I look away, because even still, it’s hard for me to imagine such a sacrifice.
“Are you here for confession, child?”
A low voice comes from behind and I turn to find a priest watching me. His eyes are kind above his white collar, and it’s the first real, sincere kindness I’ve seen since I’ve been in England.
Dare is kind, but our relationship is complicated.
Eleanor is severe, Sabine is mysterious, Jones is perfunctory. They all want something from me.
This man, this priest, is kind simply to be kind.
I swallow.
“I’m not catholic,” I tell him, trying to keep my words soft in this grand place. He smiles.
“I’ll try not to hold that against you,” he confides, and he holds his hand out. I take it, and it’s warm.
“I’m Father Thomas,” he introduces himself. “And this is my parish. Welcome.”
Even his hands are kind as he grasps mine, and I find myself instantly at ease for the first time in weeks.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Would you like a tour?” he suggests, and I nod.
“I’d love one.”
He doesn’t ask why I’m here or what I want, he just leads me around, pointing out this artifact and that, this architecture detail or that stained glass window. He chats with me for a long time, and makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world, and that he has no place else to be.
Finally, when he’s finished, he turns to me. “Would you like to sit?”
I do.
So he sits with me, and we’re quiet for a long time.
“My mother used to come here, I’m told,” I finally confide. “And I just wanted to feel like I’m near her.”
The priest studies me. “And do you?”
My shoulders slump. “Not really.”
“I’ve been here for a long time,” he says kindly. “And I think I know your mother. Laura Savage?”
I’m surprised and he laughs.
“Child, you could be her mirror image,” he chuckles. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
“You knew her?” I breathe, and somehow, I do feel closer to her, simply because he was.
He nods and looks towards Mary. “Laura is a beautiful soul,” he says gently. “And I can see her in your eyes. Why didn’t she come with you today?”
“She’s gone,” I say simply. “She died recently.”
I don’t mention that I killed her with a phone call, that it’s my fault.
He blinks. “I’m so sorry. She’s with the Lord now, though. She’s at peace. Did she receive Last Rites, child?”
My breath leaves me. “I don’t know. She couldn’t have, I guess. She died in a car accident. Is that bad?”
Father Thomas rushes to reassure me. “No. In that circumstance, it is understandable. Don’t fear, child. God in His merciful love isn’t bound by sacraments. He blesses his children and forgives them, and bestows everlasting life to the faithful. Your mother was faithful.”
I don’t want to tell him that she wasn’t a practicing Catholic, that I’d never even seen her attend a mass. Although now, the fact that she’d given Finn a St. Michael’s medallion makes sense. I feel it now, chilling the skin on my chest.
“You must be very sad,” he observes, and the way his face is turned in the light startles me, because I’ve seen him before and I didn’t know until now.
“You were with Dare in the café the other day,” I realize. “You were upset.”
Father Thomas’ eyes widen a bit, then he masks his expression. “It was nothing,” he assures me. “We were just chatting over coffee. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
But his eyes tell a different story.
The priest is lying, but why?
I pull away my hand and he notices.
“What is wrong, child?”
His demeanor is still soft, still gentle, still inviting, but I’ve been surrounded by secrets for so long that I can’t accept that from a man of God. I tell him that.
He’s pensive as he studies me.
“I understand, Calla. But you have to understand, too, that I’m told things in confidence. I have given my word, to God and to the members of my parish, that I won’t break those confidences.”