The Gospel of Winter (12 page)

“What?”

“There's no need for you to come back to work, Aidan. Don't even come to Mass for a while. Take a break. Please.” Father Dooley kept his eyes fixed on the light traffic and waited for me to respond. The silence between us grew. “Aidan, please talk to me. I'd like us to work through this. You can trust me.” His voice became more agitated. “Now, wait. Let's be clear. Are you hearing me? I'm telling you all that is behind you. I'm trying to reassure you, Aidan, and I want to know you understand that. It's time to move on.”

“Did you talk to him about it?”

“Aidan,” Father Dooley snapped, “do not come to Most Precious Blood anymore. Do you understand?” He lowered his voice. “You're a bright young man with a future ahead of you. I don't want anyone to take that away.”

We pulled off the interstate. The smaller highway wasn't as removed from the suburban neighborhoods, and I watched the darkened houses and businesses go by. It wasn't long before we were on my side of town.

“Your mother is very fragile right now,” Father Dooley
said. “She is distraught. She's trying to rebuild your lives. As I understand it, your father's moved to Europe permanently.” He paused and glanced at me. “Aidan,” he continued, “I know you want to do what is right for everyone here. I want you to listen to me. I want you to search deep in your heart and ask yourself if you want to hurt anyone. What I mean is, that can be avoided. You and I, we can talk about this.”

“But you want me to be quiet.”

“I'm trying to get you to think about the larger picture. There are consequences to everything.”

“Yes. I understand,” I said with more volume than I intended. “I understand consequences.”

Father Dooley looked at me coolly. “I don't think you do, Aidan. There are consequences in this for you, too.”

The winding road had unlit patches between the streetlights, and the interior of the car lit up and darkened as we curled around the corners. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw Father Dooley smile. He turned onto my street, the green gate swung open, and he pulled up the driveway.

“I'd like to know I can trust you, Aidan,” he said when the car came to a stop. “We've come to an understanding, right? Tell me I can trust you.”

“You can't,” I said. “Because I can't.”

I opened my door. Mother came out to the stoop hugging herself, and she didn't have a drink in hand, which surprised me at first. I moved toward her and left Father Dooley muttering behind me. He had misunderstood me. I didn't
want to look back either. If I no longer spoke about Father Greg, maybe he would disappear and, with him, the parts of myself I didn't understand.

Mother came out into the driveway to meet me and pulled me close into a tight hug. She said nothing and simply squeezed. She wore no makeup, and while she smelled of cigarettes, I couldn't smell any booze. Instead, there was a sweet hint of diet soda on her lips when she kissed me. She thanked Father Dooley over my shoulder and told him we'd call him tomorrow. Once we were inside and she'd closed the door behind us, she put both hands on my face. Her eyes were wet and fatigued. “For God's sake. Do you have any idea what I have been going through?” She stepped back, wiped her eyes, and led me into the living room.

“You have no idea what I started thinking,” she said. “I thought you might be dead.” She stared at the floor beyond me as she spoke. “I thought you were going to work, but Father Dooley called and said you never showed up. I thought you were up in bed. Can you imagine?” She gripped the belt of her robe. Her tiny knuckles yellowed against her pale skin as she squeezed. “He asked me to bring you to the phone. He was upset. Your door was open, and when I looked in, I realized you hadn't been there. Do you know how terrified I was? Where were you, I kept thinking. And I had no idea. I had no idea. Who could I call? Father Dooley was still on the line. You didn't go to work. More than a day had passed. Was it two days? I had
no idea where you had been, where you might have gone. I didn't know what to do. Father Dooley came over right away.”

“Father Dooley came here? What did he say?”

“She was the first person he called, you know—Elena. The very first person. Can you imagine the embarrassment? What were you doing down there? Why didn't you tell me?” She breathed hard. She chewed on her lip and stared straight at the floor by my feet. “I didn't even know you were gone,” she said more softly. “Honestly. Can you imagine how I felt?”

Father Dooley and Father Greg were still telling people I hadn't been to Most Precious Blood. They flat-out lied to Mother. Father Greg was as scared as I was.

Mother put her arms around me. She rocked us gently. “Don't you ever leave me again,” she said into my shoulder. “You can't leave too.”

“I'm home now,” I said. That was all she wanted to know, and it was the easiest fact I could share. That seemed to be all anyone desired—a sense of hard and fast certainty. It felt good to finally be the one to provide it.

F
or the next couple of days, Mother and I sat in her bed watching movies like
It's a Wonderful Life, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,
and
Pocketful of Miracles
, and if the predictability and dependability of those sweetly upbeat endings aren't a sedative, then I don't know what is. After watching a couple in a row, you get the feeling that everything you want in life is easier to attain than you ever realized, like it's on sale at Macy's and the only trouble is getting down to Thirty-Fourth Street before your dreams are sold out. My new life, however, wasn't going to start with a slip-sliding run down Main Street, waving my hat, letting everyone at the coffee shop and the post office know that I was gloriously in love with myself. I still had the scar on my hand I couldn't wipe away, and Father Greg's voice still spoke in my head.

On Sunday, I stayed in bed for a while listening to the
news. America was winning the war on terror; Karzai was our man in Kabul. Frank Capra would have been proud; promises were made that order would be restored soon. When I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, it was almost noon. I found the surface of the butcher block scattered with flour. A bottle of vanilla extract stood next to a large mixing bowl, and a fat, pristine cookbook was spread open near the edge. Mother stood over a pan, flicking a wooden ladle to the beat of the synthesized eighties music playing over the stereo system. A subtle bounce traveled from her hips to her feet. “I have some errands to do today, but I didn't want to take off before you got up.”

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for them to bubble. Once they bubble, they're ready to be flipped.”

“No. I mean you're making pancakes.”

“I like making breakfast.”

“But usually in a blender.”

She flicked her wooden ladle toward me. “Enough. You got up late. You don't get to make fun of me. I've done my forty-five on the elliptical and made my shake, thank you very much. I'm making these for you.”

Mother had one of the flapjacks too, but without butter or syrup. She sat across from me at the butcher block, sipping the mossy dregs of her health shake, and told me more about her business plans. Cindy had suggested it at the Christmas party, and Mother had taken it seriously.
“A body in motion stays in motion,” Mother said. Simple law of physics. Start marching forward and don't look back. Cindy's suggestion was for Mother to start her own event-planning business, and since she'd heard it, Mother hadn't looked back. Only a week had passed, and she was already wrestling with the paperwork.

“Nobody throws a party like you,” I said to her.

“It's exciting, isn't it?” There was a hint of mania behind her eyes as she continued, but she did have a plan, and I admired her determination to create a new life. Cindy had started her own art gallery years ago, and now that it was a thriving business in town, she had the right friends to help Mother get organized and begin. Mother already had a list of clients to approach, opportunities to pursue, and locations for a small storefront. “I couldn't possibly work out of the home. It'll be my business. I'm not going to hide from everyone. I'm going to plan the parties everyone attends, and they don't even have to be at my house.”

“It's all happening so quickly,” I said.

“It's happening, Aidan. And I'm going to take care of this family.”

Maybe
, I thought, but it would be easier when Elena came back too. She could help bolster Mother's new pioneering spirit, or at least help me find a way to match it. I wanted a little of Mother's courage and enthusiasm, but I didn't know how to do it alone.

Mother made a number of phone calls, and by the
time she was finished it was already late afternoon. She found me in my bedroom reading. “I have to get moving or I'll never get out of here,” she said. “Are you coming with me?”

“I should finish some homework. I guess I have a job to do too. Break a leg. You'll be great,” I added.

Mother grinned. She came over to the armchair and hugged me. “Thank you,” she said softly.

The doorbell interrupted us. Mother went down to the foyer to open it, and I followed more slowly. The light was already beginning to fade outside, but through the narrow window beside the front door I saw the powder blue Lincoln Town Car parked by the front stoop, and I began to shake. The broken glass was in my hands again. His breath was hot and close and rank beside me. I braced myself against the banister of the grand staircase and tried to hold still, drifting inward as if I were suddenly watching what was happening in front of me on TV, not there in the room with me being a part of it, too. Mother opened the door, leaned back, and gave him a canned, happy greeting. His voice preceded him into the house, and it held me firmly. Mother ushered him in and beckoned me to come greet him as well.

I couldn't drag myself any closer. Instead, he came to me and offered me a cold handshake. He squeezed quickly and let go. The three of us stood together near the table in the foyer, and it reminded me of being at the party together and how long ago that seemed.

“I missed you at Mass today,” Father Greg said. His voice moved slowly within me.

“I'm sorry,” I said automatically.

“No.” Father Greg laughed. “I was speaking to your mother, Aidan. I thought she might come. It's been a hard holiday season, hasn't it, Gwen? I thought you and Father Dooley discussed that.”

Mother nodded. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Of course,” Father Greg said. He fidgeted and laughed a little nervously. “Here's one of my favorite families, and Frank's doing all the consoling. I didn't want you to think I was neglecting you. I wanted you to know my concern too. I'm here to help.”

“You're too kind, Father.”

“No, no. It's my responsibility. I'm always here to support you. Both of you. You know that. I don't mean this with any disrespect, but sometimes when we have all that we need, materially speaking, we forget to tend our spiritual and emotional gardens. Sometimes we still need to be cared for in ways we don't fully understand. This isn't a lecture, Gwen,” he quickly added. He put his hand on her shoulder. “We're part of a community. You can let yourself be helped.” He laughed, genuinely and confidently. “We've been doing it for nearly two thousand years. We have a little practice.”

“Again,” Mother said, “thank you. But Aidan and I needed a little family time.” She put her arm around me. “Didn't we?”

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said. He nodded and reflected for a moment. I wanted Mother to keep talking, to steer the conversation up and away, back to her business, anything to push him out the door and out of the house. I was too frightened to speak, and my palm was still clammy from our brief handshake. But Father Greg spoke. “Gwen,” he said, “as Aidan knows, we are all one family at Most Precious Blood. You have always been a generous person. Allow yourself some of the generosity of others. You'd be surprised how freeing it feels.” He reached out to me and closed his hand over my shoulder tightly. I felt it in my stomach. “You want to support your mother, right? And you will. I know you will. But you'll need support too, Aidan. We're the place for that, aren't we?”

My insides shook violently, and I wanted to sit down. I leaned on the marble tabletop for support, but Mother held herself perfectly still. She only blinked as Father Greg spoke to her. She swept one foot in front of her and planted it firmly. “Why, Father, that's exactly what we have been talking about all day. While we've been here. At home.”

Father Greg drew back. “I'm only offering advice,” he said to Mother. “I'm glad to find you both doing so well.”

“Yes,” Mother continued. “And thanks for your advice. However, there are many things I have to do today. I'm sorry to rush you.”

“No, of course,” Father Greg said. “Of course.” He looked at me. “I haven't seen Aidan at work, though, for a while. There are some things we should touch base about.
Shouldn't we, Aidan? Maybe you'll come down to the rectory?”

They both stared at me for a moment, but it was Mother I looked at, even though I spoke to Father Greg. “Actually, I was talking to my friends,” I said slowly. “There are some projects at school I'd like to get involved with.” Sweat ran down my back. I wiped my hands on my pants. “I don't think I'll be coming back to work at Most Precious Blood. Besides, my mother might need a hand with her new business, and I want to be able to help her if she needs it.”

Father Greg cocked a half smile. “If that's the case, I'd like your help tying up some loose ends, then. Can we discuss it more back at the office?”

“I need to get my homework done before going back to school,” I said. “I'm back at CDA on Wednesday.”