Jamie
I didn’t have the strength to digest what my dad and I had discussed over roast beef and Swiss sandwiches, and as I looked down at my phone I determined that I didn’t have the time for it anyway. I had less than a half hour to pick up coffee and doughnuts from Saxby’s and head over to the church to prepare for the members of my support group. I grabbed my coat and keys and was in the middle of locking my front door when I felt someone behind me. I turned around and faced my brother.
“Like a goddamn revolving door,” I said, turning my back to him so I could secure the lock.
“I take it Dad was here?” Nate asked.
“Wasn’t that the reason why you called him?” I stuffed my keys in my pocket and put on my coat.
“You needed someone to talk to and I knew Dad would listen.” Nate drew closer, wheeling himself over until we were just a couple feet apart. “But I’m sorry that I betrayed your confidence by telling him about Eva.”
I raked my hand through my hair and sighed. “Don’t worry about it. He already knew anyway. Listen, I have to go. I have a grief support group coming for their bimonthly meeting, and I still need to grab coffee and doughnuts from across the street.” I zipped up my coat.
“So will you be the group facilitator or a member today?” Nate asked, his tone laced with sarcasm, a tone I couldn’t tolerate right now.
“Fuck you, Nate.” I thrust my hands into my pockets. “I should never have called you this morning.”
“Well, I’m glad you did because it prepared me for when Eva showed up on my doorstep.”
“She came to you? When?”
“She left a little over an hour ago.” His sarcastic tone faded away, leaving concern in its wake. “Aren’t you going to ask me how she was? How she looked?”
An image of her flashed before my eyes and I inwardly cringed. Because all I could see was Eva standing there with tear-stained cheeks, hugging herself as she trembled. I had caused that. I had inflicted pain on a woman who deserved to be loved and cherished until she drew her last breath. “No.”
“Tough. I’m going to tell you anyway.” I turned to walk away. I couldn’t listen to this. I didn’t want to know. “She looked broken. Like someone who was grieving. She looked like you do right now.”
“I’m not listening to this.” I couldn’t bear to hear Nate go into detail over how Eva had looked, the state she had been in when she went to see him. Why did she go see Nate? “Why did she pay you a visit?”
“To ask me the million-dollar question, of course. The same question I’ve asked you on multiple occasions.” This conversation needed to end. “She asked me why you became a priest.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her the truth. The truth that you don’t recognize or don’t want to recognize.”
“You had no right . . .”
“I had every right. Want to know why I have the right to speculate why you’re a Catholic priest and not a doctor? Because I was there. I remember lying in that hospital bed and coming to, only to find you sitting by my side, holding my hand and crying . . . and thanking God over and over again. That moment, that moment right there, was the moment you promised yourself to God. My life in exchange for your service. Tell me I’m wrong!”
“Stop!” I screamed. Nate flinched. “What’s done is done.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You can still serve God. You can still keep the promise you had made—that you would be a better man—and not be a priest. You can still be happy and know what it’s like to be loved by a woman like Eva. Because she does love you. There is no question about that.”
She didn’t have to tell me this morning that she loved me because I already knew. I had felt it. Every time she had looked at me, each time I had slid inside her and felt her entire body welcome me in . . . like I belonged there . . . like we were one. “I won’t go back on my word.”
Nate hung his head for a second and then met my gaze with what looked like renewed confidence. “If you’re not going to listen to Dad or me . . . maybe you’ll listen to Him,” Nate said, pointing to the heavens. “Because there’s no way He wants this . . . to see you in so much pain.” With that, he cut the wheel and rolled toward his vehicle.
I was shuffling the doughnuts onto a serving tray when my first member of the group entered the church basement. Lila Reeves greeted me warmly as always and helped herself to a doughnut and a cup of coffee. “You spoil us, you know that Father?” she asked with a smile and holding up a glazed doughnut that was fresh from the oven.
“It’s my pleasure,” I said, grinning at the sixty-two-year-old woman. Lila had lost her husband two months ago after suffering for two agonizing years from colon cancer. Though she had time to let the devastating diagnosis sink in, in the end, it hadn’t mattered. She had lost the love of her life, the man she had pictured herself growing old with, and nothing really prepares one for that.
Would Eva find someone to grow old with? Yes, she would. She would find someone, hopefully a man who would be able to look past her physical beauty and see the beautiful soul beneath. I couldn’t think about Eva right now. The rest of the group would be filtering in. They didn’t need me adding to their grief. I downed a cup of coffee in a few sips and managed to ingest a half a doughnut, though my stomach told me that may not have been such a stellar idea. Every time my mind drifted to Eva waves of nausea would overtake me, and I had to plead with myself to keep the greasy dough down.
“Father, are you feeling okay?”
I looked up and met Glen Campbell’s concerned gaze. I grabbed a napkin from the table and blotted my forehead. In addition to feeling like I was going to throw up at any moment, I was sweating like a pig. “Yes, just a little warm is all. How are you, Glen? How’s Susan holding up?” Glen and his wife Susan had lost their son Derick five months ago. Derick was in the army and had been stationed in Afghanistan when he had been shot and killed in the line of duty.
“I asked Susan if she wanted to come with me today, but she’s just not ready yet.” Glen reached for an empty cup and filled it to capacity. “She’s not up for much these days.”
“We can’t rush her. She’ll do this in her own time.” I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to lose a child. The debilitating pain that one experienced from knowing that you would never see your child again, at least not in this lifetime. “Maybe this forum is too much for her. Do you think she would be willing to talk to me alone?”
Glen gave me a rare smile. “I’ll ask her, Father. Thank you.” I gave him a pat on the back and looked around and counted those in attendance. Nine in all. I recognized eight members as they were all parishioners, but the ninth, a man who looked to be around my age and standing in the corner, was a newbie.
I called everyone over to the circle of chairs I had set up and took a seat. The group members took my lead and followed with coffee and doughnuts in hand. As always, we started our session with a prayer and then dove right in. We quickly introduced ourselves, and it was then I learned that our newcomer’s name was Joe and that he had lost his wife a year ago in a car accident. He didn’t provide any more information and I didn’t probe. I simply thanked him for sharing and welcomed him to the group.
The theme of the previous session had dealt with the upcoming holiday season, so I decided to go around the circle and ask those who were willing to share how they had fared at this difficult time of the year. Some members broke down when they described how difficult it had been to celebrate a holiday without their loved ones by their sides. Joe just sat and listened, his head bowed, and his eyes averted. I didn’t want to single him out and make him feel uncomfortable, though his posture and the fact that he didn’t attempt to make eye contact with anyone in the room since introductions suggested that he was already there. I tried not to stare at him. Really, I did. But I found my focus drifting back to Joe. I studied his mannerisms, the way he wrung his hands, the way he took deep breaths every time Lila mentioned how tough it was to celebrate Christmas without her husband. I noticed that Joe hadn’t taken his coat off despite the fact that the heater was kicking and prompting everybody else to remove multiple layers of clothing. Joe didn’t want to be here, and it was most likely taking everything he had not to get up and leave.
After an hour we wrapped up, and as a group we chose the theme for the next session. Lila and Glen stayed behind to help pack up the remaining doughnuts and coffee and then they too left. I was just about to hang the last of the metal folding chairs on the rack against the wall when I saw Joe standing in the doorway. He looked at me for a split second and then shook his head and abruptly turned. I laid the chair against the wall and followed him. He had already climbed the set of stairs and had entered the church by the time I had caught up with him.
“Grief groups aren’t for everyone. In fact, I’ve been told on occasion that they can make the pain worse,” I said to his back.
Joe stopped halfway down the center aisle but he didn’t turn around. Like in our session, his head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I can’t imagine a pain worse than this,” Joe said in a gravelly voice. “But I deserve it. If it gets worse, I mean.” Joe spoke with such absolution. Something deep within me ached for this man, and I slowly inched my way over to him. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Do you feel like you’re being punished?” The words were out before I could stop them.
“I know I’m being punished, and I deserve every agonizing second of my punishment for what I did to my wife.” Joe turned and faced me. “She’s dead because of me. I may not have been driving the car that slammed into her, but I was the one who had sent her running into the middle of the street. Do you have a support group for wife killers, Father?”
Pain dripped from every word he uttered and my heart bled for him. “You want the truth?” I asked.
His brow raised. “Isn’t that why you guys are paid the big bucks? To tell us the truth?”
I ignored his sarcastic remark. “You don’t need someone to pat you on the back and tell you everything will work out. What you need is someone to give it to you straight, someone who doesn’t know you from Adam, someone who has fucked up royally and paid the consequences . . . is still paying the consequences.”
The man smiled. It was subtle but I saw it. “Is this when you ask me how long it has been since my last confession?”
“No, this is when I tell you to take a seat and just talk to me.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a second I thought he was going to blow me off and leave, but then he slipped into the pew to his right and sat down. “I’m not Catholic, but I’m pretty sure that you’ve gone off script, Father. In the movies I’ve seen, never had I heard a priest use the F-word.”
I couldn’t help but think of Eva and the times I had gone off script during confession. But somehow, I was able to recoup and focus on the man I just sat down next to. “Priests are men, not gods. Which means we screw up often,” I said.
Joe’s smile faded completely and guilt and shame overtook his face. “I screwed up, alright.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Lori and I were high school sweethearts. She was my first kiss, my first love, my first . . . everything. She was my world, so much so that I turned down a football scholarship to Notre Dame and went to a much smaller school here in Pennsylvania just to be close to her. My parents, my dad in particular, thought I was crazy for abandoning my dream to play for the Fighting Irish, but I didn’t care. After college we got married and I landed a pretty decent job as a graphic designer. Lori also found a job but her dream, as it had always been since she was a little girl, was to be a mother. So we started to try. But months turned into a year and then two. We realized that we needed help and consulted a fertility specialist. Lori began taking fertility drugs but they didn’t take. She grew more depressed with each negative pregnancy test. I didn’t know what to do or how to help her. The hormones she had to inject herself with were contributing to her mood swings, and then one night I finally told her that I was done. I couldn’t stand to see her so distraught, and I knew she wanted a baby more than anything. So I asked her if she wanted to adopt. I assured her that it made no difference to me if the baby wasn’t my own flesh and blood. I told her that I would love him or her no matter what. But in hindsight, I really should have waited. I shouldn’t have mentioned adoption. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind to hear that.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She slapped me across the face and accused me of not wanting her, of not wanting to have a baby with her. I stood there in shock because Lori had never hit me before—hell, we rarely ever fought before then. After a few more seconds of being told how horrible of a husband I was and accusing me of cheating on her, I grabbed my wallet and left our apartment. I knew that she hadn’t meant what she said. But I was so angry, so . . . done. Several minutes later, I found myself at the bar around the corner. I knew the place well, as my buddies and I liked to go there to watch Monday night football, though I believed my single friends enjoyed going because of the hot bartenders. I took a seat at the bar and told one of the more flirtatious bartenders to pour me a shot. With a sympathetic smile, she did. Two hours and I don’t know how many shots later, I knew I was officially smashed off my ass. She closed out my tab, told me she was done working for the night and hopped onto the bar stool next to me. We started talking. I told her about the fight I had with Lori, and she admitted that she had a boyfriend that treated her like crap. Soon I felt her inch closer to me, close enough to detect her perfume. She smelled good, but she wasn’t Lori. She wasn’t my wife. The realization hit me right around the time she grabbed me by my shirt and kissed me.”
I knew where this was going and a part of me wanted to stop him from reliving a scene that must haunt his dreams and taunt him during his waking hours. But I couldn’t. Because he needed to unload this.
“I’m not sure how long Lori had been standing there watching her husband, the man who had promised to love her in good times and bad, kiss another woman. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t initiated it or that I had every intention of pulling away. I couldn’t move, not even to go to her and beg her for forgiveness. I’ll never forget the way Lori looked at me. The devastation, the betrayal. I just sat there, frozen in place, in time, even when Lori ran out of the bar. After what felt like hours, I finally came to and sprinted after her. I headed out the front door only to have to fight through a crowd of people on the sidewalk. As I pushed my way through, I heard people shouting and then pointing to the street. I followed their gaze and saw what had captured their attention. I ran over, dropped to my knees and cradled Lori in my arms. She didn’t look like someone who had just been struck by a car. She looked like she was sleeping. The ambulance arrived only minutes later, but it was too late. She was already gone.”
I had been staring straight ahead at the crucifix that hung behind the altar the entire time Joe spoke, not because I didn’t want to look at him, but because I thought that eye contact would make him uncomfortable. I also had hoped that the sight of the crucifix would somehow help me formulate a response to this man’s tragic tale. But the words never came and I closed my eyes.
“Do you get it now, Father? No support group can help me, no one can help me. And no amount of Hail Marys I recite will absolve my sin,” Joe said, his voice bitter. He started to stand when suddenly I felt something rage within me. I was angry. At Joe for getting drunk with some horny bartender. At the fact that Lori couldn’t get pregnant and slapped her husband out of frustration and pain. But mostly I was angry at myself . . . for taking this long to wake the fuck up. This morning my dad, my brother, the two most important men in my life had tried to get through to me, but I wouldn’t listen. But this man, this grief-stricken man I had just met, had finally opened my eyes.
“Do you think your sin carried more weight than your wife’s life?” I asked, looking up at him.
Joe whipped around, his expression one of stone. “What?” he asked.
“Do you believe that your sin was more important than her precious life? That God would use Lori, a woman He himself loved, to punish you?”
“What kind of priest are you?” Joe asked, not even bothering to conceal his anger.
“At the moment, an honest one.”
“And in the other moments? What kind of a priest are you then?”
“Lost, fallen, desperate, confused . . . pick your favorite adjective. Each one has applied to me at some point in time.”
I didn’t know if it was because Joe was too polite or he was just emotionally drained from talking about his wife, but regardless of the reason, he didn’t ask me to discuss my own demons. Instead, Joe sat back down and said, “Maybe I’m not being punished, but the guilt, the shame I feel . . . it won’t stop.”
I knew what that felt like. Guilt had the capability of burrowing in deep and latching onto your soul. “Guilt’s grip will loosen over time, allowing you to breathe again, but that only happens through forgiveness. Have you asked God for that?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Joe broke down and cried for his wife, for the woman he had loved since they were teenagers. His sobs echoed against the walls of the church as he asked for forgiveness, for being so lost, for being angry at God, for not being stronger, for not being the man he had promised to be to his wife. When he was finished, I gave him absolution and asked him to pray the Act of Contrition with me. Silence ensued after a joint amen, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. Rather, it gave me time to process what had happened, not just to Joe but to me. God had sent Joe to me. Out of all the churches in this city, he had picked mine on the day I had lost the love of my life. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
“May I come back?” Joe asked, stealing me from my thoughts.
“To group?” I asked.
He chuckled, though his eyes were still wet with tears. “No. Group isn’t really my thing. But this . . . talking . . . once in a while, maybe.”
I withdrew my wallet and dug through it until I found one of my business cards. It wasn’t anything fancy, just my contact information and an Irish cross positioned in the left-hand corner. I typically handed them out to parishioners who just experienced a loss or family members of those in hospice care. “Give me a call,” I said, handing him the card.
With a genuine smile, he took my card, slipped it into his back pocket and left.
I sat back in the pew and let out a sigh that was years in the making. My chest hadn’t felt so light, my heart not so heavy. For eight years I had carried that cross, one that I had forced on myself. But as I watched Joe exit out the front door, I felt its weight leave me and I could again breathe freely. Guilt had loosened its grip, allowing me to see for myself that I had entered the priesthood for the wrong reasons: payment and self-imposed punishment. But was I too late? I was a priest. I had made a vow. I couldn’t just leave. Could I?
I needed confirmation. I needed His guidance. I needed Him to make me see the truth, my path. When I turned back around, my eyes landed on the altar. It was in front of that altar with God looking on that Eva and I had given into temptation, when she had begged to touch me and then dropped to her knees. I couldn’t pray here. My mind wouldn’t be able to remain clear like it needed to be in order to speak and listen to God.
The seminary.
I had spent many nights there before I was ordained praying, asking God to help me become a better man and a priest my future parishioners could trust. And that was where I needed to be now.