by Autumn Grey
I wince as Luke sweeps the hair off my forehead with his hand, resting it on my neck. He sighs wearily. “I know you’re hurting, bud. If I could turn back time, I would. I’d give your mom and dad to you.” His voice is shaky with emotion, and his palm on my neck squeezes in comfort. “I miss them so much. But if we keep the good memories here”—he points the spot where his heart is—“they will always be with us.”
“They will?” After the past few weeks, I want to believe him so badly. If there is a way to relieve this numbing pain, I’ll take it.
He nods and smiles. His eyes fill with tears, but I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad.
I push up to my elbows and press my forehead into his chest. His arms circle my shoulders, and he pulls me close.
“You have me, Sol. I’ve got you.”
Ten years old
I can’t stop thinking about Solomon Callan, the boy with sad blue eyes.
Beautiful sad blue eyes.
Right after dinner, my mom asks me to brush my teeth. She’ll come to my room shortly to tuck me in, so I do as I’m told.
When I’ve finished, I run back into my room and head for my desk. I grab a blue notebook and tear out a small piece of paper, then pick a pencil. I quickly scribble today’s date and Solomon’s name. I fold it, open the glass jar wrapped in pink lace and white ribbon, and drop it inside. My Beautiful Memories Jar was a birthday gift from my mother on my sixth birthday. On the last Sunday of each month, I empty it and read the notes as a reminder of the beautiful things that happened over the past few weeks.
I skip to my bed and straighten the pink and purple sheets before climbing on top and getting on my knees like I do every night. I pray for my mom, thanking God for giving me such an awesome and beautiful mother. I pray for Solomon to find peace and ask God to heal the large bump on his head so he doesn’t suffer from the awful headache for long. Then I pray for school holidays to come quicker so I can sleep longer in the morning and help Mom at the diner and eat as many vanilla waffles as I want without getting sick.
Mom comes into the room just as I finish praying. I crawl between the sheets, pulling them to my chin, and wait for her to read my favorite storybook from the nightstand.
She looks at the jar, and her mouth lifts in her smile. “More beautiful memories?”
“Yep.” I beam, thinking about the boy with blue eyes and wavy dark hair.
“Good.” She smiles and tucks several locks of hair behind my ear. “I noticed you didn’t have your good luck charm flower on your hair.”
“Solomon needs it more than I do.”
She nods, her smile turning gentle. “He does, doesn’t he?”
When she opens the book, she lies next to me, resting her head on the pillow beside mine. My eyes follow the slight sway of the paper cranes floating on a string suspended from the ceiling. I make a note to make more tomorrow to fill in the empty patch in the corner.
As soon as Mom picks up from where she left off last night, my eyes start to droop, lulled by her soft voice. My last thought before I fall asleep is that I wish I had the power to make people smile.
Thirteen years old
Saturday morning is my favorite day of the week. Not only do I get to sleep longer, attend morning Mass where I’m part of the altar servers, but my uncle also drives us to Boston to visit my parents at the cemetery. Then we drive back to the house I grew up in and he cooks dinner for us. Later, we drive back to Portland. This has been sort of a tradition since I moved here to live with him three years ago.
After blacking out during Mass that day, Uncle Luke and I started attending grief therapy. It took me a long time to stop resenting God. I started to believe there was an actual reason He had let me live. I joined the altar server team a year later. At first, it was something for me to do. I wanted to feel useful. Then I realized I really liked being part of something as big as Mass. Something that offered peace and refuge to me and a lot of other people.
Then I started assisting Eric Beck—the youth ministry leader—with the youth group. I finally felt as though I fit in. I felt as if I was needed.
I glance at the digital clock on the wall that flashes 10:15 a.m., then I watch as the recreational room fills in slowly for youth group, which begins in fifteen minutes.
A group of kids ranging from ten to fifteen years old stumble through the door. They shove each other and laugh out loud. A few other kids, some of them around my age, walk in and sit down. Several come from troubled family backgrounds, and being here gives them a chance to experience a completely different perspective about life. I know I’m only thirteen, but I love seeing them transition from troubled teens to God-fearing youths. Even though they’re a loud and rowdy bunch, I enjoy being a part of it.
A few weeks ago, my teacher—Mrs. Albright—asked each of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. It took me a while to figure out where my heart lay. Every time I attend Mass, an incredible peacefulness fills me like no other. Each time I minister the youth group, I feel surer about my decision. Then visiting the sick with Luke in their homes, I see how much hope and peace he gives them. When I told my uncle, he seemed concerned because I was too young to make such a decision. What he doesn’t realize is that I know myself very well. Sometimes losing someone you love makes you grow up fast.
Ivan Alvarez swaggers into the room. He’s only thirteen, like me, but he’s so confident and sure of himself, the other kids turn around to look at him. Girls giggle and fan themselves with their hands.
We first met at Lincoln Middle School when I moved here. We hit it off, and we’ve been best friends ever since. He’s half Korean and half Spanish and doesn’t attend Mass as much as his father would like. He attends youth group, though, which makes things a little better between them.
Ivan stops in front of me, and I roll my eyes. “You’re such a show-off,” I mutter under my breath with a small laugh.
He grins and shrugs. “Bet you wish you were me.”
“No.” I laugh and shake my head. “I’m good.”
“Eric not here yet?”
“Soon,” I answer. His head slants to one side as he studies me, his eyes turning serious. “What?” I ask, running my fingers along the smooth cover of my Bible to stop the nerves from taking over. I can deal with Playful Ivan. Serious Ivan, on the other hand, makes me nervous.
“What’s going on with you? You look so peaceful and happier than usual.”
The nerves I was feeling vanish, and I smile at his question. This one I can answer. I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell him the news. I pull him to the less crowded side of the room. “Remember when Mrs. Albright asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up?”
“If you still plan to be a stage magician, I’m all for it.”
I laugh. “I’m going to be just like my uncle.”
His forehead scrunches up in confusion. “A priest?”
I nod.
“Why? I mean, Luke is cool and all, but a priest? Like, you’ll never get married or have a girlfriend or . . . oh my God. You’ll die a virgin because you’ll never have sex. I hear that’s some mind-blowing stuff right there.” He scratches his head. “Dude. I’m so confused. You’re thirteen.”
I shrug. “I know that, you dork. It doesn’t mean I’m not capable of deciding what I want to be, you know. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
“But what about pulling rabbits out of hats or whatever?”
“I can still do that and be a priest.”
He studies me thoughtfully. Then slowly, a big smile takes over his face. “This means more ladies for me, eh?”
I shrug his hand off my shoulder. “Could you be a little bit more supportive?”
“Could you be a little bit less goody two shoes?”
I sigh. He laughs. Then he glances around the room and says, “Wait. You blindsided me with your news. I forgot about him.”
He points his chin to the door. I follow his gaze to where a boy stands in
the doorway. He must be three years younger than me at most. His guarded eyes scan the room before cutting in our direction.
I glance at Ivan. “Who’s he?”
“Seth. I found him in the hallway. I told him we serve cookies. You better dish them out.”
I laugh again. “I can’t even with you.” I start to walk toward Seth to welcome him to the group but freeze when Grace Miller appears at the doorway. She mumbles something to Seth, and he steps aside to let her pass without saying a word.
My breath hitches when her eyes meet mine. She looks away first, tucking stray curls of hair behind her ear, and then sits on the chair nearest to the door.
Ivan groans. “Come on, Callan. Pick up your jaw from the floor and go talk to the girl.”
I snap my gaze from Grace and face Ivan. “Uh . . .” I close my mouth, my cheeks burning at being caught staring.
He rolls his eyes. “She’s only a girl, you know. Girls don’t bite. Besides, it’s not like you want to go out with her, right? Not when you want to become a priest.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I shove my hand inside my jeans pocket and scowl. Where the heck is Eric? “Let’s talk to Set—” The boy at the door is already shuffling away.
Ivan follows my gaze and yells, “Seth! Wait up!” and takes off after him.
My eyes drift to where Grace is sitting. She’s watching me again. We look away at the same time. My mouth tips in a smile. I risk a glance at her from under my lashes, and I see the corner of her mouth pulled up in a smile, as well.
My knees feel a little weird, as if they can’t hold me up. I sit down on one of the free seats and stare at the floor. Grace and I don’t go to the same school. The only time I get to see her is at Sunday Mass or youth group. Yet I feel this sensation in my stomach whenever I do see her. I wish I were brave enough to talk to her. I wish she could talk to me like she did the first time we met.
My fingers fumble with the rosary in my pocket, rolling the smooth beads with my fingertips.
When someone claps their hands twice, I lift my head and see Eric stroll into the room. He’s carrying a white folder tucked under one arm, and the room falls silent at his presence.
After the usual prayer, Eric sets the folder on his lap and flips to the first page. We listen as he highlights the points of the upcoming fundraiser to help the local orphanage headed by Sisters of Mercy.
At some point, I notice Grace is no longer in the room. The more I sit here, the more I want to leave and look for her. Usually, she waits until the session is over. She’s always the first person out of the room. I have a feeling that’s the reason she sits close to the door.
I excuse myself and leave the room. My steps falter when I turn the corner to the hallway that leads to the washrooms and see her sitting on the floor. Her body is half-turned to a younger girl with curly blond hair sitting across from Grace.
I’ve seen the girl in church with her mother. She must be around eight or nine years old. They’re both talking in low tones. It’s rude to listen in on conversations, so I backtrack, but stop when I hear Grace say, “My mother always says we’re all stronger than we think. All we need to do is believe, and we can do anything.”
“You think I can do it? Those kids at school are . . . they’re awful.”
Grace reaches forward and hugs her. “Of course! The kids in my school are monkey poop. And you know what? I try not to let them get to me.”
The girl giggles and pulls away from Grace. I press my lips together, fighting a smile.
Feet shuffle on the floor, followed by the sound of the swish of fabric. The last thing I hear before fleeing back to the recreational room is Grace saying something about a Beautiful Memories Jar her mom gave her for her birthday. I sit in my spot, my heart beating fast and eyes on the floor, waiting to hear the sound of her feet the second she walks back into the room.
Seconds turn to minutes, and she doesn’t appear. And one hour later, I leave the room with disappointment hanging like a dark cloak around me.
Thirteen years old
Grace didn’t show up to youth group last Saturday, and today is the last weekend of the month. The fundraiser is planned for next week, and so far, everything is going according to plan.
I leave my uncle’s office and head to the recreational room. It’s empty save for Seth, who’s staring blankly out the window. After he showed up here two weeks ago, he too disappeared. Until today.
“Hey,” I greet, setting my Bible down on one of the chairs and stepping in his direction.
He blinks and looks at me. His eyebrows furrow in a scowl. He looks out the window again without saying anything.
“Whatever,” I mutter before I can stop myself, turn, and head to my seat.
“So, Father Foster, is he your dad or something?”
I spin around to face him, surprised by his words and that he decided to talk to me. He’s still facing the window. “He’s my uncle.”
He grunts something under his breath.
I sigh and grab my Bible and sit down.
“Seth Kruger,” he mumbles without turning to face me.
“Solomon Callan.”
We fall silent. I tug the ribbon attached to the Bible and open to the last page I read last night so I can catch up with my reading, in case Luke decides to spring Bible verse trivia on me during dinner. He has a habit of catching me off guard, but I love a good challenge.
The sound of feet shuffling causes me to lift my head. I watch as Seth takes a seat across from me, then stares at the ceiling.
“Dude, is everything okay?”
He sighs and drops his chin to his chest. “I don’t really want to be here.”
“I kind of figured that out.”
His head snaps up, his gaze sharp and angry on mine.
I clear my throat and think of something to say.
“You have to want to attend youth group, you know. Otherwise, it doesn’t really make sense to force yourself to be here.”
“My mom asked me to come.”
“Okay,” I say.
“She says being here will be good for me. I don’t see how this is good for me. The church is the reason why—” he stops abruptly, his fists clenched.
I perk up and sit straighter in my chair. “The reason for what?”
His jaw grows tight as he tries to control his anger.
“My mom . . . she was in love with this dude at our church back in Baltimore.” He frowns, his eyes staring off in a distance.
“Um, that’s a good thing, right? I mean, unless your mom was still married to your dad or this guy—”
“He was a freakin’ priest.” His gaze cuts back to me, his lips curling into an angry sneer. “They loved each other. At least that’s what Mom used to tell me and my twin brother, Sam. I think someone found out about them. He denied ever having anything to do with my mom, which broke her heart. We became social outcasts, and Sam took it very hard. He died . . .” Seth makes an angry sound in the back of his throat, and his hands clench in his lap. “The church refused to give him a proper Catholic burial.”
My mouth is dry. I don’t know what to say, but I need to come up with something. I need him to keep talking to me. “Why would they do that?”
“Because he killed himself.” His cheeks are wet now. He swipes a hand down his face as if he’s annoyed to show such weakness. “I hate the church. I hate how they treated my brother even though the priest responsible played a part in causing his death.” The words rush out in a broken whisper. “I hate them so much. I don’t know what to do . . .”
I stand and go to him. What happened to him and his family is so awful. Even at my age, I understand that priests shouldn’t have girlfriends or wives. They promise to be faithful to God and God only. My uncle explained to me one day when I asked him why he wasn’t married and didn’t date.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. My instincts are pushing me into giving him a hug, but
a part of me knows he might not be ready for that kind of comfort. “Can I do anything to help?” I blurt out, desperate to make things better for him, but I know nothing in the world can help. “My uncle, he’s an awesome listener. He’s really good at solving problems, too.”
He shoves my hand off his shoulder and jumps to his feet. “No!” he yells, pressing his palms into his eyes. And then he seems to run out of steam, and his shoulders slump forward. “I just want this pain to stop. You don’t understand how it feels to lose someone.”
“Believe me, I do,” I say quietly. “I lost my mom and dad three years ago. I know exactly how you feel, Seth.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “After my parents died, I wanted to die too. I begged God to take me. I was ready to give up. Then one day during Mass, a voice spoke to me. Maybe I imagined it, I don’t know. But I’d like to think it was Him.” I shrug. I’ve never told anyone this before. It sounds silly now that I’ve said it aloud, but for some reason, I need Seth to believe things will get better.
He stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. “How . . . when does the pain stop?”
I shrug. “It never really goes away. My uncle helped me a lot.”
He looks so small and beaten down. Even though I don’t know him, seeing him suffering like I did three years ago makes my stomach hurt. I can’t stop from pleading with him one more time. “Uncle Luke is the best, I promise. I can go with you to see him, and you can leave anytime you feel uncomfortable.”
He shoves his hands inside his pants pockets and walks to the door with dragging feet. The hope I was feeling before vanishes.
He stops at the doorway and looks at me. His green eyes pierce mine like he’s searching for something. Then, he inhales deeply and says, “Will you come with me tomorrow? I mean, if he has time or whatever.”
“Yes,” I answer, hope washing over me once again. “I’m here for you, Seth. You can always count on me.” I pause, suddenly feeling even more sure about who I want to be. “When I become a priest, I’ll make sure something like this doesn’t happen in my church,” I say with conviction.