As if reading his mind, the Superintendent said, “You don’t recognize me, do you?” His voice, although still strained with pain, held a hint of playful challenge.
Dario studied him in the shadows of the candle and frowned. “No. Should I?”
“I sure hope not. I never again want to be the man you once knew.”
With that, the Superintendent of San Giacomo said, “I’ll go grab that priest,” and rose from his chair.
Up, up, up he went, until he towered above the bed.
The man was a giant.
###
If you enjoyed this story and would like to revisit the characters, and find out how Camillus went from being a wayward soldier-of-fortune to a holy Soldier of Christ and a canonized saint, you can read the whole story in Susan Peek's novel A Soldier Surrenders: The Conversion of St. Camillus de Lellis.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUSAN PEEK is the author of the young adult series, God's Forgotten Friends: Lives of Little-known Saints. All of her novels received the Catholic Writers Guild Seal of Approval and are used in Catholic schools across the English-speaking world. The King's Prey: Saint Dymphna of Ireland was voted one of the Top 10 Best Catholic Books of 2017 and Crusader King was listed with The 50 Best Catholic Homeschooling Books of 2013. Although Susan's first love is writing for teens, she's also authored several children's books.
Susan is a Third Order Franciscan and mother of eleven children, including two in the Religious life and a son in the U.S. Air Force. She lives in Kansas, where she usually has her nose in a book, finding obscure saints to write about.
You can visit her at: www.SusanPeekAuthor.com.
Contemporary
5
SISTER FRANCESCA
by T. M. Gaouette
“My name’s Francesca. I’m going to be a nun, so don’t fall in love with me.” Those were among her first words to me. While most would think them conceited, coming from her lips, they sounded endearing. And as I stood, leaning against the cold brick wall of a dark hall—a hidden hall to the right of the church’s sanctuary—the words echoed loud and clear in my thoughts.
I had hidden in the secluded hall to compose myself. But it wasn’t working. Memories of her caused my body to heat up and my palms to sweat. I bowed my head, not ready to face the truth. Not ready to see her.
I closed my eyes and remembered the way her face looked the first time we met twelve years ago. She was fourteen years old but mature for her age, and I was a dopey guy of sixteen.
She’d remained kneeling in a pew as my parents and I wedged into the crowd shuffling down the aisle after Mass. As my eyes clung to her, I wondered why I’d never seen her before. Was she new? A white lace mantilla covered her long brown hair, and with bowed head and folded hands, she prayed, oblivious to anyone around her. I held my gaze on her, hating to tear it away. I still had to see her face.
As if she sensed my need, she lifted her chin, and the face of an angel came into view. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me, sending the most amazing zap of electricity through me. It was a life-changing moment for me, but evidently so much less for her, because she closed her eyes again as if she hadn’t even seen me.
I felt slighted by this beautiful stranger, but my emotional turmoil was only the beginning.
I noticed her every Sunday following that one, and she was always alone. After Mass, she would walk quickly and silently to her ride—a powder blue seven-speed retro bicycle with a worn flowered basket clasping the front. And then, as I watched with as much discreetness as possible for a boy deeply smitten, she’d tuck her skirt under her, settle on her seat, and peddle away from me for another long, excruciating week.
I finally had the nerve to approach her a few Sundays later while my parents stood outside after Mass talking with Father Brian.
Wandering over to her with extreme caution, I tried to think up a cool and humorous line that would impress. But all my suavity drained from my being, leaving an empty clump of awkwardness, the second she looked up from her bike to watch my approach. My throat tightened. Before I could back out of my impulsive bravado, I was by her side, asking some ridiculous question about her bike.
“You like my bike?” she responded with the sweetest voice.
“It’s very vintage,” I said, my stare never leaving her green eyes.
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all.”
She straightened her leaning bike, and my mind raced to find my next words.
“What’s your name? Will you be here next Sunday?” I asked hastily with words drenched in desperation.
And then she spoke the words that would reverberate in my mind forever. “My name’s Francesca. I’m going to be a nun, so don’t fall in love with me.”
I laughed softly at her assurance, continuing to watch as she rode away. Little did I know, she already had me.
She later informed me that she desired to be like Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, because her little ways were so inspiring. And yet this girl had made an impact on me with her own little ways. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she smiled and her green eyes danced, the way her forehead creased when she couldn’t decide whether I was teasing her or being serious. Sometimes, even I didn’t know the difference. Oh, and when she said, “Jason,” in almost a whisper, I don’t think I ever loved my name more.
From that moment on, I called her Sister Francesca but deeply hoped and even prayed that her devotion, at the very least, was just a façade. Or at the most, could be easily swayed. I’d met many a girl who claimed to follow Christ, but the running joke about Catholic girls—that they didn’t act very Catholic, if you know what I mean—was what soured my reputation with many parents in our small New England town. I could get any girl I wanted. The girls knew that. It had something to do with my dark hair, baby browns, and solid physique. Being a quarterback for our high-school team was just an added bonus. I didn’t need that, but it sure helped seal the deal.
A fantastic opportunity presented itself one morning after Mass when the gathering clouds unleashed a forceful abundance of raindrops onto our heads. As we all ran to our cars, I turned around and saw Sister Francesca under the sheltered entrance, hugging her arms to her chest and peering up at the darkening sky.
My parents were quick to acquiesce to my request to take Sister Francesca home.
Her face brightened when I rushed through the rain toward her. It was a beautiful sight.
“Can we take you home?” I asked.
She whispered, “Please,” and I felt much like a superhero, if truth be told.
So, I wedged her dripping bike into the back of our SUV, and she happily climbed into the backseat next to me.
I had Sister Francesca in the backseat of my parents’ car! While a pitiful start to a relationship—since my parents were sitting in the front—it was a start, regardless.
Sister Francesca wiped her drenched face with her equally drenched hands and squeezed the water from the tips of her hair, all the while smiling and chatting with my folks. She was prettier than ever. It was the best twenty-minute drive I’d ever experienced, out to her country home.
After dropping her off with her bike, my mother was quick to compliment the “pretty girl,” from her “sweet face” to her “polite manner.”
From then on, my parents were more than happy to take her home whenever she needed it or I found a need. A few times, she even came over for dinner.
She was so amiable and helpful that both my mother and father were smitten with her and the idea that their young Casanova had finally found a sweet, godly girl to hang out with. Although, my mother showed desperate concern that I would “spoil her goodness.” Little did she know.
I’d been allowed many times to drive Sister Francesca home after our family dinners, while she raved about how lovely my parents were. But I was constantly distracted by the impending walk to her front door, always hoping, sometimes even praying, that thing
s would be different from the time before.
All my past walks to the door with other willing—and often expectant—girls proved pretty eventful, to say the least, but not with Sister Francesca. With her, my desire exceeded hers to a tremendous degree. In fact, her desire seemed lacking, to my disappointment. She would thank me politely, ask me again to thank my parents, offer me a nod and a smile, and leave me outside her front door, deeply disappointed and desperately wanting.
Sister Francesca, I concluded, would be a hard nut to crack; but in my experience—okay, my many experiences—I thought it could be done. I had the eyes, hair, and body, after all. Plus, I had time on my side and girls eager to keep me entertained in the meantime. The problem was that after a few months of getting to know her, my sentiments had done an uncharacteristic and mind-boggling back flip.
Not only was I no longer interested in conquering her, in the crassest of senses, I was no longer interested in conquering any girl. She did that to me. In fact, she had me in a confessional about six months after we met, and I was glad and changed for it. She never insisted I do it, never expected, or even suggested it. She didn’t even know about it. Just as she didn’t know about the times I’d stop off at the church on my own and kneel before the Lord begging Him to do what He does best. Make me new again, Lord.
In knowing her, I was coming to know Him.
She was my motivator, and simply by her presence, she was my strength. Before long, I yearned to be hers, but I had nothing to offer her in return. It was a take, take, take relationship in which I sucked goodness out of her and, oddly enough, I was growing tired of it. What goodness could I inspire in her that she hadn’t already perfected in her heart? How could I help someone who already had the Lord as her strength? How could I give back?
It wouldn’t be long before my opportunity would reveal itself. It was the day I found out the truth about her father.
While I no longer wanted to conquer her, after less than a year, I did want her to fall desperately in love with me, and time was pressing on. Having failed so far in my efforts to persuade her that she actually loved me, I resolved to invite her on a picnic. It was the last thing I’d have ever suggested in my past life, but in my new one with Sister Francesca, it seemed fitting. She agreed and, to my delight, invited me to her house one Sunday afternoon, even offering to prepare the lunch.
With purple wildflowers in hand and new hope in my heart, I walked up her creaky front porch steps and knocked on the door. She lived in a mustard-yellow farmhouse with a white wraparound porch. As I waited for her to answer the door, the sweet, creamy fragrance of my bouquet flirting with my senses, I gazed at the open field that stretched out in every direction. A moment later, and still no answer, I found myself picking peeling paint from the doorframe.
Finally, the door creaked open and she appeared, wearing a white short-sleeved cotton dress that fell perfectly below her knees, and making my heart skip a beat. But rather than invite me inside, she glanced back into the dark house and stepped out onto the porch with a picnic basket. Then she closed the door behind her.
My heart sank. “That was sneaky.”
“Not really.”
“Who do you have hiding in there? A boy?”
“Actually . . . a man.”
I stepped back. I was too late.
“Jason, it’s my father.” Her voice maintained its usual gentle and matter-of-fact tone, but then her soft features creased, and her eyes glistened in the saddest way. “My father’s in there all alone in the dark, sitting in a chair, and staring at the wall. Would you like to come in and see?”
I shook my head, lost for words beyond, “I’m sorry.” I took the basket from her, and she accepted the bouquet with a sad smile, closing her eyes in the prettiest of ways and inhaling their scent with a soft shaky breath.
Sister Francesca grabbed me by the hand and led me off the porch, around to the back of her house, and into an open meadow of luscious green, sprinkled with vibrant yellows, purples, and orange. She guided me along. I relished the way her small hand wrapped around mine. Finally, she stopped and dropped my hand. Then she turned away and hid her face in her hands. I walked around her until I faced her.
She pressed her fingers against her closed eyes, as if wanting to force the tears to stay in. But they fell anyway. Her body shook and she grimaced, trying to keep it together.
I’d never witnessed her in a moment of distress, and it cut me all over. Ignoring her rules about touching her, I lowered the basket to the ground and wrapped my arms around her. She sobbed quietly, her body shaking and her soft, rosewater-scented hair pressing against my cheek. I reluctantly pulled away and, with one arm still around her shoulder, picked up the basket and guided her to a giant oak tree a few yards away. I helped her sit down and sat next to her.
“My father’s filled with melancholy.” She gazed out into the distance, where the colorful meadows kissed the blue sky, and into her own subconscious. “When my mother died three years ago,” she said, her voice quivering, “he lost everything.” Her pained expression made her seem on the verge of breaking down completely.
“He never lost you.” I touched her hair, wanting her so desperately to reach out to me for comfort.
“I lost him.” She looked at me, her brow crinkled. “I always hoped that one day I’d come home and he’d be there waiting for me, suddenly back in the world, ready to be my dad again.” Her green eyes were flooded again. “Like it used to be.” Her bottom lip trembled.
I brushed my thumb on her cheek, catching her tears. “Oh, Sister Francesca, don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it.”
We sat there quietly for a long while, gazing out at the landscape. Then she sniffed, let out an unsteady sigh, and began unpacking the picnic basket. I watched her every delicate move. After a whispered blessing, we ate ham and cheese sandwiches and lemon cookies, and drank raspberry iced tea. We hardly spoke, but it was great. I was finally giving. And then later, when the day began to burn out and the sadness about her father had subsided, I looked at her, a hint of selfishness creeping back in.
“You’re so pretty. Why would you want to be a nun? You could meet a nice guy, have babies, do something really cool with your life.”
“That doesn’t sound cool at all.” She folded a cloth napkin and packed it into the basket.
“You want to sit in a convent all day and pray? That’s it?”
“That’s some of it.”
“Sounds like a boring life to me.”
“Nothing is boring when you’re offering it to the Lord.”
“But don’t you want to fall in love?” This question was specifically for me, but she didn’t need to know that.
She smiled, a dreamy look clouding her eyes. “I’ve already fallen in love.”
My heart jumped and a flood of warmth washed over me. I wondered if my cheeks were as flushed as they felt. Then reason took over. What a fool. Of course she’d fallen in love before. Why wouldn’t she? How could I have assumed I was the only guy who’d had a deep devotion for her? What a dope.
“Was he in love with you?” I held my breath.
“He is still in love with me.”
“I thought you didn’t want anyone to fall in love with you?” I couldn’t hide the hurt in my voice as I turned away from her.
“That’s because my heart is already taken. I’m in love with God, Jason.”
I groaned without meaning to before lying back on the cooling grass and peering up through the leafy branches to the late afternoon sky. “Whatever.” A short pause followed as my stubborn heart ached.
She said, “Thank you for being such a good friend. Always there for me.”
Listening to her words, I turned to her, but all I saw were her glistening green eyes and soft skin. I didn’t want to be her friend. I wanted to meet her the rest of the way with a kiss. I lifted myself up on one elbow, coming as close as I could without touching my lips to hers. It wouldn’t take much. All I had to
do was reach out and bring her an inch closer. Her eyes never left mine. My heart thumped against my ribs, and my body shook.
“Jason, you know if you kiss me, you’ll break my heart.”
“I’ve never heard that line before.”
She didn’t respond. We remained like that for what felt like a whole minute, looking into each other’s eyes, frozen in time.
“You really don’t want me to kiss you?” I whispered.
“No, I really don’t.”
“So why don’t you move away?”
“Because I’m not the one who needs to.”
Another few seconds passed, and I finally released a heavy sigh and lay back down.
She lay down next to me.
If I was to be anything in her life, I’d have to make this about her and not me.
In serving her, I’d be serving Him.
It seemed like we had a lifetime together to talk. We’d found each other. And even though our relationship would never be romantic, we could still be friends. At least, this was what I’d hoped.
But three short months later, I heard the terrible news about her father, although not directly from her. And the next time I saw Sister Francesca, it was at his graveside.
She stood clad in black, her head bowed, and her lips curled down at the corners. Her family, none of whom I recognized, stood around her. When she saw me arrive with my parents, she smiled and her eyes sparkled behind the tears, and again I wished she loved me as much as I loved her.
“I guess people do die of broken hearts,” Sister Francesca said.
We stood alone on her porch while the guests mingled inside the house.
“You didn’t tell me,” I complained.
“I didn’t want to burden you with sadness.”
Secrets Page 10