“I’ve been lecturing,” he said. “Sorry, Brigid. And look at the time. Come to Mass. Or just make yourself at home.”
James left the rectory, and a few minutes later, bells sounded out across the churchyard.
I washed my face, did the dishes, set Birdie up in the bathroom with a litter box. I fluffed my hair, straightened my pretty blue dress, and went to church.
My customary front pew was taken, but I was happy for once to sit in the back. I noticed right away that, unlike St. Paul’s, JMJ was filled with young couples, many with small children. Those bright faces of the young churchgoers filled me with hope.
James came through the side door of the church and went to the altar wearing dress pants and a dark-blue long-sleeved shirt with a collar, but no vestments.
A few people clapped and whistled. Someone called out, “Good morning, Father.”
He smiled and said, “Back at ya, Slade. But I’m no one’s father. Um, Ms. Mary Jane, texting can wait.”
Gentle laughter washed over the body of the church, and watching James begin the celebration of Mass his way gave me more of that hopeful feeling. The choir sang, accompanied by a boy playing an organ that was probably as old as the church. James led the service, praying in both Latin and English, tossing in his own commentary when he thought an explanation was in order. And, although the service was informal and very different from what I was accustomed to, praying to God in this place uplifted me.
Did God see all these joyful faces? Was He here?
I closed my eyes and opened myself to God without any hope of reaching Him. It had been a long time since I had floated on a burning sea from a hotel room in Jerusalem.
But He was with me. Soft rain misted my eyelids and my folded hands, a faint breeze ruffled my hair, and a single word came into my mind.
Home.
Chapter 84
THAT EVENING, James and I walked up through a wooded hillside behind the church. Leaves and residual snow crunched underfoot, and the three-quarter moon spilled pale light around us.
James was telling me about the angry letter he’d received from Cardinal Cooney’s attorneys—but I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying.
I was in communication with God.
I put one foot in front of the other, following James under the milky moonlight and deep shadows thrown across the path by forest trees. The sensation I was having was unlike anything I’d felt before.
It was as if I were passing through the trees and they were also passing through me. I was insubstantial, and yet I was breathing, in the flesh and the moment, hearing James’s voice as we climbed up a wooded path.
James said, “Brigid, take my hand. This part of the walk is tricky.”
I took his hand, and I felt his solid grip. And at the same time, my fingers closed on my own palm. I thought, Dear Lord, what does this mean?
The air seemed to swirl around James and me.
God. Tell me, please. What is happening?
The sounds of the wind and the night birds and the crackling of sticks underfoot and God’s voice were all as one.
Be with James.
“Be with James”?
I remembered a time when I was speaking with God, and He said to me, Be with Colin. And I had gone to Colin within that vision and spoken with him, and he had spoken with me—even though Colin had already died.
James was alive.
I was in that place deep inside my mind where somehow, I could hear God, and I asked Him, Do you mean, be with James in the moment?
James was saying, “See that hump over there? That rocky outcropping? That’s where we’re going. Okay?”
The sense of God’s presence left me. I heard James’s voice clearly, and when he squeezed my hand, my fingers wrapped around his.
“Cool,” I said, in a voice that wasn’t quite my own.
James showed me footholds and held my hand until we were seated on top of the smooth hillock of stone.
“I feel very close to God right here,” he said.
I nodded. But I couldn’t speak.
“Boston is that way,” James said, pointing through a cleft in the woods. “Tell me about your job, how it’s going for you. I want to hear it all.”
“Will you hear my confession?” I asked him.
“Your confession, Brigid? Well. Not as your priest. I’m just James. And you can tell me anything.”
“As James, then,” I said. “It’s been many years since my last confession. I don’t actually remember the last time.”
“Just talk to me, Brigid,” James said. “I’m here.”
Be with James.
Chapter 85
I WAS sitting close to James on that mound of stone, feeling the pressure of his body against mine. The breeze was faint but entirely worldly. An owl hooted. Two deer, twigs snapping under their feet, bolted across the path below the outcropping.
“I once killed a man,” I said.
I credit James for not saying, You did what?
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked me.