Lifting her chin gently with my fingers, I looked into her eyes and whispered, “Burden me.”
She looked at me with her sad smile.
I reached for her hand, and she took mine. Then I led her down the steps and to the field. We walked quietly together, both anticipating the question to come. I bit the bullet. I had to know.
“So, what happens now?”
“I leave.”
I stopped. I knew it was coming. How could it not? She had no family in the area now, and her only aunt, Aunt Giuseppina, lived in Virginia.
“Jason, our time together is over, and I can’t stand that.”
I stood facing her, watching her cry for the millionth time that day. She looked her age, so young and vulnerable.
“You know, you could change your mind and marry me.” I didn’t know where those words came from, but I meant them more than I meant anything I’d ever said to her.
“I’m already married,” she said. “Maybe not officially, but I’ve already given myself to Him.” And she smiled. “But I do love you, Jason. You’ve been such an amazing friend to me. With all my heart, I love you.”
“I know you do. And I love you.” Oh, how I loved her. I tried to smile through my own tears, but it hurt too much. “I don’t suppose you’d let me kiss you, just this one time.”
“Oh, Jason,” she said, her sob turning into a short laugh. “You are persistent, that’s for sure.” She wiped her tears. “No.” She reached out and hugged me. And it was better than any kiss I’d ever had, because I was new again.
In falling in love with her, I’d fallen in love with Him.
Organ music pushed its way through the walls of the church, shunting me eleven years to the present, and waking me from my memories. I tightened my hands into fists and banged my head softly against the brick. If I concentrated, I could smell the sweet scent of rosewater. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear her voice. If I just left my hiding spot, I could actually see her. I couldn’t avoid it any longer anyway, though I wanted to. How desperately I wanted to, because I knew I was about to have my heart broken again.
The church was dimly lit. I was thankful that the organ music drowned the clomping of my footsteps. I looked ahead to the casket, trying not to give away my emotions. Heads turned as I passed. Then, looking down at her, I choked. I felt it in my throat. A giant golf ball-sized lump. My nose stung, my eyes burned. I held onto the side of the casket, my hands gripping onto the cold, hard structure.
Sister Francesca lay inside, looking more beautiful than I’d ever seen her before or could have ever imagined. She still looked like the girl I met years ago, and I suddenly felt like that boy. My chest exploded, beginning from my heart and resonating outward until heat gushed over me and I began to shake. I gripped tighter and held my breath, afraid I’d release a loud aching moan. She seemed to glow, but maybe I just saw her as an angel. She wore a white habit, a veil on her head, and I’d never seen a more beautiful bride. Her hands rested on her chest, a pearl rosary with a gold chain wrapped carefully around her pretty fingers, and she looked as if she were sleeping.
No one knew what Sister Francesca meant to me because I’d never told them. I never really told her. Sure, she thought I had a crush on her, but I don’t believe she knew the depth of my devotion. I didn’t think it would be fair to share the full truth with her, considering she was giving herself to the Lord with a passion and desire that I had never seen before in a person. She was perfection personified to me, besides Jesus and the Blessed Mother, of course. She was angelic, pure, and no matter how much I had wanted to hold on to her and make her mine, I hadn’t wanted to taint who she was. I wanted her to remain that way. I had to let her go then—a higher purpose awaited us both—and I had to let her go again now.
Ironically, Sister Francesca’s desire to be like Saint Thérèse of Lisieux had come to pass, and after leaving me broken-hearted, she had moved to Virginia with her aunt and then later had gone on to become a nun at a small, remote convent in the south of France. She lived loving others in her little ways, and then an illness weakened her in her mid-twenties and took her from me. But not before I had a chance to see her this one last time. If only I could have told her what she had done for me. If only I’d had a chance to thank her. I released a shaky sigh and touched her hand.
My sob became a soft laugh as I recalled the many times I’d wished to kiss her but never did because I was afraid she’d hate me for it. She could do nothing now if I leaned in. But I knew she was watching me, the Lord likely by her side, and both shaking their heads at me.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “Old habits die hard.” Besides, what scandal I would cause among the congregation whose eyes I could feel drilling though my whole being and watching my every move.
“Father?” I felt a gentle tug on my cassock.
The soft whispering voice of an altar boy sounded loud in the now quiet church. I released a steady breath and took another before turning to him.
“We’re ready to begin.”
I nodded and looked one last time at her.
My name’s Francesca. I’m going to be a nun, so don’t fall in love with me.
But I had to, Sister Francesca. It was His will. Because in loving you, I was able to find Him. And in finding Him, I just couldn’t let Him go.
###
Bringing characters together from opposite ends of a faith scope often makes for a fun story with surprising twists. This is characteristic of T.M. Gaouette’s fiction. For more stories with real characters, exciting twists, draped in God’s Mercy, read her Faith & Kung Fu Series.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T. M. GAOUETTE is the author of the Faith & Kung Fu series for young adults, as well as The Destiny of Sunshine Ranch. A member of the Catholic Writers Guild, her novels Freeing Tanner Rose and Saving Faith have received the Catholic Writers Guild Seal of Approval. (Others are in the process). Born in Africa, raised in London, England, Gaouette now lives on a small farm in New England with her husband where she home-schools her four children and raises goats.
A former contributor on Project Inspired, she now writes fiction for teens and young adults. Her desire is to instill the love of God into the hearts of her readers. You can find out more at www.TMGaouette.com.
Contemporary
6
BEHIND THE WHEEL
by Carolyn Astfalk
Sean snatched Dad’s car keys from their hook in the mudroom. The clunky Go Army! medallion jangled against the keys and then slipped between his sweaty fingers. Thanks to his lightning-fast reflexes, Sean managed to catch the keys with his other hand, only to bobble them twice before they hit the tile floor with a clatter.
Sean froze.
Paul glanced up from where he sat on the living room couch, a slim soft-cover textbook propped against his bent knees. His feet lay on the cherrywood coffee table, dingy socks with worn heels resting on its edge.
Retrieving the keys with one hand, Sean turned to Paul and pressed his index finger to his lips, a signal for his eleven-year-old brother to keep quiet.
Paul’s face scrunched in confusion.
A second later, Dad’s voice boomed from the front of the house. “I’m going over to Ginny and Joe’s now. I’ll be back in, uh . . .”
Sean imagined Dad checking his wristwatch, instantaneously converting real time to military time.
The ancient deadbolt on the front door snapped open, and the door whooshed. “By 2200 hours. I want you both in bed. Lights out.”
From his spot in the mudroom, Sean peered around the corner and into the living room but only glimpsed Paul bobbing his head.
“Yeah, Dad,” Paul mumbled and then dropped his gaze to his book, twisting a lock of his short brown hair around a finger.
Sean stuffed the keys into his front jeans pocket, grabbed his hooded burgundy sweatshirt from a line of hooks inside the door, and tugged it over his head. Glancing at the five-by-seven-inch magnetic mirror a
ffixed to the side of the stackable clothes dryer, he ignored the smudged glass and focused on his reflection.
He ran his fingers through his hair several times until the blond-brown waves fell into place. With the back of his hand, he checked his jawline for signs of stubble, a routine he’d acquired over the last several months.
Still nothing.
He turned his head in either direction, studying his face. Would a little facial hair make a difference? Would Robyn see him as boyfriend material if he had at least the hint of a beard? It seemed she couldn’t imagine him as more than a classmate, as if he had the word sophomore tattooed across his forehead. His heart thudded in his chest. If he could pull off his plan, she wouldn’t write him off as a measly underclassman anymore.
“Where you goin'?" Paul dropped the textbook on the table with a smack.
“Nowhere you need to know about.” Sean averted his gaze from the mirror and pulled a pack of breath mints from his hoodie pocket.
Three steps and Paul was in Sean’s face. “You’re supposed to watch me. Dad said so.”
Sean tapped a mint from the case into his palm and held it out to Paul. Could sparkly spearmint in a two-calorie capsule buy his secrecy? Worth a shot. “Want one?”
“No thanks.”
With a suit yourself shrug, Sean shoved past Paul, ignoring his prior remark, and crossed the room, dodging a haphazard stack of Xbox games and a giant bag of Dad’s hiking gear. Body pressed to the cool plaster wall, he pushed aside the living room curtain with a finger. He peered outside and in the direction Dad would’ve taken walking to Aunt Ginny and Uncle Joe’s house three blocks north.
Paul’s soft footfalls alerted Sean to his younger brother’s approach. “Hey, doofus, Dad didn’t give you permission to go anywhere.”
Letting the curtain fall, Sean faced Paul, ready to set him straight on how the evening would go down. “I’m taking the truck, and I’m meeting someone.”
Paul’s expression morphed from startled to confused, his eyes widening. “You don’t have a license. Where ya goin’? Who ya meetin’?"
Sean tightened the drawstrings on his sweatshirt, anticipating the bite of a late October evening in northern Maryland. “I’m only going to Rizzo’s for a slice. I’ll be back in an hour. Way before Dad.”
“Are you crazy? You can’t drive.” Paul raised his hands, palm up, in question. “What if you wreck the truck? And . . . and, you can’t just leave me here.”
Oh, yes he could. For once, maybe he could go somewhere without Paul tagging along. “What’s the matter?” Sean smirked, assessing Paul’s still-childlike frame. “You afraid of the bogeyman?”
Hurt flashed in Paul’s eyes.
A glimmer of remorse softened Sean’s attitude, but he shoved it away. “Listen, it’s a piece of pizza, like, ten blocks from here.”
“Then why don’t you walk?”
Gritting his teeth, Sean strode to the front door. “Because, okay? And this is our secret. Ain’t nothin’ going to happen to Dad’s truck. I’ll be real careful.”
The rumbling bass of a subwoofer rattled the windows as Sean stepped onto the stoop. Clouds obscured the night sky, and a chill dampness signaled rain in the forecast.
Paul followed so closely on his brother’s heels that he nearly toppled Sean. “You’re only fifteen. Dad’ll kill you if he finds out.”
With a hand to Paul’s chest, Sean pushed him back indoors, into the warm glow of their little red-brick house. The crucifix on the wall above Dad’s red leather recliner caught Sean’s eye, creating a momentary twinge of guilt that he brushed off with ease. “And that’s why you’re not gonna tell him.”
Sean pulled the door shut, effectively cutting off further conversation. He breathed deeply of the crisp air as he galloped down the steps that led to the driveway.
An image of Robyn as she sat opposite him in the computer lab came to mind. Her shiny golden hair slid over her shoulders as her long, graceful fingers hovered over the keyboard, hunting and pecking. She bit her full pink lips together in concentration, occasionally huffing in frustration.
Neither frustration nor the dim blue glow of the monitor could detract from her beauty. But her looks weren’t what drew Sean to her. She saw him. Even what lay deep inside him. He wasn’t just a good-looking face to her; he could tell.
Sean had often wise-cracked, “It’s tough being as good looking as me,” but he winced when the words still slipped from his mouth. He couldn’t help that the combination of his cranial features, the set and color of his eyes, and the wave of his hair somehow appealed to girls any more than he could help that a couple of his knuckles double cracked or that his second toe was longer than his big toe. That’s the hand he was dealt, like the kids who ended up with raging acne, insane curls, or huge overbites.
He delivered his good looking crack in facetious tones because who would ever understand that being attractive could be a burden? It was like complaining you hit the lottery. You shut up and smiled because, by some miracle, you acquired what everyone else wanted. And if there was a downside, you sucked it up and laughed it off.
If it meant a group of girls literally jumped you when you walked onto the playground in fifth grade, so what? When one of said girls pulled your lunch bag out of the trash in seventh grade as a creepy keepsake, you ignored it. And if you had to tolerate a half-dozen girls you barely knew calling your home phone at all hours, getting your dad angry with you, you dealt.
Robyn exhibited no signs of being a body-jumping, trash-picking, phone-calling groupie. She spoke to Sean in the same way she did the other kid she sat opposite in lab—a tall, pale, skinny kid with too-thick glasses and a mystery abscess on his cheek.
If she had a question about their assignment, she asked Sean and actually listened to his answer, challenging him when she disagreed. If he behaved like a jerk, she told him so. And when he did something that impressed her, she told him that, too.
With a glance in either direction to make sure Dad hadn’t lingered or turned back, Sean hopped into the pickup truck. He sat low in the seat, stretching his back and neck to peer over the dashboard. The tilt of the mirrors was out of whack, but he didn’t dare adjust anything.
He shoved the key into the ignition and turned, his heart pounding as the engine came to life. With a tug, he snapped the seatbelt into place, then laid a hand on the automatic gear shift.
Nervousness swelled in his chest, and he scrunched his toes and circled his ankle before positioning his right foot over the brake pedal.
You’ve done this before. No sweat.
He’d driven. Two weeks ago. Dad let him move the truck around in the sprawling driveway at his friend Bob’s farmhouse. If he’d spun out of control, skidded, or got the gas pedal stuck, the worst that would’ve happened was a pancaked chicken.
Stakes were higher tonight.
Wanting to focus all his attention on the road and the two-ton vehicle he now controlled, Sean reached for the volume knob, ready to silence the classic rock blaring from the radio. His hand stilled. What if he forgot to turn it back on later? Dad always played the radio in the car. He’d know.
Glancing in the rearview mirrors and spotting no one, he eased the truck backward. The sun had set, and dusk settled, making it hard to see. He’d have to be extra cautious. He needed the headlights. Now, which knob was it? He braked and searched the dash for a second . . . this one?
He flinched as the windshield wipers moved, stuttering across the dry windshield.
Wrong knob.
There! Off to the side. He flicked the knob, and the headlamps illuminated the garage door.
Breathing a silent prayer, he tapped his foot to the gas pedal.
The truck lurched backward, spitting gravel from beneath the front tires. Sean slammed on the brakes, jerking to a stop. His heart settled several seconds after the vehicle.
Motion in the living room window caught his attention. Paul, a stupid grin on his face, pointed. Then, as if anticipati
ng Sean’s irritation, let the curtain fall.
Sean exhaled and returned his foot to the gas pedal, pressing more gently this time.
With little effort, he backed the truck into the street, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Booth’s trash can. A sporty little black car zipped up behind him, its lights shining brightly in Sean’s mirrors. Fumbling with the gear shift, Sean waved the car around. Last thing he wanted was to rush and make a stupid mistake.
The most direct route to Rizzo’s would take him past Aunt Ginny and Uncle Joe’s, so he devised an alternate route. Though he was grateful for Dad’s absence tonight, the seemingly urgent family meeting left Sean puzzled.
Dad had been tense lately, quieter and more withdrawn. He wasn’t what you’d call a talkative guy to begin with, but for the past couple of weeks, Sean and Paul had gotten no more than cursory words from him. “Good morning.” “How was school?” “What time should I pick you up?” “Is your homework done?”
Dad had been at the computer more, too, looking stuff up. Typically he complained about technology, urging Sean and Paul to get away from the screen. But lately he’d been hogging all the time at the keyboard.
Yeah, something was up with Dad. Something he wasn’t willing to share with Sean and Paul. But maybe with Aunty Ginny and Uncle Joe? They’d been the ones to hold the family together when Mom had died years ago.
As Sean rolled down the street, his mind ticked through the possible reasons for Dad’s reticence.
A silver minivan pulled out from a side street right in front of him.
Sean’s thoughts scattered. He gripped the wheel and slammed on the brakes. Something in the bed of the truck thudded and rolled; he had no idea what.
The minivan sped on its way. Sean sucked in a breath, praying he’d make it to the pizza shop with the truck unscathed. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea.
Ten minutes later, turn signal clicking over the sounds of the Steve Miller Band, Sean turned the truck smoothly into the parking lot in front of a small strip mall. Rizzo’s occupied the end property, its red lettering and neon pizza slice advertising its presence.
Secrets Page 11
