“I should at least learn how to say thank you,” I say to Father Patrick and Ash, embarrassed that as an adult I can’t even learn one phrase in Farsi, while Esin is working to master an entire second language.
“We can work on it next time,” Ash says. The day is almost over, and there likely won’t be a “next time,” at least not with Mac involved. He reported at the beginning of the art class that he’s gotten everything he needs for this segment.
I had lunch with Esin’s family members, and they’ve signed a release to have their story told through the documentary. Mac says he’ll find a way to parallel the Italians’ and Afghans’ respective experiences in the camp. And I can see the similarities in their storylines.
More than 88 percent of the POWs left Camp Atterbury and the other 174 branch camps in the fall of 1943 when Italy left the Axis powers and joined the Italian Service Unit of the US Army. They spent the rest of the war in temporary housing in places with labor shortages until it was safe to be repatriated. Some stayed and made their homes here.
He’ll never admit it, but I can tell he knows this timely storyline will add more weight to his production. We still haven’t found common ground on the whole “grandpa grave” issue, but my mother’s flight lands tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, and I for one will be relieved to have her here. The wall of assistants and agents she’s built around herself over the years is virtually impenetrable when she wants it to be.
Father Patrick is preparing for the end of the day, and as soon as the kids file out, Mac will head back to the hotel. We have a dinner planned at Cracker Barrel, but I’m tired of the overly starchy menu, and other than talking with Lisa, I have little to look forward to, conversation-wise. In my free time these past few weeks, I sneak away to the small diner on East Main Cross Street in downtown Edinburgh. Their coffee is rich and as strong as their free Wi-Fi, and when I need to get some work done, Big Red’s Place has become my makeshift office.
As he says goodbye in what sounds like flawless Farsi, I watch Father Patrick interact with the class. The dark-haired and bright-eyed refugee children are eager to please. Father Patrick explained how the art projects provide an escape from the trauma of having to flee from their homes without warning and landing in a new and foreign country. Joy is useful, especially when it’s in short supply.
The children leave with friendly waves, and Mac barks some orders to his crew. Lights quickly disappear and are packed away in hardbacked boxes. Ash walks up to me with her hand extended.
“It was lovely to meet you,” she says, a slight accent turning up the last syllable in every sentence she speaks.
“You too. I mean it. Here . . . take my card. I’d love if we could keep in touch.” I rustle through my bag and retrieve one of my business cards. She hands one back to me with yellow-and-blue coloring on the top and the name of her organization: Language Over Borders.
“Yes—thank you. This means so much,” Ash says.
“I’m not kidding. I want to learn more. Not only about language but about everything you do.” Father Patrick watches discreetly as he collects the papers from the desks.
“Well, thank you. I’ll pass it on to my superior. Any exposure helps.” She smiles and places the business card in her blazer pocket.
“Yeah!” I say with an awkward level of exuberance. We stand in this uncomfortable space until she speaks again.
“Well, I better head out. See you next week, Father,” she says, waving at Father Patrick. I wave a goodbye, too, wondering what exactly I want from her. Gratitude? No—I don’t want her to look at me as some celebrity savior. I want her to look at me as an equal—a colleague.
“Oh, by the way . . .” Ash pauses, stepping out the door. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’m such a big Gracelyn Branson fan. Toy Department was on every night after school, and my mom let me watch it while she made dinner. I always say your mom was my first English teacher.”
And there it is. I’m not a coworker or a friend. Not even a top PR professional. I am Gracelyn Branson’s daughter.
“I . . . I’ll pass it on,” I say. She waves again and then leaves. Mac and his crew are right behind her, Conrad the last in line.
“You coming?” He’s given up on his pretend politeness since my little standoff with Mac and now treats me with just enough disdain to keep things real, which I actually appreciate.
“I’ll be out in a few. I promised Stan and Dottie I’d say goodbye.”
Conrad checks his watch. “Mac’s blood sugar is crashing, and we ran out of protein bars, so we don’t really have time for a social visit.”
“It’d be rude if I didn’t . . .”
“Can you do it in ten minutes or less?”
I start to push back, but Father Patrick chimes in with “Ten minutes. No problem.”
“Thank you, Father Patrick,” Conrad says in an overly chipper voice, such a contrast to the irritated tone he takes with me. Everyone likes Patrick. He’s smart and empathetic, and most of all, he’s easy to work with, which will take a person far in show business. Also, he’s not hard to look at either. If I were going to cast a heartthrob priest on a TV show about forbidden desires, he’d be perfect for the role.
I like all these things about Patrick—the kindness and the intelligence and yes, even his frustratingly distracting good looks. But what I like most is his friendship. He doesn’t care who my parents, grandparents, or fiancé are, and working by his side has created a casualness that lends itself to conversations on art and travel, even politics, and deeply intellectual discussions on religion. The only thing we don’t talk about is his mysterious past. Well, that and my relationship with Hunter. Which is odd because that’s the one conversation Father Patrick is supposed to have with me and, at some point, my fiancé.
“Yes, thank you, Father Patrick,” I echo after Conrad leaves, mimicking the assistant’s kiss-up tone.
“It sounds meaner when you say it that way,” Patrick says, laughing and dropping art supplies into the bin.
“Well, that’s because I’m not being nice,” I explain.
“Ahhh, yes. That makes sense, then.”
“Right?” I say with some sarcasm but then soften. “But in all seriousness—thank you.”
“No problem. I’d like to see Stan and Dottie again anyway. Plus, I do have an ulterior motive.”
“Ooooo, am I taking confession now?” What could Father Patrick have to confess to me?
He stores a clear bin in a closet, and I dump a dustpan of paper scraps into the recycling bin.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, flicking off the lights. I retrieve my belongings from behind the desk.
“Now I’m dying to know.” I join him by the door. We haven’t been alone since my snowy-evening visit to the church. The darkness and tranquility of the empty room remind me of the peaceful feeling I took with me when I left the church that night.
“It’s nothing outrageous aside from the fact that gossiping is a sin, and I’m positive this is gossip.”
“Ahhh, now I see.” I understand immediately what he’s leading up to.