Forgive Me Father For I Have Loved

by Laveen, Tiana

  “You’re stalling.”

  “I’m not! I’m thinking...Greece. I’d love to go to Greece.”

  “Well done!” She applauded him as he stood and took a capricious bow.

  Moments later, he was standing by her front door, trying to collect seconds and turn them into additional minutes. Anything to drag the night out, to make the wonderful time never end. It had been a simple dinner, but he knew in his heart, before he’d arrived, that he was there to settle a score...not with her, but with himself. As she spoke, he bent down and quieted her with a kiss—hard, passionate. In that, he poured all his fiery desire. Then, he took a few steps back from her and opened her front door.

  She gaped at him, speechless, then, with a laugh, he practically leapt off her front steps toward his car.

  “Call me, let me know you got in okay,” she called out as she waved in his direction.

  He turned and blew her a kiss, relishing in the delight of her smiling face. Getting in his car, he started up the engine and drove away, his heart pounding with excitement, marveling in the lack of fear. But after a while, dark thoughts crept in...

  What am I going to do? I can’t just pretend this didn’t happen. I’m in love, I’m in a relationship now. Fr. Kirkpatrick was right about that, but...I need to think this through, figure it out...

  The parish...my family...my brothers...they will all have something to say if word of this gets out...

  A dead weight filled his heart, despite his happiness at finding Rhapsody. In his case, love came with a hefty price. He didn’t regret going to her house because he needed answers. To find out whether his feelings were real—once and for all.

  Oh my God, it’s like, it’s like, I’ve been waiting for her my entire life.

  As he thought of her dear face, the weight lifted, replaced with emotion. Perhaps he was kidding himself, for a difficult road lay ahead of him. But if God had sent Rhapsody to him, surely, it was meant to be.

  She has awakened something in me. Father, please forgive me, but I can’t help myself. I’m in love. God, I’m really in love...

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sweat trickled down her face as she pounded the pavement. The early evening jog felt wonderful, allowing Rhapsody to process better the tapestries of ideas, dilemmas and nuisances that crowded her mind. She’d just finished teaching her class, and all she could think about were the past day’s events. The distractions proved unnerving. Several of the college music students had to repeat their questions as she kept drifting into another world during class.

  Oh what a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into, woman...

  She rounded the corner, feeling free in her black spandex leggings. She looked down and took notice of her untied Nike sneaker. Sighing, she came to a halt, bent down retied the rebel shoelace. Since the dinner, she and Dane had spoken at least twice a day, and he typically ended the call with, “I love you.”

  Those words kept rolling around in her mind. Words meant something to Rhapsody; she used them to tell the world of things that mattered to her. Married to music, words created miniature realms that she dove into on a daily basis. She’d made a conscious decision, however, to either move forward or jump ship—no more of this back and forth mess.

  But, she was struggling.

  How does one explain that they’ve fallen in love with a priest?

  How does one explain that he loves her, too?

  And we kiss...and hold hands...and go out together...to bookstores and movies...and the way he looks at me...Oh God...

  The way the man would rest his eyes on her oftentimes sent shivers up her spine. His blue eyes would slightly darken as his brows gathered, and he had a habit of rubbing his jaw before he drew closer to her to embrace...almost as if he were touching himself, to ensure that the situation was real. His body was hard and strong and she’d feel herself tremble and throb as thoughts of their naked bodies lying together, touching, exploring, began to take over her mind...

  What would it be like to make love to him?

  She struggled sometimes with answering his calls, then other times, she wished he’d call more or resisted the urge to tell him she just wanted to hear his voice. And his kisses...Oh God, his touch...

  She wondered if it was the long time he’d endured from extending affection to a woman, or just his natural inclination, but the man was brimming with passion—and when he’d pressed his lips against hers, almost making her jump out of her skin with shock and delight, her nerve endings went on fire. The way he smelled, his gentle yet assertive touch, the way lights hit his hair and eyes, the strong line of his jawbone, the lean, taut muscles, hidden beneath his clothing, the wonderful clean smell of his skin, mixed with a bit of incense residue—all of it would send her over the edge. Dane lit so many candles and incense during prayers, the smell had infused itself in almost everything he wore, a proof of his journey, of his spirituality, and she found it delightful. And, she had to admit it. The bad girl in her got some sort of sick kick out of knowing the man hadn’t been laid in a while. She wanted to see what was simmering underneath, liking to think he’d been saving himself just for her.

  She replayed his words about seeing her in school, over and over, like the last record on Earth. They’d grown stronger, the relationship deeper, as each day passed. They shared of themselves, delving into topics that would have been previously seen as taboo. They even discussed religion more now and she soon came to realize, they agreed on many of the same things. He was a bit more liberal than she’d imagined, and she followed more rules than he’d initially surmised. Together, they could learn a lot from one another, and in that, she had a newfound respect for their differences, which made the situation harder to resist.

  One of the more recent conversations stuck out in her mind:

  “No, I don’t feel that way,” Dane replied. “I think there is room for many thoughts and ideas. I respect that you don’t agree with everything that I do. That reminds me, one of the most beautiful relationships I’ve ever seen was between a Muslim woman and a Hindu man. They were very much in love, and they spoke two different languages. They barely understood each other. They had a cultural, religious and verbal barrier, so do you know what they did?”

  “Dane, is this a set up for one of your jokes?”

  “No!” He laughed on the other end of the line. “You suspect me all the time now...”

  “Because you play too much!”

  “Well, I’m not playing now, this is true. This is serious.”

  She drew quiet.

  “They started to draw things, tiny sketches, while they were trying to communicate to one another. Their only choice. They were both refugees during political upheaval. Every morning, he’d come into the mess hall, and he’d have a drawing of what he wanted. She’d match it with her picture until soon, they were sitting together, drawing places they’d been, people they knew...and all that time, they were falling in love and didn’t even know how to say, ‘I Love You’ in each other’s language. Soon, they learned that though...so I tell you that story, a true story, Rhapsody, because I met them. They are in their eighties now, had nine children and a slew of beautiful grandchildren. This is to let you know that just because we don’t speak the exact same language doesn’t mean this can’t or won’t work. I will never try to make you convert. If you wanted to, of course, I would encourage and teach you, but I would not dare try to make you do something you were staunchly against.”

  Rhapsody took a few deep breaths and deliberated.

  “What about...kids? What happened to the children of that couple? Did they raise them Buddhist or Hindu?”

  “From what I could tell, they let them decide. Now, If I were to ever have children, I’m not going to pretend like I wouldn’t want them raised Catholic. I do, but there comes a time when you have to let a person, regardless of our own personal spiritual beliefs, make their own choices, regardless if they are your child or not. I would take them to church, but if they wanted to attend
another church of a different faith as well, then, I would have to accept that. When you mix two different religions, of course, these things come up.”

  “That had to have been hard for the couple you just described, especially for her because a Muslim could be murdered for that.”

  “You’re right, she could have been and more than likely would have been killed if she were still living in her native country...but she was brave, and needed out of the area. The world was larger than she realized; from her new standpoint, she saw that there were all sorts of people in it, and they weren’t evil because they didn’t believe as she did. No one man had treated her with that much respect and love, ever. Her husband wooed her with his heart. He’d won her over...and he didn’t even have to say one word.”

  Damn that man!

  Rhapsody played back the conversation so many times in her head; it now seemed to be on auto-replay, looping over and over. She didn’t think Dane really understood how powerful those words were, or maybe he did, she wasn’t certain, but one thing she did know—it was just what she needed to hear to put her mind more at ease. The man was open and willing, and if that Muslim and Hindu couple could do it, with death looming over their heads, surely she could give it a try as well...

  ~***~

  Dane stared at the brown box from Josh. It still sat there unopened. One side had been crushed a little by a gym bag he’d placed atop it, as if to try to hide it from his sight. He’d been dreading delving into it, and today was no exception. He’d tried a couple times to speak with Rhapsody, the way he’d done with Josh, but realized she simply wasn’t ready. He surmised she was afraid whatever his confessions were, would bring their courtship to a halt. The woman admitted now several times she was falling for him as well after all; she had a dog in the fight. He was ready to come clean, but he knew he couldn’t rush these things. Everything had its season.

  Pushing the box to the far side of his desk, he paced his apartment, biding time until he made his trip to the hospital to pray over the sick and hospice patients. After a few minutes, he walked back toward the box, ran his hand over the top of it, the thick layers of double tape smooth under his touch. He stepped away once more, shoving his hands in his pockets as he just stared at it. The months had gotten easier, but a part of him dreaded what may lie just beneath the corrugated surface, possibly starting a fire storm that he’d burn up in—heated memories that would take him down, down, down.

  He’d been upbeat and in good spirits; he didn’t want anything to wreck his mood.

  Looking at the time, he sat on his bed and passed sweating hands roughly through his freshly brushed hair.

  You may as well get it over with...

  He walked back toward the box, resigned to tear the damn thing open, but paused when his cell phone rang. He sighed, slightly relieved, and looked at the caller ID.

  “Hi Mom,” he answered, then walked to his bedroom window to look out and watch the cars moving up and down the street during lunch hour traffic. He sniffed, feeling the beginning stages of a cold coming on. Looking to his far right, he saw a car almost rear-end another, one of them honking. His thoughts drifted as she began to speak.

  “Hi, Dane,” she said, full of chipper. Her mood, warm and comforting, cut his daydreaming short, dragging him gently by the arm into the here and now. He could almost envision her wrapped in her apron with the tiny sunflowers all over it, and her brown flats that made her diminutive feet look even smaller than they naturally were.

  “What are you up to? I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” she asked.

  He heard what seemed to be pots and pans lightly banging together, and running water.

  “Oh, just been busy is all. How are you doing?” He forced a smile, knowing it would reflect in his tone and hopefully appease her.

  “Just washing up some dishes. I made your father and me a wonderful stew. You should come over and have some! It had fresh carrots from the farmer’s market, they really do make a difference,” she said proudly.

  “I bet it was delicious, Mom. How is the old man?” he teased.

  “His ankle has been bothering him again.” She sighed. “I told him to not to try to move the couch by himself but you know how that goes.”

  “Yeah, you know Dad though. He thinks he is He-Man.” Dane slipped a hand in his pocket and casually scratched above his brow as he continued to gaze at the passing vehicles. “Next time, have him call me before he decides to be a one-man moving crew.” He laughed lightly. “I could have helped, all of us could have helped. He could have called Joseph or Anthony if I wasn’t available.”

  “I know, but you know how your father is, stubborn to his core. To him, admitting he needs help means he isn’t man enough to handle it by himself.”

  Yeah, and sometimes I have the same affliction. I guess I got it honest.

  Dane nodded as they shared a brief silence.

  “Dane,” the cheer was clearly out of her tone as her voice deepened, “I was thinking...I know, all of these years, you’ve had a lot on your shoulders, and I want to just tell you, thank you, you know, for...being a listening ear to me. I just...”

  Dane closed his eyes and suppressed a groan. She was doing it again. He couldn’t take it. On one hand, he wanted her to simply let sleeping dogs lie; on the other, he was grateful she was acknowledging the past trauma but then, his gut twisted. Alarm bells struck and he opened his eyes.

  Why is she saying this to me right now?

  “Is something wrong?” he blurted.” We talked about this...right after it happened and you told me... you told me you didn’t want to discuss it ever again.”

  “Well,” she hesitated, “no, nothing is wrong per se, just, well, I suppose you are owed the truth,” she said solemnly. He heard the water turn off and her light footsteps across the kitchen floor. A chair slid across a floor, and he assumed she’d sat in it. “After you received the money from my father, it brought up some old memories...it has been a tough few months.”

  Dane cradled the phone in the crevice of his neck as he continued to stare out the window, now leaning slightly against the frame.

  “I know it seemed strange to everyone, Mom, that he didn’t leave it to you—you being his only living child and all.” He sighed. “I didn’t know what to say...I couldn’t offer an explanation.”

  Dane briefly reflected over his deceased Uncle Luigi’s funeral, which had left his mother an only child at the age of forty at the time. He was just a thirteen year old boy, fascinated and mesmerized with the church and life in the parish. His cousins, he’d never laid eyes on some, lined the back of the church with dark, worn leather jackets over their crisp black suits. They were the epitome of the stereotypical ‘tough east coast guys’ he’d read about...and they were ‘la famiglia’. This was his family, a rough bunch who were taught just like his mother to act like a man and swallow your pain as if it were chocolate cake. And whatever you do, you don’t say one word to let your oppressor know he’d found a weakness. Just obey. Say the rosary in the morning, curse out some punks late at night, and head back home to wash the blood off before supper.

  He’d tried in earnest to live that way, to stand in the crammed chapel in Manhattan, New York, while they had given reverence to the Italian war veteran and big brother and protector of Maria Caruso. He recalled looking up at his mother, not understanding that her tears were shed that day for a myriad of reasons he was far too young to yet understand but later, he most certainly did.

  “Of course you couldn’t.” She laughed, one chock full of sorrow. “It reinforced what I always suspected.”

  “...Which was?”

  “That my father knew what had happened. If he did, he never forgave me...”

  Dane was quiet for a moment as he deliberated over her words. “Well, if that is true, Mom, it is not Grandpa that had to forgive you, but God, and yourself.”

  After a few moments, he heard his mother’s soft cries. He dropped his head and stared down at his f
eet. The outside traffic seemed to be growing louder and louder, as if he were in the midst of downtown Detroit versus the corner of Hope and Understanding. Everything around him felt tight, overpowering and devouring. All of these years, he’d tried to bury the past, repress it, as he became further and further weighed down with the secrets of others—and the worst one of all was his mother’s, a woman he adored, loved and respected. And yes, resented. He understood what she was, however. A woman who was incapable of facing her true self and the real world, the ugliness that lay just beneath the polished surface. She’d tried to clean away the memories with a smile. The stickiness, the crud, just set there, taunting her no doubt, no matter how much she denied it. She’d soon discover the muck would return time and again to mar her present, all the way from a childhood that caused her shame. For, simply and truly, one cannot erase the past, and the past is what it is.

  “Mom, don’t cry,” he said. “It’s over, okay? You have to stop beating yourself up about this. God gave you a second chance; it’s called today, and tomorrow...”

  But the sobs kept coming, muffled, probably trying not to alert his father. She seldom cried, and it always unnerved him to see the outwardly sweet woman come undone at the seams.

  “I...will let you go.” She sniffed. He heard her blow into a tissue as she regained her composure. “I just needed to get that out I suppose,” she said with forced cheerfulness.

  “I hope you feel better, Mom. And... I love you.”

  “I love you, too, so much, Dane...and... don’t forget about that stew. Come by and have a taste.”

  “Okay, I will, Mom. Thanks... Bye.” He softly closed his cellphone and tucked his hands under his arms as he looked back out the window. These were the moments that made him want to dive tongue first into a pint of warm, soothing liquor—preferably Jack Daniels. He debated calling his AA sponsor but felt okay after a few moments. It wasn’t as much of a struggle now—the urge simply lingered in the air during times like this and he always declined, refusing to step one foot back into his old ways of coping. He tossed his cellphone on his bed, turned back toward the window and prayed. After he was finished, he grabbed his jacket and car keys to head to the hospital. At least this time, it wasn’t him that was in need of intervention...