Thankfully, Father Michael didn't keep up his end of the agreement and is at the end of the driveway, walking toward the house.
I stop him before he gets too close with a palm to his chest, "Dade's in a mood. He just kicked me out, and Ma's on his side, of course. They both insist on using me as a pawn for some twisted game of control. I don't have anywhere to go."
"You're always welcome atOur Lady of Grace, Sarah. You're always welcome." His words are reassuring and comforting as we head toward his car.
But I hear it now. Even with the door closed, I hear Ma’s pleading from the kitchen, “Dade, please. Just let her go.”
"Who the hell does she think she is, walking out of this house like she owns shit?" He snarls. "I wasn't done giving her a piece of my mind."
Ma’s voice again, quiet and even, “We’ll give her the time. She’ll come back. She always does.”
I scoff with a shake of my head. She doesn't even hear herself. He's the one who told me to leave, and now, because I leftwithout a fight, he wants me to come back to ensure I'm broken before I step into the world without a home to come back to.
Father Michael ushers me into his car. We drive the short distance until the church reappears through the drizzle. The stained-glass windows are beautiful in the early morning sun, twinkling colored halos as I peer at them from the misty parking lot. I sit in the car looking through the rain-spotted window, an odd feeling settling over me. Just me, alone, free to be me without thoughts of Ma and Dade and my childhood. This is a door opening, I guess, and I am stepping through it.
I am, for the first time in forever, almost unafraid. A tear bubbles from my eye, then another, and they slide silently down my cheeks.
4
MICHAEL
Once we're back inside my cabin, I gesture at the coffee pot, at the battered dining table, and the fireplace where last night’s embers are just ash.
“Sit,” I say. “Let me get you something warm.”
She sinks into the chair, and her backpack crumples to the floor beside her.
“I’m okay,” she says, but the shiver in her hands gives her away. "I'm happy that you didn't leave."
I work in silence for a minute, pouring coffee and stirring in a heap of sugar before setting it in front of her. She grips the mug with both hands, holding it close to her lips but not drinking. It steams into her face, masking her expression.
"Sarah, I couldn't just drive away until I knew you were safe.”
She gives a brittle laugh. “Safe. Is that what this is?”
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching for judgment.
Instead, I offer her the most honest answer I can manage. “For now, yes. Here, you are.”
“I’m sorry if I made things awkward last night,” she says after a while. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Neither was I.” It comes out before I can help it.
There’s a beat of silence. She studies me over the rim of the mug, her expression unreadable. “Do you ever think about not being a priest anymore?”
The question stuns me. “Sometimes. More than I should admit.”
“Why don’t you?”
I don’t have a simple answer. The truth is, I don’t know who I’d be without this life. I've been a man of the cloth so long, I have no idea who I am underneath.
“I suppose,” I say, “I’m afraid the world wouldn’t have any use for me.”
Sarah looks at me like she understands. Maybe she does. I want to say something else, something pastoral and healing, but I am distracted by a presence.
I see a shadow flicker past the window, so fast I could doubt myself if I wanted. I stand, nerves alert. I peer through the curtain, see nothing. But the itch along the back of my neck doesn’t go away. I double-check the lock, draw the deadbolt, then return to Sarah, my movements purposeful but careful not to frighten her.
“Sometimes,” I begin, “the best thing you can do is survive the day. Let tomorrow figure itself out.”
