“See you tonight,” I say, preempting any further commentary with a decisive goodbye. “Love you.”
“Love you, t—” she says, and hits the end button before finishing. I drop the phone into my bag and stow it in the back seat as we drive in silence for a moment.
“Mrs. Lee said thank you, by the way,” Father Patrick fills in, not acknowledging the call, and I follow his lead, avoiding the topic of my meddling mother, assuming the dodge either means he heard nothing of the conversation, or he heard all of it.
“She should thank you. You’re the one who did the footwork. Or is that your priestly humility?”
“It wouldn’t be humility if I bragged about it,” he says, making me laugh.
“Good point. I won’t tempt you into pride.”
“Yes. Get thee behind me!”
“I’m Satan now?” I ask after finishing the scripture reference in my head.
“No, no—not you! I was talking about pride. It’s always been a challenge,” he confesses like it’s no big deal he’s sharing his temptations and sins with me and not the other way around.
“You? Prideful?” I shake my head at the idea. “Spend one day doing my job and you’d see yourself more clearly. You just met my mom.” Not talking about my mom lasted all of two minutes.
“Vanity and pride are not the same thing. Vanity is about what other people think of you; pride is about what you think of yourself,” he says somberly, no longer playful.
“I bet you’re too hard on yourself,” I say, nibbling timidly on the edge of my manicured nail. I want to understand that secret something that changed “Patrick” into “Father Patrick.”
“Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecution, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak then I am strong. Second Corinthians, chapter twelve: verse ten,” he quotes, which is a handy way to dodge a real conversation.
“I think I . . . hate that,” I say as I digest the scripture, something about it hitting me the wrong way.
Father Patrick pulls into the hotel parking lot. I direct him to a spot closest to my room. He puts the car in park and turns to look at me.
“I don’t know what to tell ya. It’s from the Bible,” he says, like that’s the definitive word on the matter.
“I don’t care if it’s from the Bible or from Dr. Phil. I don’t like it. I hate this idea religions glom onto that God gives out pain as some kind of prize to humans to teach us a lesson or make us grow. It’s pretty messed up.”
His forehead wrinkles at my vehement response.
“For me it’s a relief—gives purpose to our earthly pains. How do I explain to a mom whose four-month-old was diagnosed with terminal leukemia that God is unwilling to heal her baby despite endless fasting and prayers? If I believe God loves us, then even the worst moments in our lives must be for some good.” He speaks with an unintentional charisma, but it still doesn’t sit right with me.
“You don’t know how many times I heard that when Dean was sick. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ But if I’m going to wrangle my brain into accepting the presence of God, I’d rather assume he doesn’t get involved with human dramas. Because if he chooses to help Martha find her lost keys but not that baby with leukemia, then God’s a jerk.” I tap the dashboard passionately.
“God’s reasons aren’t necessarily our reasons.” Father Patrick leans against the driver’s-side door, his priest’s collar more obvious at this angle. “If a toddler cries in his car seat, we don’t let him out. It’s about perspective.”
“Perspective?” The term sounds so arrogant, like I’m narrow-minded or shortsighted and that’s why I don’t “get it.” I unbuckle my seat belt and cross one leg under the other. “Do you know what it’s like to lose someone?”
“I do,” he says immediately, a touch defensive.
“Not like an aunt or your great-grandma but someone you really loved?”
I loved Nonna. It was painful when she died, and I knew I’d miss her, all the little things, the steadiness of her affection, the way she made pasta for my birthday and grew and dried her own garlic. But she was ninety-four.
With Dean, it wasn’t only about losing what he’d been to me and his family and his fans; it was the vast and unwritten future snatched away from his deserving hands. That’s the tragedy of losing someone young—all the “could’ve beens” buried along with your loved one in their satin-lined coffin.
“My fiancée. Magdalene.” He says her name like it’s holy, and I forget our debate. He picks at a loose stitch on the steering wheel, his eyes moist, voice thick. “I met her studying in the States, but we took that trip my senior year, the one I told you about—to France.”
“I remember your saying something about the Louvre.” Conrad interrupted his story—he was relieved; I was disappointed. I nibble on my nail again, eager to know more.
“It was right after that. I’d just met her parents. She was from a little town outside Toulouse. Beautiful.”
“Magdalene or Toulouse?” I ask gently, seeing his emotions gathering like an infection under the skin by a healing wound.
“Both,” he says with a wistful smile, looking up from the steering wheel. “Definitely both.” He clears his throat, and his smile fades. He goes back to tugging at the little string sticking out from the faux leather upholstery.
“We had a few days until we were to fly home for graduation, and Magdalene suggested taking the train to Florence. But I wanted to drive. She didn’t fight me on it. I remember she said, ‘You have to go the slow way at least once in your life. Why not now?’” His voice breaks, but he keeps going; I hold still, not wanting to distract him from his reminiscence.
“We stopped after a few hours at Marseille for a late lunch, and then instead of heading east, we took a short trip into the mountains to the Cathedral Notre-Dame-des-Pommiers. It was a breathtaking drive, the commune nestled in this narrow gap between two long mountain ridges. I’ve no doubt heaven will look like the French countryside in spring.”
He swallows loudly, and I can tell it’s coming—the loss. I’m tempted to spare him the pain of telling it, from reliving whatever horrible moment hurt so badly he’s been running from it ever since. But I also know that like with an infection, the only way to heal is to drain the wound.
“I didn’t see it because of the hill. By the time I did, the truck was in our lane and only a few feet away. There was a tall wall of rock on Magdalene’s side of the road, a low bank and a river on the opposite.” He flinches as though he’s reliving the impact in his memory.
“I chose the river, but it made little difference. There wasn’t enough time. He hit us without braking. I had a few broken bones, but Magdalene . . .” He wipes at his eyes. I angle in, knowing what he’s going to say and wanting to be there to catch all the fragments as they fall once he’s said it. “When I tried to dodge the truck by driving toward the riverbank, I inadvertently put her directly in harm’s way. They said she died on impact, but I swear I heard her last breath after the car came to a rest upside down in the shallows of the riverbed. Trapped in my seat, I held her hand until it grew cold and limp, praying God would change what I knew was unchangeable.”