“She decided to keep the baby, Father.” It was somehow easier talking about this like it had happened to someone else. It put distance between me and the reality of what I was going through.
“That’s good, that’s good.” I could hear the relief in his voice.
“And then she had a miscarriage. In her sixteenth week of pregnancy.”
There was absolute silence on the other side of the little booth, not even breathing. That, more than anything, pissed me off.
“Really, Father? Nothing? No words of calming wisdom? No explanation for why, when this girl followed your advice, God swooped in and killed the baby in her uterus?” I used the word uterus on purpose, thinking it would make him uncomfortable.
“It is not for us to understand the ways of the Lor—”
I cut him off. “Is that really the best you’ve got? That ‘whole-mystery-of-the-Lord’ shit?” I don’t think I’d ever cursed at, in front of, or even near a priest before, but I was too far gone to care. I think I might have been crying or screaming or both. “If this God of yours is so merciful and loving, why would he kill this girl’s baby? Was it some kind of holy abortion? How do you explain this? Tell me!”
Again, he was quiet for a long moment before he whispered more than spoke, “I can’t. It’s a tragedy.”
That jolted me back to the moment. I was bracing for more of the “God is mysterious” mumbo jumbo, and I hadn’t expected him to say anything so honest. I lost it for real. I started crying and couldn’t stop. Everything hurt so bad.
After a few minutes of me sitting there, blubbering, the door to the confessional opened, making me jump. And there he was, a short, fat priest with a ring of sandy-colored hair around his bald head. He was crying, too. He took my hand, led me out of the booth, and hugged me.
It was a long hug, and it was filled with sympathy and love. For a minute it even made me feel better. I think that priest violated every church rule to break down the wall of anonymity that was supposed to be between us, and I loved him for it.
I pulled myself together, backed away, and ran out of the church.
As surprising and tender as that moment was, and as good as crying and being hugged made me feel, it didn’t fix me. And that’s the problem with religion. A quick fix never works.
HARBINGER JONES
Chey’s flu lasted a whole week. It was the longest we’d gone without rehearsing since we all reconnected after Georgia. It was also the longest we’d gone without seeing each other.
Something wasn’t right about Cheyenne. She was, and I can’t believe I’m going to use this word, boring. Cheyenne’s always been an enthusiastic person—or wait, maybe that’s not the right word, maybe passionate is better, passionate with an edge. When we got back to rehearsal, Cheyenne was morose. I chalked it up to a remnant of her being sick.
RICHIE MCGILL
Soon as I saw Chey at that rehearsal, I knew she wasn’t pregnant anymore. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. She looked a little sad or something and like maybe she was a little stoned. I figured she’d had an abortion. That’s what most girls our age would’ve done.
I caught her eye when she was walking in, and she gave me this little nod, like, “Yeah, it’s done, and I’m all right.” I let it go, but I kind of kept an eye on her during the rehearsal. She was quiet but okay, so I didn’t push it.
HARBINGER JONES
“Feeling better?” I asked Chey as she plugged into her amp.
“Yeah, and sorry again about your car.”
“What happened to your car?” Johnny looked at the two of us, confused. That took me by surprise. It was like Johnny and Cheyenne hadn’t seen each other or even talked since the day I’d played “Pleasant Sounds” in Johnny’s room, more than a week earlier. If that was true, it was unprecedented.
I was deep into writing my essay at that point and had detached myself from the rest of the world. I probably needed to be a better friend to Johnny, but I don’t think I knew how. He hadn’t been himself since the accident, but he’d settled into a predictable kind of pattern. He was quieter, maybe a bit depressed, but still even-keeled and in control. That first rehearsal back after Chey’s flu bug, he looked like he was going to cry. It was noticeable enough that I asked him to come outside with me while I had a cigarette.
“You okay?”
“Me? Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. You just don’t seem yourself.”
“I think I’m just tired is all,” he answered. I couldn’t tell if he was hiding something or if he was really just tired. “Hey,” he added, “did you talk to Chey during this past week?”
“No, why, didn’t you?”
“She called to tell me she had the flu, but that was it.” My suspicions were confirmed.
“I think she was pretty sick,” I offered. “She puked all over my car.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure that’s it. How about you?”
“Huh?”
“Everything okay with you?”
“I think so,” I said. “Why?”