“Luca goes to our church,” Avi argued.
She was right. He hadn’t missed Mass in over a month and he was always seated next to Avi.
“Yes,” Gigi said, “and have you noticed that Brenda and Phil no longer go to the Mass we attend? They are now going later on Sunday or on Saturday evening. Today will be the first time we’ve been around them since right after Thomas died, and we do not need to rub salt in their wounds.”
Dad shrugged into his coat. “Today is not the day for them to be reminded how their son died,” Dad said numbly.
I said, “We will remind them.”
Dad spoke, his expression distant. “I discussed that with Father Luke. He said we should be there. We’re part of the church family. It’s our duty to support Brenda and Phil as much as we possibly can.”
I wondered if my sisters thought the same as I did, that we failed miserably at whatever duty we owed our church family. We were not wanted there. We were the social outcasts; perhaps we always had been. Though, now … there was no pretending otherwise. Except maybe by Father Luke, who was as oblivious to the happenings in his parish as any pastor could be. His saying we should attend did little to convince me. Though in his defense, not attending also felt wrong.
“We need to get going. We can’t be late,” Gigi said, slipping her purse over her shoulder and opening the garage door.
We went to my dad’s car without another word. He and Gigi had been trying for weeks to tell us it wasn’t as bad as we thought, that people didn’t hate us. That we were overreacting and being particularly sensitive because of all we’d been through. They said all of this, yet it had been Gigi’s idea to suddenly start a new family tradition. Three weeks ago she decided it would be more fun for us to buy hot donuts from a bakery after church, instead of going into the parish hall and eating room-temperature donuts with the rest of the congregation.
Dad no longer set limits on how many donuts Avi could eat—though she rarely had an appetite for even one when eaten in our kitchen or the bakery. I was the same. Every Sunday I forced myself to eat one in a poor attempt to make my dad and grandmother feel better. Donuts and church were linked, in my mind, and the pain of one brought the distaste for the other. Lisieux was the same as Avi and me; the one exception was Luca. He could easily eat a dozen by himself, and did that first Sunday when no one else felt like having any.
I stared at the closed kitchen door as we backed out of the garage, wishing, hoping, praying Luca would emerge from it.
Three
The still, gray morning had turned into a bright, windy afternoon. The air was cold, the trees that had lost their leaves were bare except for the bits of snow clinging to each of them in different ways. Some sat on the branches, others on the bark, like it had been blown there and refused to leave.
The barren trees and chilled air were givens for November; the bright sun and snow were not. These were gifts. The sun brought with it hope, and the white veil of snow, beauty that covered the scars of the past.
“It’s crowded,” Avi said with trepidation as Dad parked in the gravel lot. The main parking area was full.
Lisieux begged one last time. “They won’t notice if we aren’t there.”
“They will notice,” Gigi said with an edge of exhaustion as she undid her seat belt and opened the door.
The three of us didn’t move. She and my dad opened our doors. I squeezed Avi’s hand and scooted out of the Range Rover.
Lisieux took my arm and I hers. The slick snow and loose stones made it difficult to find our footing in the heeled boots we wore. Avi leaned heavily against our father; she wanted to be carried though he didn’t want to pick her up. Gigi walked alone at the front, like a general leading the charge. Her shoulders were straight, her gray hair pulled back into a sophisticated wrap.
We followed dutifully, the uneven gravel giving way to smooth asphalt. We were able now to walk faster, but we didn’t. Or perhaps I didn’t. Lisieux, I realized, was delicately pulling me forward. I allowed her to lead me; I couldn’t think clearly enough to control my own actions.
When we reached the sidewalk, I raised my head. The side of the church was visible from where we stood. In the secluded parking area next to the church sat the long black car.
Lisieux said, “Why would they have a hearse here? There’s no body.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, my mind becoming fuzzy. Before I understood what was happening, the world faded and my body became heavy as it hit the ground.
“Oh my gosh, Siena!” Lisieux cried as she reached for me, trying and failing to keep me from hitting the concrete.
Dad hurried to us. “What happened? Are you okay?” he asked, helping me to my feet.
“She tripped,” Lisieux said.
Did I trip? I didn’t remember. I could remember nothing, my mind blank as I stared without blinking at the curtained windows of the black hearse.
“She’s wet,” Lisieux said as she took my left arm. My father took my right.
“She fell into the snow,” Gigi said with practicality, her hand around Avi’s. “Come on, we can’t be late.”
My dad and Lisieux helped, or more accurately, forced me forward.
“I don’t want to go in,” I said, my voice thick as they escorted me, one at each arm, up the stairs.
“This isn’t about you or us,” Gigi said under her breath as two men in black suits opened the doors in front of us. “This is about supporting Brenda and Phil and praying for Thomas’s soul, something he certainly needs.”
Before I realized it, I was inside. The church was dim compared to the bright daylight behind us. The sunlight streaming in around us reminded me of the day of the fall festival, of Thomas coming in, surprising Luca and me. The brightness had blinded me for a moment so that I wasn’t sure it was Thomas. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been blinded? If I’d seen him, from the beginning, for who he was and what he wanted?
The nauseatingly sweet smell of fresh flowers overpowered the narthex. There was a four-foot standing bouquet on each side of a framed picture of Thomas. In the formal picture his hair was combed back, he wore a coat, a tie, and a subtle smile. I wondered what this picture had been taken for—his senior picture for the school yearbook?
Lisieux and I obediently entered the door our dad was holding open for us. Gigi and Avi were already in the back row. We quickly scooted in next to them. The pew in front of us contained another family from church. For the most part they kept to themselves and didn’t join the chatter—good or bad—that often happened when groups of people were gathered. They truly were at Mass every Sunday for the Eucharist and nothing else. The mother, Jody, offered me a sincere smile before facing forward again. Her kind gesture made tears prickle my eyes.
The church was full and smelled of the flowers covering most of the altar. The flowers were grouped in bunches, separated by multiple large framed pictures of Thomas. There was no coffin … there was no body to put into it.
Only the pictures.
At each picture, people gathered, dabbing their eyes with tissues. Some were holding on to each other; others stood by themselves—each mourning in their own way.
There were so many people my age, some I had gone to school with many years ago. Many others I didn’t recognize. Their presence reminded me of how much Thomas was loved.
From her spot several pews up, Thomas’s ex-girlfriend, Beth, turned and glared at me. Those around her took turns doing the same. The irony struck me painfully—Thomas was loved … I was hated.
A hush fell over the church. Everyone stood. I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on the four dozen or so white lilies that stood on either side of the framed picture in the very front of the altar. In this picture, Thomas was sitting at the beach. The waves were crashing against rocks behind him, his brown hair falling gently into his eyes. He looked very much like he had the Sunday he first spoke to me. This picture was recent, taken a few weeks before his death. His eyes were bright
and blue, with no hint of darkness. His smile was confident, as always. I wondered who he was smiling at, who was on the other side of the camera. I doubted it was either of his parents; from what he had told me, he wasn’t typically around them. Friends were far more important to him, and that showed in the church being packed with people our age.
Heads gradually turned forward when Thomas’s father practically carried his sobbing wife up the aisle. I lowered my gaze, focusing on the back of the oak pew in front of me. My hands rested against it, keeping me steady as my heart threatened to stop beating. This was too much. Too much to experience. Too much to feel. The sobs came again and again from Brenda as others helped Phil guide her to the pew reserved for them at the front of the church.
Beside me, Avi was holding on to Dad, her face buried into his jacket. I hated that she was here. I hated that any of us were here.
Father Luke’s placid voice came over the speakers. It was difficult for me to understand his words, not because they were unclear but because my mind wouldn’t settle. I mimicked the movements of those around me and sat.
A familiar voice spoke into the microphone. I raised my head. Beth was standing at the ambo. She dabbed at her eyes as she began the first reading. Her voice was strikingly strong. Her presence startled me for a reason I couldn’t fully explain. She was friends with Thomas; they had dated last summer, and their parents were close friends, so why would she not be the one to deliver the readings at his funeral?
Somehow, her standing up at his funeral added even more hurt.
If she’d been the one with him when he died, would they hate her as they hated me?
Beth stepped down, bowing respectfully on her way back to her pew. Brenda grabbed onto Beth, pulling her in for a heavy embrace, each of them breaking down into sobs. Brenda held on to Beth until, finally, Phil gently helped his distraught wife sit back down. She fell against his chest. Beth’s mother rushed out of their pew and took hold of her daughter, guiding her back to their seats.
Chastity, Beth’s best friend, sat with her parents in the pew behind Beth’s family. She turned dramatically in her seat, searching the rows behind her until her gaze fell on me. If looks could kill, I would’ve been dead. So much hatred, it physically hurt. Others saw what was happening and joined in. No one wanted me there; everyone despised me.
The young mother in the row in front of me sat taller, and so did her husband. Together they blocked most others from being able to glare at me. I slumped farther in my seat, so grateful for their simple heroic gesture.
The responsorial psalm was sung by the church’s main cantor. Afterward, Father Luke stood. He wiped his eyes as he approached the ambo. It was unusual to witness much emotion from him, though there had been a great deal of it during these last few weeks. Father Luke was not a new priest, but this had been the first parishioner he had lost to supposed suicide.
He read the Gospel clearly, until he got to the words “Jesus wept,” and then he, too, wept. He recovered and began his homily.
“Our faith demands that we view this world as testing grounds for our eternal life. Thomas understood that better than most. He and I had several conversations regarding the importance of choices made in this life, in preparation for the next. In fact, a week before Thomas died, he spoke to me of the supernatural, questioning my understanding of it. He was a young man who was searching, trying to understand all that this life and the next have to offer. He was wise to ask such questions. We should all ask such questions. Life is often not fair, which is clear in this case. Of all the parishioners I have, I never would have dreamt that Thomas’s life would be the one to be cut short—certainly not in this way. He was so cheerful and helpful. Always willing to help at any of the church functions.”
Father Luke wiped at his eyes. “How this happened, I do not understand. Life is a mystery, at times a tragic mystery. If we take any solace, it is that we can be assured that, like the good thief, Thomas is with our Lord this day in paradise because, as we are all aware, mental illness does not keep us from our Lord. Thomas’s tragic actions at the end of his life do not negate or represent who he was. As the Scripture passage says, ‘Jesus wept,’ just as we all weep. There is heartbreak—but it is short-lived for those of us who, like Thomas, focus our attention on eternal life.”
After a few more minutes in which Father Luke extolled how virtuous Thomas was, the homily was over. I felt as though the last ten minutes had been about someone I’d never met. Did Father Luke actually believe those things about Thomas?
On his way across the altar, Father Luke removed a tissue from the pocket beneath his long robes. As he blew his nose, I was struck by his simplicity. There was no malice in this priest. He was good to an extreme and expected others to be the same. To realize that there was another side to Thomas would be nearly impossible for someone like Father Luke. Instead, he saw in Thomas exactly what Thomas wanted him to: someone apparently deserving of immediate sainthood.
As the muted sobs rang throughout the pews around me, I wondered if I was the one who was wrong. Perhaps Thomas was as holy as Father Luke believed, who all the people here—except my family—thought him to be. I wished I could believe that.
I followed the others and knelt during the Consecration of the Eucharist, using the opportunity to bury my face into my folded hands. The darkness of my hands brought me the briefest moment of solace.
When I raised my eyes, I saw Father Luke stepping down from the altar. He went directly to Thomas’s parents and gave them the Eucharist. Thomas’s mother received the holy presence of Jesus where she sat, too distraught to stand or kneel. His father received while standing beside her. Others around them stood and went up to receive the Eucharist.
Our turn came sooner than expected since many in the church were not Catholic and didn’t go forward to receive. I followed solemnly behind Avi. My skin burned as the whispers followed me up the aisle.
Finally, we reached the front, where Father stood. Directly behind him was the framed photograph of Thomas at the beach. He was so often laughing in life, yet in the end there was no laughter, no joy, nothing of the boy whose eyes danced in this picture.
Father Luke held the white wafer in front of me, the source and summit of our faith, as he often referred to the Eucharist.
“Body of Christ,” he said solemnly.
“Amen,” I stated, and he placed the thin consecrated Host in my left hand. My righthand fingers lifted it into my mouth and then made the sign of the cross.
I didn’t chew the thin wafer; instead, I allowed it to dissolve in my mouth as I made my way back to my pew, careful to keep my eyes focused on the scuffed pine floor. I thought of what Luca had said after he came to that first Mass and sat where we now sat. He had felt the presence of God in the Eucharist and questioned me as to why the one at the altar, Thomas, had not received it. I felt the papery wafer dissolve in my mouth. It was easy to forget what it was, but the demons that surrounded or, perhaps, occupied, Thomas didn’t forget. The sacred presence of Jesus repulsed them and therefore repulsed Thomas. Life would be so much easier if I could see the world as it truly was.
A prayer silently entered my heart: Help me to see what is hidden.
The time to kneel ended; we stood. A moment later, Thomas’s funeral Mass was over. I should’ve felt relief, but I didn’t. There was no way for us to slip out unseen.
Father Luke was waiting to escort Thomas’s parents from the church. Brenda leaned clumsily on Phil as they made their sorrowful procession down the aisle.
My father, who was closest to the crowd streaming out of the church, remained seated. He must have felt the stares of daggers shooting his way, but he did not react. His gaze was above the emptying pews, transfixed on the crucifix. Dad was familiar with suffering; he had survived it before. He would survive it now.
Gigi said, “It’s time for us to go outside now.”
Her posture was commanding. Unlike my father, she was standing, her head raised, her s
houlders back. She wasn’t hiding. She was adamantly refusing the guilt others were assigning to us.
My father did as she instructed, Avi still clinging to him.
“Why did you make her come?” I whispered to Gigi.
Gigi’s expression softened when she noticed her youngest grandchild. “Hiding is not our way,” she said, turning from me and exiting the pew.
As we left the church, the fresh air felt surreal. Surreal that cold air would be stinging my lungs when Thomas was no longer breathing.
We stood to the side. The rest of the church was filing past Thomas’s parents, in a sort of line of misery. How did his parents have the strength to speak to each of them?
“We need to say something to Brenda and Phil,” Gigi said when the line was beginning to dwindle.
Avi clung tighter to Dad.
Lisieux’s eyes became wide. I took her hand in mine. We’d face this together as we’d faced Mom’s death together.
It was as if the crowd parted to allow us to reach Brenda and Phil.
“There are no words we can speak,” Dad said, embracing Phil.
Phil didn’t answer; he merely nodded, allowing my father to comfort him.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Lisieux managed to get out between tears.
“Thank you,” Phil said, no longer being held by Dad.
Brenda sniffed. “What about you, Siena? Are you sorry for the death of our son?”
Her words were biting. I felt Gigi’s arm tighten around mine.
“Of course she is,” Gigi said lovingly. “None of us have stopped crying. His death,”—her voice choked—“it is tragic.”
“I wasn’t asking you, Gemma,” Thomas’s mother said coldly. “I was asking your granddaughter, the one who broke my son’s heart, causing him to end his life.”
“I … we ….” I stumbled over the words. “We were never dating. He—he didn’t care for me in that way. We never even held hands.”
Gifted (Awakening Book 2) Page 2