she couldn’t remember for a reason she couldn’t recall. In her mind’s eye the minister looked up, across the street, and through the window where she sat. He smiled and raised a friendly hand.
    Lisa started for the door.

C HAPTER 5
Tuesday, 1:45 P.M.
    L isa didn’t know how she had got to the other side of the street from the Taco Bell, but she had somehow crossed the busy avenue without being hit. She was vaguely aware of a car horn and shouted insults. She stood on an ancient, fractured macadam parking lot where thick-stalked weeds had pushed their way through the cracks in the pavement. It had been years since any vehicle filled with worshipers had parked here.
    The building in front of her was in a similar condition of disrepair. Paint peeled from the wood siding, dust covered the stained-glass windows, and spiders had built elaborate webs at the base of the building and around the windows and doors. A series of five wooden steps bridged the distance between the lot and the floor of the church building. Lisa took them carefully, listening as they offered squeaky protestations. To her relief, they held her weight.
    A pair of doors at the top of the stairs had been carved with the image of a cross. Carelessly nailed to them was the sign: C ONDEMNED . U NSAFE . N O T RESPASSING . Lisa was unable to turn and leave. The song “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” began to play in her head. It was as if she could hear the long-missing congregation singing inside. She closed her eyes and listened: “…  tune my heart to sing thy grace! Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.”
    Looking down, Lisa saw a tarnished bronze doorknob. She touchedit and turned the knob. Locked. She turned it again, as hard as she - could, but the lock held. Then she pushed, and the door rattled on its hinges, giving a little. She pushed again, this time harder, and the door sprang open, the tongue of the lock tearing through the rotting wood of the jamb. An eerie squeal erupted from the rusted hinges and echoed through the empty narthex. Inside the small entry was a wooden slat floor covered in undisturbed dust. A piece of yellowed paper lay in the dirt. A cockroach ran across it, and Lisa shivered. Old posters for Sunday school and mission