“It’s a junker, but it’s all yours. And I left you my CDs. There’s some REM in there,” and he gave me a loving smile. “Goodbye, Blue.”
And then he slid into the passenger seat and waited patiently while Father Neil climbed in beside him and fastened his seatbelt.
Then they drove away. If Gabriel looked back, I couldn’t tell.
“I love you,” I whispered. “And I’m damn well waiting for you.”
I returned to my room in a state of shock, shaky and breathless. When I opened the door, my eyes were drawn to my quilt. Laying on the top was Gabriel’s rosary.
And then, all alone, I cried.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Gabriel
Modibo Keita International Airport comprised a single runway baked into a dusty plain. As we touched down in Mali, I breathed out heavily.
If this was freedom, if this was my new life, I’d still brought a lot of baggage with me. The weight of my conscience bore down on me, making it hard to breathe, hard to hold my head high.
And yet, for the first time in my adult life, I didn’t report to anyone. Not a Navy Admiral, not a bishop, not even Blue.
Just me.
When I’d met with Bishop Quincy to atone for my sins, I was positive that he’d suspend me before starting my laicization—what the tabloid press called ‘defrocking’, what I knew as loss of my clerical state.
But he hadn’t.
He’d given me a choice. To stay and repent, continue as a man of the cloth.
Or to leave.
And it was in this choice, in this freedom, that I’d finally found some clarity.
My entire life I’d been running from something. From my youth. From my guilt for what I’d done when I’d been a SEAL. And then from Blue.
But now, I had every option open to me. And I’d chosen.
I was at the midpoint of my life. I’d first served my country, then through the God’s Will I’d served my parishioners.
And now, I still had more to give, more ways to help people who needed it: not as a Priest and not as a SEAL, but as a man.
Just a man.
I’d prayed, and the answer was clear.
I no longer wanted to be a priest.
I thanked the bishop for his grace and compassion. And then he’d performed the laicization ceremony, solemnly, sadly.
After it was over, I floated in a strange state of numbness, uncertain how to feel this enormous sense of loss, I’d called Wes.
Of course, he was stoked that I was joining his project and had welcomed me with open arms.
“Get your ass over here, buddy!” he’d said. “I’m booking the flights before you change your mind!”
From Bamako I took a flight to Timbuktu in an ancient Caravelle that must have been fifty years old. Only 15 of the 60 seats were filled and the fuselage shook so hard on take-off, I had my own Hail Mary moment. But then we landed and I exited the tiny airport, one foot on the hot pavement before I was blinded by the bright sunshine. The dust blew in my eyes, clouding my vision. I could barely make out five feet in front of me.
But through the haze, I saw Wes.
He strode forward and clamped his arms around me. We’d served in war. And now we would serve together helping others.
And through this opportunity, I would find myself.
I hadn’t forgotten about Blue. How she made me feel, how she loved me. How I loved her.
But I needed some time to learn how to forgive myself. If that was ever truly possible.
I turned my face to the sun and filled my lungs with the hot, African air.
“I’m ready,” I said to Wes.
He gave a brief smile. “I know.”
Chapter Forty
Mariana
I moved in with the Teresa the day that Gabriel left me. I couldn’t stay at the rectory, that was obvious, and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, go back to my old life.
I’d changed; Gabriel had changed me, and most of it was good.
I got myself a job in a diner and worked my ass off all summer for low wages and cheap tips, but it wasn’t so bad as the owners were nice and let me eat for free. I cut back to the night shift when I started classes in September and it felt like maybe I’d gotten myself together. I was doing it for Gabriel, but for me, as well.
The months rolled past with dreary monotony and I only knew it was Thanksgiving because the streets were emptier than usual and a lot of stores were shut. Teresa was working, and I felt lost and so alone, I finally went back to where I felt closest to Gabriel—his old church, St. Peter’s.
I made sure that I went when there wasn’t a service because I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew. I don’t know if you’d call it praying, but I sat there in the silence of dusk, watching dust swirls in the dim rays of light through the stained glass windows and I thought about my life: how I’d come into the world, how I’d lived, what I’d done, the choices I’d made, the regrets I had; and then I thought about what came next. I missed Gabriel, but he was always with me, a physical pain in the center of my chest, and I found myself touching that empty space at odd moments—I’d gotten some strange looks for it, too. Not that I cared about that.
But maybe God did hear my ramblings, because when I left, I felt calmer and I had a plan: continue at school, be better, be more.
Living with Teresa was working out well. She’d been surprised to see me move in a few days earlier than we’d agreed but didn’t ask any questions as she helped me move in my few things, including Lolly’s toy box and a large collection of old-school CDs.
I had a little money from welfare, but the Navy were taking their own sweet time sorting out what benefits I was due from Luke. I had to take a blood test and fill in a crap ton of forms. Despite all of that, I was still waiting.
I toyed with the idea of writing Gabriel, but with all the shit that had gone down, with what he’d said to me as he headed for the airport, I wasn’t sure he’d want to hear from me, but somehow I couldn’t not write him, couldn’t not tell him how I felt. Honesty must be catching … who knew?
I wrote my first letter on the first day of the New Year.
Gabriel,
I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, maybe ever, in the whole history of the world. And if that’s the case, this letter won’t mean anything to you because you won’t read it. But if you do read it, I guess it’s because it does matter.
I’ve waited too long to say it, but I’m sorry. I was wrong about so many things, but mostly I was wrong about you. You’re a good man, Gabriel, even though that’s probably not what you’re thinking about yourself right now, but you are. I’m sorry for everything I did. I know you feel guilt, for my dad, for me, for what happened, but here’s the thing—I forgive you, Gabriel. Will you forgive yourself? Will you forgive me?
Blue
I didn’t hear back from Gabriel. I was kind of not expecting to, but it hurt anyway.
It felt like the world had swallowed him up, and with the thousands of miles between us, the billions of people on the planet, searching for one man who didn’t want to be found seemed futile. I was futile, but I didn’t know what else to do but hope the charity forwarded the letter to him, and then wait.
I wondered if Gabriel was in touch with anyone from the rectory but both Father Neil and Mrs. O’Cee said they hadn’t heard from him and I believed them. I trusted them.
That in itself was a shock—to find that there were two people in the world I trusted, but I did. And then Father Neil suggested that the one person Gabriel might contact was his own confessor, Father Michael. Although he gave me the address a little reluctantly.
“He’s an old man, Mariana,” he said, a warning in his voice.
“I’m not going there to beat him up,” I complained. “I just want to talk to him!”
Father Neil gave the ghost of a grin. “True, but you can be somewhat forceful when you talk to people.”
“You make me sound like the Mafia.”
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He laughed outright at that. “I thank God that they never recruited you,” he smiled, shaking his head. “Here’s his address, but be gentle.”
An hour later, I sat in Gabriel’s car—my car—outside the old priest’s house. He’d officially retired at Michaelmas, so he didn’t have his own church anymore, but lived in a sort of home for retired priests.
I frowned at the crumbling brickwork and paint peeling from the window frames—this was not going to be in Gabriel’s future.
I put on my game face, then remembered I wasn’t supposed to scare the old guy but win him over. I tried a softer smile when a wrinkled man wearing a cassock and older than Moses answered the door.
“Father Michael?” I asked uncertainly.
He stared at me with bright blue eyes, a quizzical expression appearing as he looked me up and down.
“You must be Gabriel’s Mariana.”
“I … yes. How did you know?”
He smiled faintly. “God’s all-seeing eyes … and Gabriel described you rather comprehensively. Please, come in.”
He led me through a dusty hallway and into a small sitting room with a lingering smell of cabbage.
I had to move a pile of books from a threadbare armchair before I could sit down.
“I’d have to ring for coffee,” he said, “or perhaps you’d prefer a drop of God’s morning dew … also known as good Irish whiskey.”
“Yeah, whiskey. Thanks.”
He poured a generous measure into a tumbler and pushed it across the dented and scarred coffee table.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, a hard challenge in his voice. “I have to say, I thought it would have been sooner than this.”
“Shoulda sent me an invitation,” I snapped, tossing the whiskey down in one.
He laughed out loud. “Gabriel said you were a firecracker! Well, now, Mariana, and why is it you’re visiting this old priest today?”
“Has Gabriel’s been writing you?” I asked flatly. Father Michael nodded but didn’t reply. I swallowed and lifted my chin. “He hasn’t written me. I’ve sent written him twice but I haven’t heard anything.”
That was the shameful truth—Gabriel hadn’t replied.
“Ah,” said the old guy, lifting his whiskey and taking a small sip.
I waited impatiently as he considered his reply and chose his words as if he was walking across a field of landmines.
“Gabriel is a complex man,” he said at last. “He’s lived his life with more intensity than most of us can imagine, but he survived by turning off his emotions. You, young lady, opened the floodgates and Gabriel was swamped with every emotion he’d locked up over the last twenty years. It would be trite to say he couldn’t cope, but that’s about the size of it. Add on a good dose of Catholic guilt from his … relations … with you, and, well, the explosion tore him apart.”
I didn’t realize that I was digging my nails into my thighs until Father Michael patted my arm and took my left hand in his.
“I don’t say this to torture you, Mariana, but you came to me for the truth, I think?”
I nodded wordlessly.
“Then the truth is that Gabriel is broken, but through prayer, the Lord’s guidance, and his missionary work, he will find the path to heal himself.”
“Away from me!” I said bitterly.
“Away from himself,” said the old man kindly. “He needs to be able to start again, to be re-born, you might say. He needs to find out who Gabriel Thorne is now—not a SEAL, not a priest, but just a man. Do you see, child?”
“No,” I replied sullenly. “Well, a little, I guess. But why couldn’t he stay here?” With me.
“Two reasons,” said Father Michael, pouring himself another glass of whiskey and offering the bottle to me.
I shook my head and waited impatiently for his pearls of wisdom.
“Firstly, it was part of his punishment—I can’t call it ‘penance’ because that is a repentance of sins and Gabriel has been very clear that he doesn’t repent his association with you.”
Hope surged painfully. “He doesn’t?”
Father Michael shook his head, his expression grave. “His missionary work was the price for him not to be publicly shamed.”
“So the bishop blackmailed him,” I said bitterly. Father Michael inclined his head but didn’t speak. “And the second reason?”
“Much more prosaic,” he answered. “Gabriel needed to dry out. Too much of God’s morning dew—a bottle of whiskey a day is not the key to a healthy, happy life.”
I looked away, unable to meet Father Michael’s knowing gaze. Sure, Gabriel had already been drinking too much before he met me, but the stress of the last few months had pushed him from a regular drinker to an alcoholic. Guilt, guilt, guilt. I knew all about the weight of Catholic guilt—even though I wasn’t Catholic.
“How long?” I asked hoarsely. “How long will Gabriel be away?”
“A year, more likely two,” he said gently.
My eyes started to water, but I nodded as if that was the answer I’d expected.
“I’ll wait,” I said quietly.
Father Michael sighed. “You’re so young, Mariana, and you have your whole life ahead of you. It’s time for you to move on; it’s time for Gabriel to move on. Let Gabriel go, child.”
I stood up slowly, locking my knees so they wouldn’t shake.
“Thank you for the drink, Father Michael,” I said. “But when you write Gabriel, you tell him I’m waiting. You tell him to come home to me.”
And then I strode from the room
I wrote my third letter to Gabriel on March first.
Dear Gabriel,
Me again. I haven’t heard back from you but that’s okay. Maybe you can’t send letters easily from where you are. I’ve been trying to find out but no one will tell me—the charity people just say it’s really remote and letters take a long time. They said you were traveling around some, too. But maybe you did get my letters but you just don’t want to write me. That’s okay, too. I wouldn’t want to write me if I was you.
I looked Mali up on a map. Are you near Timbuktu? Wikipedia says it’s got one of the oldest universities in the world—a bit different from community college, but yeah, I’m taking a few classes—getting good grades, too.
I went to see Father Michael. He was real nice to me which surprised me. I know I’m not his favorite person but he listened to me and we talked. It wasn’t a confession, but we talked and it was good.
Do you remember once that you told me that God cared about me? We were halfway up a damn mountain at the time and I was so out of breath, but you told me that God cared about me—and I thought you were full of shit. Sorry, but I did. Well, that’s something else I was wrong about—I don’t think you’re full of shit and I do think God cares about me. It took me a long time to figure that out but he brought me to you, right? I know I fucked things up badly, but you were the one good thing in my life. No one has ever stood up for me the way that you did. No one has ever loved me the way that you did. And I love you, Gabriel Thorne, and I’ll wait for you.
Blue
March passed with a haze of classes and work and studying. Lolly kept me company when Teresa was working nights, and we found a rhythm that worked for us.
There was still no word from Gabriel, but I’d made up my mind that I’d write him every month, whether he ever wrote me back or not. Maybe it was more for me than for him, but I needed that connection with him, and I hoped he was reading my letters.
Chapter Forty-One
Gabriel
I read Blue’s letters. I read them so many times I could have repeated them in my sleep. When I touched them, I felt like a blind man reading braille—every sentence, every word was etched into a part of my body. I ached for her, a physical pain that hurt more than the heat, the hard work, the days of defeat, the days when we won a little against apathy, bureaucracy or open hostility.
We were working with some of the world
’s poorest and most marginalized people, who lived without clean water or sanitation. Try telling people about washing their hands and basic hygiene when the only clean water came in bottles and cost more than your monthly wage. You would have thought that alone would guarantee that people were glad to see us, but that definitely wasn’t always the case.
The compound had to be guarded 24/7. Even though the Muslims in Mali, which made up 95% of the population, were Maliki Sunni influenced with Sufism, the infiltration of returning ISIS fighters from Syria had started to affect the way Wes’s water aid charity was able to operate. We all had to be careful, and every journey from the compound included guards armed with old Russian Kalashnikovs.
Wes and I weren’t there to train the guards, but even so, we took those guys apart and rebuilt them to keep our people safe.
Our people.
We’d done well today, one of the good days. My hands were roughened with work and my muscles ached. I’d been working with the village carpenter named Souleymane to build a water tower. He’d shown me how to shape and join the myriad pieces, laughing at my clumsiness, but by the end of the day, we’d been working as a team. We should be producing fresh water for this village in three days. It seemed like a miracle.
Souleymane and I prayed together, Muslim and Christian, and I prayed for the whole world to find this peace that we had.
But ya see, there’s that messy Free Will part, too. Not sure God had thought that one through.
The villagers were excited and kept coming up to thank me in their own language, leaving small gifts of food. At first, I’d tried to give them back, but Souleymane told me I’d hurt the feelings of my village ‘family’ if I did that.
That’s what the men and women I worked with had become to me. But I also knew that once this project was running smoothly, I’d be moving on again.
I tried not to think of my old life back in San Diego, but Blue’s letters called to me, pulling me back to a time when I’d been happiest and most conflicted.
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