I HAVE STEPPED INTO AN ERA THAT I CAN’T PLACE. I am somewhere between the reign of feudal lords and horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone. Even the air is thicker, pasty once you cross the threshold. Part medieval convent and part Greek temple, the cathedral was rebuilt in 1851, according to a loud-mouthed tour guide. The ceilings arch in complicated patterns, covered in ornate paintings. Fat, ivory pillars hold them up, ushering you toward the altar on the dais—a giant Mediterranean tabernacle with statues of angels and saints crowning each of its peaks, the Christian version of the Parthenon.

I make my way slowly up the center aisle, running my fingers along the tops of the polished wooden pews. I wonder if they use Murphy’s Oil Soap here too and smile thinking of Moony standing beside me. She would have loved to come here for Mass. She would sit in rapt attention, her rounded back leaning hard against one of these pews. When I was little, she let me bring my coloring books to church. But it’s been a long time since I sat through a real Catholic mass. And I don’t have the piety that she’d hoped I would.

I let my eyes fall slowly over the arcs and sags that define the Cathedral, not sure what I’m looking for. The longer I stand on this checkered floor, the more I feel like I am part of the attraction, like someone else is letting their eyes dance over me. People mill all around me. I try not to get shifty, to cast suspicious sidelong glances. I think that Mary’s paranoia is infecting me a bit, and anyway, churches have always made me uncomfortable—too many eyes, all that breath in one room, the presumptuousness of the furnishings. I respected Moony’s faith, but I nearly kissed her feet in gratitude when she finally told me to stay home on Sunday morning. Now, I start to feel pinched between the orderly rows of pews, the imposing Greek altar, and the throngs of strangers using their phones as cameras.

The saints creep me out, poised over everyone, glaring down from their posts on the tabernacle. They make me feel small—wrong. Especially the three across the top, each holding a gift like they’re the Magi at the nativity. Only instead of frankincense and myrrh, there’s an anchor, a cross and chalice, and two children. Their gazes pin me to the floor.

Standing here, like a miniature Alice having passed through the looking glass, I feel more my mother’s daughter than I have in years. I do not understand this place. I do not understand Moony. I am losing my grip on myself.