by Lana Grayson
In more ways than one.
Nothing was wrong with holding her like this unless it meant more to me than a moment of comfort. Maybe that’s what I did. Maybe I rubbed her back to ease the strain in her shoulders. Maybe I leaned down to shelter her from the harsh lights and screeching pages. Maybe I hated to see a member of my congregation in pain.
Or maybe I held her because Honor’s fear and sorrow struck through me like a spear to my side.
Maybe I held her because I’d do anything to spare her this pain.
Just as I’d do anything to see her happy.
Smiling.
Laughing.
I had taken her. Kissed her. Lost myself inside her. But I had nothing to make her happy. That urge endangered us both.
Another page. A nurse hurried down the hall.
Honor pulled away.
At least she had the strength to do it.
“Sit,” I said. It came out as an order, another command. I gentled my voice. “Is there anything I can get for you? Are you hungry?”
“I can’t eat.”
She curled her legs back under her. Shivering.
For any other woman, any other parishioner, I wouldn’t have compromised myself. For Honor, my lost and frightened angel, I’d have sacrificed anything. I wrapped an arm over her shoulders and let her rest her head against my shoulder.
And the touch damned my heart.
“What happened?” I asked.
She shook her head. Not yet then. I understood. I had waited with enough anxious families during these types of problems.
I loved the church and my role within in it, but I could do only so much. In the moments after quiet prayer, I was just the same as anyone else waiting for the mercy of the Lord.
After ten minutes—and eight hundred and fifteen pounding beats of my heart—she finally spoke. Softly. Pained.
“The women at the church saw her taking something the other day.”
No one had come to me with that information. “Did they say what it was?”
“A pill.”
My heart ached. Honor shifted. She nestled closer to me. I allowed her to rest, and she heaved a reluctant breath.
“I was at choir practice when they told me. The night…”
“In the Mary garden.”
“Yeah.”
I gritted my teeth. That was the night I let the darkness corrupt me. Maybe if I had fought my desire, I might have seen a woman in pain. One who needed me, her priest and her…
Nothing else. Just a priest.
“I should have been at home more.” Honor sighed. “I just couldn’t be there with her. Everything’s changed. I lost my home. I left college. I came back to this, and she was so…different.”
“I understand.”
“We fought this morning. She pulled almost two hundred dollars in cash from the bank account, money we can’t afford to be without.”
I recognized those signs. She didn’t need to say anything else. I rubbed her shoulder, and her shudder tore through me.
“I came back tonight, and I was upset. I was mad at her. I was mad at myself.” Her voice lowered. “I was mad at you, Father.”
That I also understood.
“She was passed out on the floor. I couldn’t wake her up. It was just like the times when I was a kid. I’d find her sick. Unresponsive.” She swallowed. “So selfish.”
She twisted from me, her eyes wide.
“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to say it. Not while she’s sick.”
“It’s okay.” I cupped her cheek. “This was a fear of yours.”
“Can…doubt make things happen?”
She asked so sincerely, so desperately, I didn’t know how to respond. “Doubt?”
“I never believed that she’d stay clean. I always thought this would happen again. I didn’t believe in her, and now I’m just thinking…what if it was a self-fulfilling prophecy?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“What if it is?”
“We want to feel powerful,” I said. “We look for reason and meaning in all things, but you know as well as I do, we have no control over others.”
If only I had learned that weeks ago.
Honor shrugged. “It’s God’s will?”
“I was talking about our own influence. How much we can guide and help another person. We want to protect them. We want to live up to their expectations, and them ours.” I brushed her soft cheek. “Sometimes it can feel like the greatest success or the worst failure, but every person is their own. We can’t control them, but, the lucky ones get to stay with them, support them, love them in whatever decision they make.”
She stared at me, shaking her head. “You’re such a mystery, Father Rafe.”
“I don’t try to be.”
“You have a good soul.”
“I doubt that.”
“I don’t. I can feel it.” She touched my hand. “And I’m grateful for it.”
That innocent touch would heal a thousand wounds to my heart and still cause the final slice that would end it all.
Footsteps shuffled into the waiting room. Honor stood, facing the pot-bellied doctor carrying his stethoscope, lab coat, and cup of coffee.
“Miss Thomas?” He asked. “I’m Doctor Bartlett. Let’s take a seat.”
I whispered to her, leaning close. “I’ll wait just down the hall. Come get me when you need.”
“No.” She spoke quickly. “Please. Can you stay?”
It wasn’t the first time a family asked me to stay while the doctor delivered news—good or bad. Whether it was an ill parent, a spouse in a car accident, a child in surgery, or the widowed wife of a soldier delivering their child alone, I had often stayed to help.
So why did I feel relieved to know Honor wanted me to stay? She wanted me to help her.
To be with her.
Doctor Bartlett exhaled as he sat at the nearby table, rubbing his hip as Honor clamored to her seat. He sipped his coffee as if it were his first break all evening.
“Well, your mother is a very lucky woman,” he said.
Honor didn’t believe him, and she wasted no time. “Was it Oxy or something else? I always knew she’d find a knock-off or something more dangerous.”
“Oxy?” Doctor Bartlett tapped the chart in his hand. “I know your mother has an extensive history of substance abuse, but it wasn’t painkillers tonight.”
Honor sat back. “Oh God. Please, tell me it wasn’t heroin.”
She found my hand under the table.
Squeezed.
I squeezed back.
“Miss Thomas, your mother took too much of her blood pressure medications.”
Honor blinked. “And it…causes a high?”
I hadn’t expected that. I leaned closer to her. “Honor, the doctor is saying this was an accident.”
She didn’t understand. “An accident?”
Doctor Bartlett flipped through the charts. “Her prescriptions look similar in size, shape, and color. Tell me, has she experienced any confusion lately? Forgetfulness maybe?”
“Yes. She’s…” Honor shrugged. “The drug use scrambled her a bit.”
“Has she displayed any behaviors which would lead you to believe she wanted to hurt herself?”
Her lip trembled. “No…but we had a f-fight…”
I answered for her. “No, Doctor. Donna’s a member of my parish. I didn’t know her when she was sick, but she’s nothing but vivacious and lively now. I never sensed any emotional distress in our conversations.”
Or confessions, though I couldn’t speak of those, even to Honor, even when Donna confessed her every sin to clear her soul so she could finally be a good enough mother to her daughter.
The doctor nodded. “Most likely, she didn’t realize she took her dose for the day. Or she assumed it was a different pill. Miss Thomas, does she take her medication at night?”
“Yes. Before bed.”
“Then I believe you found her in t
ime. She’s still under right now. We’re keeping her in the ICU tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll move her to a regular room just for observation.”
“She’s…okay?”
“We’ll monitor her through the night, take EKGs and other toxicology screens, but she is stable and should be fine.” He gathered his stethoscope and coat. “I’d recommend going home for the night. Your mother will be sleeping, and you can come back in the morning during visiting hours. Once she’s out of the ICU, you can stay as long as you wish.”
Honor didn’t move. I shook the doctor’s hand for her and thanked him on behalf of the family. He bustled off, downing the rest of the coffee before answering a page in a brisk run.
My angel stared at the table before covering her face.
“It wasn’t Oxy. Oh, God.”
I rubbed her back. “It’s good news, Honor.”
“But I told the paramedics, the doctors when we got here…I kept saying it’d be Oxy or painkillers. For all I know, they spent all that time on the wrong diagnosis. If something had happened—”
“Nothing happened.” I knelt beside her chair. “Nothing. She’s okay. She’ll be okay.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. She blinked them away with a grunt. “I can’t believe I thought…am I a horrible person?”
I pulled her into a hug. “Absolutely not.”
“But I assumed the worst.”
“And now it’s time to start counting blessings. The worst has passed.” I took her hand. “Let me get you home.”
“Are you sure?”
No. I had the phone tree for this. The women’s group. Emergency contacts to take care of my flock when it was inappropriate for me to take that step.
But I couldn’t leave her. Not now. Not when she needed me.
I’d already tarnished her soul.
I wasn’t leaving her with a broken heart.
19
Honor
I welcomed Father Raphael into my apartment.
This was the one place I hadn’t wanted him to see, even if it was by his letter of recommendation that we could afford the one-bedroom apartment in a bad neighborhood.
If he cared, he said nothing. He closed the door behind us and waited for the moment I’d speak.
I didn’t know what to say.
I had visited his home, but so had most of the parish. But here? The apartment was private. He could see into our kitchen, read from the stack of overdue bills, or study the mattress in the corner I’d adopted as my room. This was a humbling experience.
Twice now, we had been together, as physically intimate as two people could be. But this was different. I let him into my life now.
I feared the day he’d leave it.
I moved my course books from the couch, marking my place with a pencil before closing the covers. I’d have to remember to email my professor. I couldn’t go to class tomorrow.
I sat. He didn’t. It was probably for the best.
“Your summer classes?” Father Raphael read the book’s cover. Race, Class, Gender and Sexuality in U.S. Law and Society. “How are they?”
“Expensive.” No need to lie. “I wanted to finish my degree. I think I was being selfish.”
“Why?”
“Mom needs more help than I’ve been giving.” I lowered my gaze. “I don’t think I’m a good daughter.”
He took the chair at my side. “You put a lot of pressure on yourself.”
“But it’s true. I know I haven’t been a good person. Why do you think I’ve spent so much time at the church?”
His eyebrow arched. “Maybe you ought to answer that.”
Another damning mark on my soul. “It wasn’t just to spend time with you, Father. I wanted to stay away from here. From her.”
“Why?”
“I’ve told you why.”
“No. You haven’t.”
I should have offered him tea or coffee or something. That’s what people did with visitors.
We never had visitors when I was young. No family. No friends.
It was amazing Mom survived as long as she did.
“Let me get you something to drink,” I said.
He took my hand, preventing me from escaping. “Honor, I’m fine. I want you to answer the question.”
“What question?”
“Why are you avoiding your mother?”
He leaned forward, watching me, listening to me. Was everything about this man so intense? Even when he comforted, he demanded so much. I met his gaze, and the thrill almost blinded me to everything but the damning bit of white on his collar. It strangled us both. Him in his responsibilities, me in my own feelings.
“It’s not that I avoided her,” I said.
“No?”
“I just…I didn’t have faith in her. I thought for so long she’d relapse and prove everyone right. I couldn’t watch her destroy her body and mind again, not after everything that happened. It scared me so much, I just assumed that was why she collapsed. I told the EMTs, the nurses, the doctors to look for Oxy. And it wasn’t. What kind of person does that make me?”
He studied me. “What kind of person do you think you are? What do you hope to be?”
“A realist.”
“It’s not that great, I can tell you that much.”
“Well I don’t feel very idealistic. I remember the past sixteen years. I know what happened, and I saw how hard it was for her to stop. Her addiction didn’t end when Dad died. She finally kicked it when she went to prison for vehicular manslaughter. Dad couldn’t enable her then, and she couldn’t get a fix. She sobered up alone and widowed in a tiny jail cell.”
My words embittered, broken with a quiet whimper. The momentary weakness trembled my lip.
“I didn’t visit her in prison,” I said. “I couldn’t. I left after the funeral, and I went on with my life. I tried so hard to forget my own mother—my own sick mother—because I couldn’t look at her anymore. I felt nothing for her but grief and loss and this…this…”
“Tell me, Honor.”
“Anger.” I pointed to the apartment. The wretched walls became cells of my own guilt. “You asked me why I didn’t want you to write the letter of recommendation? It’s the same reason I didn’t want my mother getting groceries from the food pantry. She doesn’t deserve help!”
I covered my mouth, silencing the awful, terrible, damning truth. Father Raphael and I might have committed the worst of our sins together, but speaking those words felt worse than our forbidden relationship.
We didn’t share this sin.
This pain came from me.
Inside me.
Dark and secret and absolutely consuming me in a terrible rage. The truth ate at me. It festered, and those awful feelings would forever destroy any relationship I’d have with my mother.
Whoever she was.
The words poured from me. I didn’t look at Father Raphael, and I wished desperately for the confessional screen between us, the stark imposition of the church, the curse of the saints as they judged me.
This confession shredded my soul, and I wasn’t sure I deserved forgiveness.
“I blame her for everything. Her addiction ruined our lives. I never had a mother. Because of her we lost our homes and our friends and our families.” I met his gaze, losing myself in the comforting dark of his eyes. “Because of her my father is dead.”
I stood, tossing aside a box of empty tissues and rubbing my face raw with a paper towel instead. I hic-upped. Once. Twice. Too many times.
He came to my side and reached for a glass in the cabinet, as if he already knew the layout to our apartment. Or maybe it was so small and pathetic we only had one place where we could keep our glassware.
He filled the cup and held it for me.
I took the glass from his hands before I sipped, before I committed any more blasphemy. The water was cool. It helped to ease some of the ache.
Not all.
“She’s not that woman anymore.” The cup trem
bled in my hands. “No matter what I feel or remember or hate…she’s changed, Father. Completely. Totally. And even when I think she’s relapsed...” I pitched it in the sink. “She’s still sober.”
“You must talk with her.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
He shrugged, the dark cassock and collar taunting me. “Comes with the territory. And it helps. It works. Both of you still suffer from that horrible past. She needs to know how you feel.”
“Does she?” I swallowed. “She spent sixteen years in the hell of addiction. Don’t you think she’s suffered enough?”
“That’s up to you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I can’t tell you what to do.”
“You used to, Father.”
It wasn’t fair to turn the spite on him, but he was more patient than me.
“And that’s my own sin, Honor.”
I looked away. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Forgive her.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“Well, open your book!” I didn’t mean to raise my voice. “Quote some more scripture at me like you always do. Tell me what Jesus would do. Act like a priest!”
He stiffened. “I am a priest, Honor.”
Yeah, and that was another problem I had yet to face.
I pushed past him, collapsing on the couch. I pulled my knees to my chest and lowered my gaze.
“Confronting her feels selfish.”
And confronting him was worse.
“It’s not selfish to want to heal,” he said.
“At the expense of another?”
“Ideally.” He circled before me, kneeling at my feet to look in my eyes. “You’d heal each other. Many people in this world hurt, Honor. And many more carry that burden with them. The more severe the wound, the more likely it is to infect others. Whether they intend it or not, that pain will hurt the innocent people who surround them. Ones who don’t deserve that misery.”
“Father—”
“I wouldn’t have you bear my pain, Honor. There’s no reason a soul as lovely as yours should be tarnished with something that vulgar.”
“Even if I want to carry it?” I whispered. “Even if I could help?”