Eva
Two days before Christmas, I gave my mother a call and checked in on her. With the exception of feeling some minor aches and pains and exhaustion, all of which were expected, my mother was recovering nicely. She told me she was in the middle of baking Christmas cookies and asked if I wanted to join her, which took me by surprise since she wasn’t much of a baker while I was growing up. But then everything about my mother these days was a surprise.
Since I had memorized Jamie’s Mass and confessional schedules, I knew that he would be at work for the next several hours and wouldn’t be stopping by David’s for any reason. So on my way over to engage in an activity I had never done before with my mother, I stopped by the delicious deli around the corner from my house and picked up some fresh baked rolls and a variety of salads. If my mother weren’t into chicken salad then maybe she would opt for egg salad, tuna, or some of the cold cuts I had asked the butcher to slice thin for me. With my bag of groceries in hand, I stood on my mother’s stoop and rang the doorbell. My mother opened the door wearing an apron and sporting a flour smudge on her right cheek. “Did you have lunch yet?” I asked.
“No, I was too busy baking,” she said, dusting off her hands on her apron. She gave me a warm smile.
“Yes, I can see that. You have a little flour right there,” I said, pointing to her cheek. My mother laughed, which was still a foreign sound to me and led me into the kitchen. I set out the salads and rolls, and I was happy to see her dig in and make herself a half sandwich of chicken and a half of egg. I chose the chicken. When we finished, I cleared the table and saw where the magic was happening. The large island in the center of the kitchen was covered in flour and four bowls filled with different kinds of cookie dough were set on top. I went straight for the chocolate chip cookie dough and assured my mother that this bowl would be safe in my hands. I was a sucker for raw chocolate chip cookie dough and had been known to eat tubes of it in front of the television when I was alone and depressed.
“Why don’t I believe you?” my mother asked with a suspicious but playful smirk.
I smiled and then started spooning out teaspoon-sized balls of dough onto a cookie sheet. “So where’s David today?”
My mother was sprinkling coconut into the bowl in front of her when she replied, “He went into work for a bit. He’s starting to feel more comfortable leaving me alone now that my pain has subsided.”
“He’s a good man, Mom. I don’t know him very well, but I can tell that he has a kind soul.”
My mother smiled. “He does and so do his boys. Nathan has a mouth like a sailor sometimes, but he is a good man and so devoted to that pretty wife of his. And then there’s Jamie.” My mother gave the batter in her bowl a couple of gentle stirs.
“Well, he’d better be kind. He’s a priest. Sort of comes with the job,” I said, not looking up as I continued to scoop out my cookies.
“You and I both know that not all priests are kind. That some men aren’t fit to call themselves men of God,” my mother said. I felt her eyes boring into my forehead.
So this was how it was going to happen. I knew it was just a matter of time for us to have this conversation, that we couldn’t go on skirting the issue and ignoring the elephant in the room. I just hadn’t planned on it occurring during a baking session.
“Eva, I want to talk about what happened, but only if you want to. Only if you’re comfortable enough.”
At least she had asked how I felt about rehashing the ugliness. I had to give her that. Too bad it was too early in the day to drink.
“I’m fine. It’s time,” I said, meaning every word, which surprised me.
My mother began the conversation while scooping out cookies onto a cookie sheet so I did the same. I was happy that we silently chose not to have an uncomfortable face-to-face, that we could at least keep our hands and eyes busy while taking this awkward trip down memory lane together. “After you showed me that article about Allen Jacobs I went right to that priest I had forced you to meet with on a weekly basis, a man I had known and trusted, and told him that your teacher had assaulted other girls at your old high school. That you had told the truth. I supplied him with the article and begged him to read it, but he didn’t even give it a second glance. He told me that no article was going to convince him that you weren’t a whore and that if you were in fact assaulted, then you had deserved it.”
Too bad that priest was dead already. Because just listening to how he had been so flippant, so dismissive and judgmental took my distaste for the man to a whole new level. Why did God have to show that bastard mercy and let a heart attack take him swiftly rather than have him experience a slow, painful death like he had deserved? Yes, I had followed up on that motherfucking priest when I had been in college. It was during my second year at Harvard that I had found his obituary online and discovered that he had passed peacefully in his sleep. Lucky bastard.
“That was the beginning of my new life. I left that church, my job, and my so-called friends that day. But it wasn’t enough. You were everywhere I turned. I couldn’t stand myself. I needed to start over. So I sold our home, moved to Pennsylvania and joined a new church. It was difficult for me at first to trust and confide in a new priest, but my current pastor eventually helped open my eyes and basically introduced me to the person I had been—the selfish, judgmental woman who I never wanted to see again. By then I knew I had lost you. That you would and should never forgive me, so I did the only thing that brought me a smidge of solace and volunteered at the shelter to help those who had been victimized, women who had been assaulted, women who needed help. I wasn’t there for you but maybe I could be there for them. And somehow, someday, through them you would forgive me.”
Forgiveness.
Was it possible to forget all the horrible things she had said to me, accused me of? Would I somehow no longer be able to recall all those times she drew her hand back in disgust and slapped me across the face? Was it possible for my memory to be wiped clean of those moments when I had been forced to my knees and commanded to recite Bible passages? Would I ever be able to forget the day my mother had chosen her crooked priest over her own flesh and blood?
No, I would never be able to forget what happened. And for the first time in my life it made me happy to know that those images would forever be burned in my memory. Because they were part of me, part of my past, and what made me who I was. And what I was . . . was tired. Tired of hanging onto the anger. Tired of not being able to trust. Tired of not having a family. Just . . . tired.
My mother continued to stir batter that was already well-folded and I leaned over and placed my hand on her arm. “I wasn’t a saint. I could be difficult, and I know I challenged you and Dad. Did things, felt things you didn’t approve of.”
My mother set her spoon in the bowl and looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Every child challenges, every child is difficult at some point in their lives, but you were my child, my little girl, and no matter how I disapproved of some of the things you said or did I should have believed you when you told me what your teacher had done to you. Of all people, I should have been the one to protect you. And not just because I was your mother, but because I knew what it felt like . . . to be betrayed, to be called a liar, to be abu . . .” My mother cried into her hands.
A sickening feeling settled in my stomach as I watched the woman who never showed me an ounce of affection growing up crumble before me. No, she wasn’t crumbling; she was already broken. Despite our past, I had no desire to cause her more pain. But I got the sense that she needed this . . . we needed the truth, no matter how ugly it might be, exposed for all to see. “Mom?” I asked.
“My older brother began abusing me when I was nine. I told your grandmother but she didn’t believe me . . . even when I became pregnant just one week after my thirteenth birthday. She simply called me a liar and a whore and sent me away to a facility that hid girls like me, girls who sinned, girls who were labeled a disgrace to their families. Even though I ended up miscarrying my child, I was not permitted to return home. Instead, I was sent to a Catholic boarding school while my brother was free to play football and hang out with his friends back home. That was until he died in a car accident on his way home from his best friend’s high school graduation party.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered. My eyes burned with tears and I reached for her.
“Don’t,” she said, taking a step back. “I didn’t tell you all this so you would pity me. Don’t you see? I could have ended that God-awful cycle. I had the opportunity not to repeat the past. Through you I had the chance to start over, to raise a child who would always know and feel love, not pain, not heartache. But I didn’t. I chose the path that led me away from you, from what was real.”
I didn’t know what to say. What my mother had lived through was horrifying. Not only was she raped by her own brother, but she was abandoned by her parents. I was happy that I had never met my grandparents, as they had both passed away from natural causes before I was even born. I hoped they were rotting away in Hell, or at least wandering aimlessly through Purgatory for what they had done to both their children. “Mom . . .”
“Eva, I didn’t tell you about my past to make you feel sorry for me. I told you this because I’m in awe of you. You’ve broken the cycle. You are stronger, braver and far more selfless than I will ever be.” She sniffed and wiped her tears with her hand. “I’m so proud of you. Do you know that? Have I ever told you that, Eva?”
“No, but I know now.” We stared at each other while we shed tears over those two little girls, over what those girls had to go through to get to this moment right here. “I have an idea, Mom. How about we do the strong and very brave thing and not let the past dictate how we act toward each other now? It’s the only way this . . . we . . . will work.” I squeezed her hand. “Because I want this to work and I want to get to know the woman before me, the one who wears flour on her cheeks and laughs just because it feels good. That’s the woman who I want to have a relationship with, who I would be proud to call my mother.” She didn’t make a move to hug me, but I could tell it was taking everything for her to hold back, most likely because she didn’t know how I would respond. So I took her fear, her apprehension away and hugged my mother because I wanted to. Because we both deserved it.
David came home an hour later and this time we were both covered in flour and eating the fruits of our labor. He grabbed a glass of milk and joined us at the island. He was working on his third cookie when he asked me if I would like to join them for Christmas Eve Mass at Jamie’s church. I knew it wasn’t a good idea for me to go, to be trapped in a building for an hour where I would be forced to listen to his voice and stare at an altar that I had been bent over a week ago. But my mother and I had made so much progress today that I didn’t want to spoil it by telling them I couldn’t go to Mass.
Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. The church would most likely be packed and I could get lost in the sea of people, forcing me to be on my best behavior. I could do this. I had to. My mother was back in my life, which meant Jamie was a permanent fixture, one I had to learn to deal with.
I sucked it up and told my mother and David that I would meet them at Mass. My mother was thrilled, so much so that she didn’t seem to be disappointed when I declined her invitation to Christmas dinner. Christmas Mass was going to be hard enough. Maybe next year I would be strong enough to sit at the same dinner table as Jamie and be able to pretend that his presence alone didn’t destroy me.
You’re kidding yourself. A decade could pass and you would still want him. Because your heart will never truly heal. Because you’re in love with him.
That was what I thought about the entire thirty-minute drive back home. I couldn’t be in love with him. It wasn’t possible. He was a priest. And my stepbrother.
I needed a distraction and a tall glass of wine. Between the heavy but much-needed conversation I had with my mother and my thoughts about a man I could never have, I determined that tonight I was drinking the good stuff. I pulled into the wine and spirits shop around the corner from my house and took the opportunity to stock up, grabbing several bottles of wine that I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in Stone Harbor. The thought of escaping to my bayside shack for several days calmed me a little. I needed to get away.
With my shopping basket filled I moved onto the section of the store that I usually tried to avoid. The dreaded cheese display. I loved cheese. I could eat Prima Donna cheese and grapes with a bottle of good wine every night of the week and be a happy girl. For my arteries’ sakes I had to be careful and only indulge once in a while. And tonight was going to be that once in a while. I found my old friend wedged between two different types of Gouda and tossed it into the basket along with a sleeve of crackers. Satisfied, I left the cheese section and started walking toward the cashier when someone stepped into my path, causing a near collision.
I didn’t need to see him to know that it was Jamie. His sandalwood soap scent and the way the air between us buzzed gave him away. “Eva?” Standing there holding a six pack of that Irish ale that he, Nathan, and David liked to drink, Jamie looked shocked to see me.
I wasn’t faring much better and I struggled to respond. “Hi . . . Jamie.” My heart thumped loudly in my chest as I stared at him, his eyes, his full lips. I wanted to taste those lips again, feel them pressed against mine as he devoured me.
“Having a party?” he asked, looking into my basket.
“Um . . . no. Just stocking up for my trip to Stone Harbor.”
“Trip?” he asked.
“When I’m not with my best friend Cassie I tend to spend the holidays at my tiny Stone Harbor shore home.”
“Alone?” he asked. A wave of jealousy seemed to envelop him, causing his eyes to darken. Why didn’t it make me feel good that I could invoke that in him?
Because you love him. And you don’t want to see him in pain.
“Yes,” I said, gripping my basket tighter. I needed to leave. Standing in this tight aisle where I was forced to breathe him in and imagine things I couldn’t have was pure torture.
“So you’re not going to Marcia and my dad’s for Christmas dinner?”
“No . . . not this year.” The walls were caving in. I brushed past him and made my way to the checkout counter. I heard . . . or felt . . . him follow me.
The cashier was halfway through with ringing up my order when Jamie asked in that dark voice, “Why aren’t you coming to dinner, Eva?” I silently pleaded with the cashier to hurry the fuck up. I wasn’t going to be able to maintain the façade much longer, especially if he was going to use that voice, that tone that seemed to suck the will out of me.
Desperate, I started bagging the bottles myself. “I have plans,” I said. It was a curt response, one that I knew was rude the second it left my lips.
“You would rather be alone for Christmas?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. I swiped my debit card and punched in my four-digit code. This was the longest checkout in history. Everything moved in slow motion. “Eva?” Jamie asked. “Answer me,” he said, his voice forceful and deliciously demanding. The cashier stuffed my receipt into one of my bags before I scooped them up off the counter and made my way out the door. Again Jamie followed me. “Eva, answer me. Would you rather be alone for Christmas?” he asked from behind. I needed to get into my vehicle. Now. “Eva!” he barked.
I snapped. Just feet from my car I whirled and faced him. “Yes, I would rather be alone . . . because it’s safer that way.”
“Safer?” he asked.
The conversation was over. I turned back around, dug my car keys out of my coat pocket and unlocked my driver’s side door. The door was open a few inches when he slammed it shut from behind. With my back to him, I was blocked in as his hands rested on the roof of my car. I could feel his warm breath against my neck. “If I showed up to Christmas dinner and you were there, they would know. Your dad, my mom . . . they would have to be blind not to see it.”
“See what, Eva?” he whispered, his lips just inches from my neck. I shivered.
“How much I . . . I . . .” I stopped myself—barely——and squeezed my eyes shut. I had been just several phonemes away from telling Jamie that I loved him. “I’m trying to stay away from you, Jamie. It’s what you asked of me, what I know needs to happen,” I said with more confidence than I actually felt. I heard his breathing hitch, and then his arms dropped to his sides and he stepped away. Without looking at him, I got in my car and left.
I didn’t begin to calm down until I was safely in my home with the door locked, the world shut out. I uncorked one of the four bottles of wine I had purchased and piled slices of cheese, a few crackers and a handful of red grapes onto a plate. I took my wine and my dinner of champions to my bedroom and decided it was as good a time as any to pack for Stone Harbor. It wouldn’t take too long. A small suitcase and a carry-on were all that was needed. Loungewear and heavy, warm socks would be my main attire while away. Relaxing, reading, going for walks and cozying up in front of my fireplace were definitely on the agenda. I threw a pair of jeans and a wool sweater into my suitcase for those nights that I would make the short walk to Lucrezia, my favorite beachside Italian restaurant and indulge in some takeout.
As I finished up packing and my second glass of wine I caught a glimpse of the framed photo on my bureau. I picked it up and stared at the two women looking back at me. As always, Cassie was all smiles. With her wild red hair flowing every which way and her hands on her shapely hips, that girl was full of sass. I still couldn’t believe that we were paired up to room together at Harvard. I had heard horror stories about how a roommate from hell could make or break your college experience. But Cassie and I had known from the first day we met that we would get along.
Her mother had died when she was a teenager, and her father had ditched her when she was just three years old. So when the holidays came around, if Cassie wasn’t off saving the world’s wildlife, we would always plan to be together. I had used some of the money my dad had left me and Cassie had dipped into her inheritance to fund our many trips around the globe. The photo in my hand captured the trip we had taken to Australia last Christmas. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t see her this season, but I was glad that she was in Scotland with her hot boyfriend and his family. Cassie deserved to be happy, and from what she had told me last night when she had called just to check in I got the sense that things between her and Quinn were getting pretty serious. I couldn’t help but wonder if a proposal was in the near future.
A proposal. A wedding. A marriage.
Three things that I could never see happening for me. It wasn’t self-pity or the wine talking. No, it was just a realistic conclusion, one that I had come to as I had sped away from that wine and spirits shop. How would I ever be able to move on and marry someone if my heart still belonged to another man? The answer was simple. I wouldn’t.
I placed the photo back on my bureau and had gone to the kitchen to refill my glass when my phone buzzed on the counter. I retrieved it and glanced at the incoming message:
What were you going to say before you stopped yourself?
I didn’t focus on how Jamie had gotten a hold of my phone number because these days, you could pretty much track anyone down if you wanted to. No, I zeroed in on the fact that he had contacted me. Wasn’t he the one who had told me to stay away? Texting could only thwart our attempt to cut things off cleanly.
Eva, please answer me.
Even through a text I could still hear him, that voice that melted my insides and made me want to give myself over to it completely. It was that voice that made me do foolish things . . . like text him back:
It doesn’t matter now.
His response was immediate:
I don’t believe you, Eva. Why are you hiding from me? You’ve never hidden from me before.
He was right. I had always been open with him, too open, as I recalled our conversations. But I couldn’t share my thoughts and feelings now. Because what would that do? It wouldn’t change anything. He would still be a priest and my stepbrother. He would still be the man I could only love from afar. With tears in my eyes I texted him back:
Don’t contact me again. This hurts too much.
Over a minute later he responded:
I’m so sorry.
And that was the end of our first and last texting session.