After he begrudgingly left my apartment without getting laid, I looked around at the sparse furnishings I had left to pack. Since we’d decided I was moving into Caine’s place, we’d been taking stuff there over the last month. Pretty much the only things left to box up were my wall of framed pictures, my books, and some personal things in the bathroom. I took on the books first and then moved to the wall.
I’d added some new pictures to my display over the last year: Caine and me at my graduation from grad school. I was facing the camera, smiling proudly about getting my degree, and Caine was looking at me with the same proud smile. Me and the crew from O’Leary’s on my last night working there. Charlie had his arm draped around my shoulder. He’d been a hard sell on accepting that Caine wasn’t a violent criminal. Ultimately, one night after Caine and I were back together, I’d told Charlie my entire story. After so many years of keeping everything pent up, it was odd to share it openly—but the more I talked about it, the farther back in the rearview mirror those ugly days went.
I missed working at O’Leary’s, but I loved my new job as a musical therapist. I worked as an independent contractor for a school district, doing one-on-one therapy with autistic children. It was a job that felt more like a reward than a grind. Caine and I had dinner with Charlie every week at O’Leary’s. He might not be my employer anymore, but he was the closest thing I’d had to a father figure since my uncle passed away. In fact, Charlie would be giving me away in two days. I suspected Caine would be getting a good eye-squint warning at the altar from him.
Even though my research was done and my thesis published, we still kept in touch with Lydia and Umberto. The first Sunday of every month, Caine and I brought Murphy to visit. I wasn’t sure who got more from our visits—us or them.
I packed two boxes of framed photos, feeling sentimental as I folded the bubble wrap over each memory. The last one I packed was the photo of my mother on the swing in our yard. I brushed my fingers over her beautiful face through the glass. Thanks, Mom. Without her advice to seek the church, I might never have met Caine.
The small slide-locks that kept the back of the frame on and the picture in place must have moved when I took the photo from the wall. As I reached for the bubble wrap, the cardboard back of the frame opened, and something fluttered to the ground. It was a folded-up piece of paper. Thinking it was probably a receipt or the sample picture that had come inside the frame, I picked it up and unfolded it.
I froze when I saw the handwriting on it.
Because it was my own.
It was less developed and messier than it was now, but it was mine. And I knew exactly what it was—the letter I’d written to the fake priest sixteen years ago. Until that moment, I hadn’t remembered putting it behind Mom’s picture. I steadied myself and took a deep breath before reading what I’d written.
Dear Father,
I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you when I was supposed to. My stepfather found out we were going to run away and got really mad. He said if he ever caught the person who was going to help us, he’d hurt them. So I can’t come talk to you on Saturdays anymore, because I don’t want him to hurt you. But I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for the headphones and for telling me how to listen to music to make everything better. Thank you for listening to me even when I was too afraid to talk. But most of all, thank you for being my angel when God was too busy. I hope I get to see you again someday.
-Rachel
I stared down at the page. And I read the letter a second time. Then a third. Mom had sent me my angel. I had no doubt about that.
Two days later, I walked down the aisle to marry the love of my life. My new little nieces, Lizzy and Alley, were flower girls. They walked ahead of me, dropping rose petals. When they reached the altar, Alley looked back with a giant smile, and I nodded my head, indicating it was time to drop the other things I’d slipped into her basket. She looked up at her uncle, then tossed two pennies at his feet. They both landed face up.
Charlie walked me down the aisle to a folksy remake of an old Gene Clark song, “Full Circle.” There were tears in Caine’s eyes as I came to stand next to him at the altar. He took my hand as the song finished playing, and together we smiled and turned to look back at our confessional. Just as the lyrics said, we’d come full circle. We’d traveled different paths to get back to where we’d started, but finally we were finished. Now it was the first day of the rest of our lives, and I couldn’t wait to start.
THE END