by Lana Grayson
And all He gave me was the scratch of the keys in the front door.
Mom bustled into the house carrying a load of groceries. The bag smacked on the kitchen counter, and she flipped on a light.
We both flinched.
“Oh, Mother Mary and Joseph.” Mom grabbed her chest and tutted at me. “Honor Maria! You’re gonna give your momma a heart attack—a real one this time.”
I removed the keys she left in the lock and handed them to her. “Sorry.”
“Why were you sitting in the dark?”
“Must have fallen asleep.”
It wasn’t a bad lie. She tucked the keys into her purse and unloaded the bag. She’d kept to the list. Apples, milk, bread, peanut butter. But she snuck a smile and offered me a big chocolate chunk cookie, wrapped up from the bakery.
“Your favorite.” She winked. “I remember your Dad always used to get you those cookies. Big as your head.”
“You remember that?”
“Lord, the sweets that man shoved into you. Always trying to make you smile.” Mom put the groceries away, talking mostly to herself. “It’s a wonder you didn’t grow up with more meat on your bones. You should have been my own little sugar dumpling.”
Maybe. Mom didn’t remember it all. I fed myself mostly—ham sandwiches, a handful of carrot sticks, a can of soup. Most nights I didn’t want to disturb her, and she was passed out by eight. That’s when Dad could finally rest for the day, after working, cleaning the house, and taking care of her.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Definitely had a sweet tooth.”
Mom unloaded a rotisserie chicken from a second bag with a sheepish shrug. “They just smelled so good. And I didn’t know if you’d be here for dinner.”
I had nowhere else to go. “I’m staying.”
“You didn’t come home last night.”
My stomach clenched. She had noticed? I hadn’t stayed at Father Raphael’s all night, only long enough to break my heart.
“I came home late, and I had an early class,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Mom shook her head. “You’re an adult, Honor. And you’re here out of the goodness of your heart. You don’t have to tell me where you’ve been or when you’re coming back. I think I lost that privilege a long time ago.”
She said it so thoughtfully, so honestly. It stung. Mom popped the plastic top off the chicken and thunked the bird onto a plate. She carved with an eye on the wing. It had always been Dad’s favorite too. She offered me the first one.
I shook my head, but I pulled a chair to the counter and watched as she worked. It took a long week, but it seemed like she’d finally regained her strength from the two-night hospital stay. She was her old self again.
Or her new self?
Mom praised the Lord after a bite of a particularly juicy piece of chicken.
“I know I don’t say it enough,” Mom said. “But it feels like I can taste things again. The chicken tastes chickenier. The cookies are sweeter.” She sipped some water and sighed. “Just wonderful. It’s the simple things, Honor. If the world tries to take them away from you, you just stand up and say no. That world will listen.”
Not in all things unfortunately. I reached for a drumstick and peeled it off the bird, licking the juices from my finger.
“When was the last time we had a dinner together?” I asked.
Mom tapped the wing bone on her plate. “Well, this week’s been busy, especially with the sickness. Oh.” She nodded at me. “You snuck me a sandwich while I was in the hospital.”
“I mean…a real dinner. That doesn’t count.”
“Of course it does, baby. Doesn’t matter where you break the bread. Just matters that we’re together. A family.”
Now it really hurt. I didn’t know if it was Mom’s newfound optimism or if she generally thought life was better than it was.
I thought back through the summer, through the breakfasts I’d skipped and the dinners I’d missed because of the church. Every day I’d raced from activity to charity to class, and I couldn’t remember a time when I’d actually sat down at the table with Mom.
And that was a horrible, unconscionable realization.
As much as I hated to think of him, hated the pain that came from remembering the comfort he offered, Rafe was right. I needed to talk to Mom.
I had needed to do it for a long time.
I picked at the chicken, but my appetite faded. I wished my voice hadn’t trembled.
“Mom?”
She pulled a glass from the cabinet and topped it off with a bit of sweet tea for me. Her eyes met mine. Clear, focused. Nothing like what I remembered.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“What?” She laughed and pushed my plate towards me. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
I couldn’t eat now. I had to make her listen.
“No, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you before this. I’m sorry I haven’t taken the time to eat a proper meal with you. I’m just sorry.”
“Baby, what are you talking about?”
“I thought you had relapsed last week. I thought when we took you to the hospital, it was because you OD’ed on something—anything. I’ve been waiting all summer for you to break, even though I know you’ve been clean.”
Mom busied herself over the sink, washing the grease from her fingers. “Don’t, Honor. You don’t have to.”
“And I’m sorry I’ve been embarrassed by you. This whole summer. I came home, and I didn’t know what I’d find. I made everything worse. I doubted you. I was ashamed of you. I made this hard for you. All of this. The church. The bills. The groceries. Even this apartment.”
“Honor—”
“I’ve never told you how proud I am of you.” The words poured from me now, untapped and trembled. “You’ve changed. I don’t recognize you, and that’s a good thing. But I’ve treated it like it’s some failure, like it’s a fault of yours, and it’s not. You fixed your life, and I should be commending you. I should be making you chicken and sitting with you at dinner and thanking you for the changes you made.”
I looked down, away from her. A napkin tangled in my lap. I pressed sticky fingers into the paper and tore it to shreds.
“You’ve been mad at me,” Mom said.
“Yeah. I think. I don’t know.”
She lowered her glass to the table. “I deserve it.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes. I do. Honor, I take full responsibility for my actions. All of them. For what I’ve done in the last fifteen minutes to everything I ruined in the past fifteen years.”
“You shouldn’t. You’re a new person now.”
“No, baby. I’m not. I’m the same person, and to deny me that past is to deny who I am. If I don’t have that history, I can’t see what I’ve overcome. If I don’t acknowledge what I’ve lost, I won’t be able to gain it back, brick-by-brick.” She tapped the counter. “Don’t you apologize to me. I won’t tolerate it.”
My heart pounded, but Mom burst ahead. She bore more pride for her failures than most people earned in their successes.
“You have every right to be mad,” she said. “I made mistakes. I messed up. Bad. And I paid the price. I lost my home. My family and friends. My husband.” Her voice wavered. “If it meant your dad would have lived, I’d have spent a lifetime in jail. God as my witness, Honor, for so long I wished it had been me. I would’ve given my life, my freedom, my soul if he might have stayed on this earth and been there for you.”
I sucked in a breath. It cooled the tears, but I didn’t know for how long. “Dad loved you.”
“Not as much as he loved you. And I love you too, baby. I never expressed it right. The drugs and the drinking…it put a distance between us. I could never tell people that they meant the world to me. And I know you must have thought you weren’t as important as my next high, but, believe me, honey. You were
always more to me than the addiction. Even if you didn’t know it.”
“I knew it.” I hugged myself. “But I pretended I didn’t. It was easier that way. But I knew.”
“I never showed it.”
“Yes, you did. When I was sick and home from school, you’d cuddle me on the couch.”
Mom shook her head. “I was passed out most of the time anyway.”
“You taught me how to French braid my hair.”
“A mother should be more than that.”
I sighed. “On your bad days, you told Dad and Grandma to come help. You never wanted me to be alone. You tried to hide the sickness from me.”
“Because you were so innocent,” she said. “You still are.”
I didn’t feel that way anymore. “It doesn’t excuse my behavior. I should have helped more. I should have tried to understand.”
“That was your dad’s problem,” Mom said.
“That he helped?”
“To the detriment of himself. I see so much of him in you. You want a family. You are eager to love. You take responsibility for everyone and put too much pressure on yourself.” She leaned over the counter to take my hand. “You were a good child, and now you’ve grown into a great woman.”
“I don’t think so.” I didn’t pull away. “I tried to be good, but I’m…”
“You’ve not hurt anyone. You’ve not caused problems. You’re respectful and kind. Charitable.” Mom forced a smile. “And let’s not forget—you didn’t lose the best years of your life to a bottle of whiskey.”
I looked down. “Not all addictions are chemical, Mom. And some can ruin your life just the same.”
Mom settled in her chair. She pulled the uneaten chicken away from me and handed me the cookie instead. I watched as she dumped my sweet tea in the sink and filled the glass with milk instead.
I frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I know when my daughter needs her momma.” She tapped the cookie. “And I know when she’s talking about a man, even if she tries to hide it.”
“Mom—”
“The more capacity you have for love, the worse it hurts when your heart is broken.”
I shifted. “It’s okay. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Take it from me—talk about your problems. Don’t bundle them up tight, or you might lose them in a dark part of you that demands more pain to keep things hidden. Baby, learn from my mistakes. If you have someone in your life who wants to help, take that blessing.”
Blessing?
The only blessing I wanted was the one gift I’d never receive.
I didn’t know what to say. How to say it.
I couldn’t justify my behavior, the things I’d done, the life I’d ruined. I didn’t just tempt myself. No matter how beautiful our nights were, no matter how much we healed each other, when I came to be judged, my greatest sin wouldn’t be forgiven.
I desired a priest.
“I fell for the wrong man,” I said.
“How wrong?”
My eyebrow rose. “The worst…and the best.”
“Does he care for you?” she asked.
“He’s not supposed to.”
Mom arched an eyebrow. “But he does anyway?”
She made it sound like my mystery man was married—and he was. To the church. To his calling. To his ordination and faith.
And yet, I was glad she thought of me as an adulterer. It was better than the truth.
“He’s a good man with a good heart and soul,” I said. “If he could…I think he would love me.”
Mom didn’t like that. “That’s the only type of man worth your while. One who does love you. Who would care for you. Take you in sickness even if he never sees you healthy. If he can’t give you that, he’s not good enough for you.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Love isn’t. Either it’s there, or it isn’t. It’s people that complicate the simplest gift God gives us.”
“He loves though. He does. Very much. Everyone and everything.”
Her eyebrow rose. “Is that right?”
“He gives so much of himself. Hours upon hours. Even in the depths of his own mourning, he still makes time for others. He…was there when you were in the hospital. Selflessly. When I needed him as badly as he might have needed me.”
Mom sipped her tea, thinking long before she spoke.
“This man…he’s young?”
“He’s older than me.”
“Too old?”
“Eight years older.”
Mom scrunched her nose, but she allowed it. “And he’s respected then? In the community?”
I answered twenty-questions while tip-toeing around a minefield. “Yes.”
“I see.”
I think she did. I braced for a lecture, a smiting, anything that might have punished me.
But nothing hurt more than unrequited feelings.
Except being alone.
Mom exhaled, long and slow. “Honor, the heart wants what the heart wants.”
“What about what God wants?” I looked away. “It’s not fair to the flock if the shepherd is the one lost.”
“This has only one answer, but it isn’t what you want to hear.”
I nodded.
“We’re taught that God sacrificed his only son so we’d be saved,” Mom said. “If you sacrifice this, he would save others. He has a duty, and he made his commitment.”
“I know.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
“So am I.” I released a pained breath. “It’s just hard to admit.”
“I wish I could tell you the hard part is over, but I know better.” Mom pushed the cookie towards me. “It’s not hardest when you pour out the bottle or flush that last pill. It’ll be a week from now. Two. When you think you’ve finally beaten that craving only to let doubt creep in. That’s when it’s hard. When it feels impossible. When you don’t know why you’re living.”
She brushed the hair from my face. I took her hand, amazed by the wisdom in a woman I hardly knew.
Mom continued, her voice a burst of passion. “That’s when you look around, take stock in what you have, and accept the help that’s been given. Do you know what you have, Honor?”
I shook my head.
“You have me. I’ll be here, and I’ll help you. I’ll be the mother you’ve needed.”
I looked away. “I don’t think I need a mom right now.”
Her smile cracked, but she hid it, nodding her head. “Of—of course.”
“I think I need a friend.”
Mom leaned over the counter, kissing my forehead. “You’ve got that too, baby girl. You’ve got that too.”
23
Raphael
I expected her confession, but this one wasn’t delivered behind screens or in the darkness.
We met in the adoration chapel, where it had all began, and where it would have to end.
Honor had come to me in the darkest hour of my life, only my lovely angel wasn’t able to deliver me from myself, my thoughts, or my heart.
The church was empty this late at night. The choir had finished their last practice before the big competition. The festival preparations were complete, and the grounds awaited the vendors, games, and stands. The parish should have been excited.
But I told them during Mass of my departure, and my last days at St. Cecilia’s turned somber and dark.
Honor closed the door. It was unnecessary. What was done was done. It wouldn’t happen again. Not now. Not after our lust became something more.
I finally trusted my body and desires, but it was my heart that failed me.
“You understand why I have to go,” I said.
Honor didn’t speak. She leaned against the door, hands behind her, head bowed. I’d have thought she was praying or crying or trying to escape. Instead she pushed forward, taking the few steps to approach me.
“You know why I want you to stay.”
Her words haunted me
—too sorrowful. They weren’t spoken to convince me to remain in the parish, to appeal the Bishop’s recommendation. She simply admitted the truth to me, to herself, to the Lord and all the angels and saints, sinners and demons who mocked our foolishness.
“I knew the relocation was a possibility,” I said.
She sat next to me. Two imaginary Bibles separated us.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“Next week.”
“That quickly?”
“I should have been moved long ago. They’ve been waiting. I don’t think the diocese trusted me.” I clenched my jaw. “To them, I was someone young and…”
“Tempting?”
I didn’t answer. It wasn’t the mark I wished to leave on such a pure soul.
She bit her lip. “Do you have to go? Is there…anything we can do?”
Such an innocent angel.
“I’m leaving. It’s not a curse. It’s a blessing. We should be grateful for this.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t belong together.” I said it, and it hurt. “I am not the right man for you. For anyone. It was wrong of me to get involved with you.”
“Even if it helped us? Even if we…” She looked away. “Healed each other?”
“Still a sin, Honor. And it’s made worse in how I feel for you.”
Her eyes widened, that same almond-shaped surprise as the first time I touched her. “What do you feel, Father?”
That I wished she would call me Rafe.
And that was reason enough for me to leave.
“We are in a dangerous place, my angel. What we feel is more damning that the temptation to…” I shouldn’t have looked at her, watched the quiver of her lip, met the innocent, fawn-brown of her eyes. “What we feel for each other is more profound than a single night of inhibition. We can confess our sins, but we can’t pray to stop our hearts from beating.”
“Do you think it’s fair?”
“I think it’s wise that we’re separated.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
That was the only answer I could give her. I stared at the altar, the flickering red candle which signified the divine spirit in the monstrance. It once gave me comfort. A reason. A way to live.
