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I’m wooden for days. I barely speak, I only eat what they force me to eat. I don’t want to exist, not without Finn.
Jones takes me to church, because I need to pray, even if it’s to a God who took Finn away. It’s the only thing I can do.
With a plain brick Gothic Revival exterior, the church looms against the cloudy sky, sort of severe and imposing.
I’m hesitant as I peer out the glass.
“It’s the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury,” Jones tel
ls me. “This is where Savages go.”
I know he means the family, but the irony isn’t lost on me because people seem savage to me right now, all people, particularly people who follow a God who takes away my brother.
“I’ll wait, miss,” Jones tells me, settling into the seat. I nod, and with my shoulders back, I walk straight to the doors.
Once inside, the demeanor of the church changes, from severe gothic, to lavishly decorated, firmly in line with Catholic tradition.
It feels reverent in here, holy and serene. And even if I’m not a religious person, I enjoy it.
The statues of saints and angels hanging on the walls are gilded and full of detail, including the crucifix of Christ at the front.
His face is pained, His hands and feet are bleeding.
I look away, because even still, it’s hard for me to imagine such a sacrifice, but at the same time, I can feel it. Because my brother is gone, and that’s the biggest sacrifice in the world.
“Are you here for confession, child?”
A low voice comes from behind and I turn to find a priest watching me. His eyes are kind above his white collar, and even though he doesn’t know me, this man, this priest, is kind simply to be kind.
I swallow.
“I’m not Catholic,” I tell him, trying to keep my words soft in this grand place. He smiles.
“I’ll try not to hold that against you,” he confides, and he holds his hand out. I take it, and it’s warm.
“I’m Father Thomas,” he introduces himself. “And this is my parish. Welcome.”
Even his hands are kind as he grasps mine, and I find myself instantly at ease for the first time in weeks.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Would you like a tour?” he suggests, and I nod.
“I’d love one.”
He doesn’t ask why I’m here or what I want, he just leads me around, pointing out this artifact and that, this architecture detail or that stained glass window. He chats with me for a long time, and makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world, and that he has no place else to be.
Finally, when he’s finished, he turns to me. “Would you like to sit?”
I do.
So he sits with me, and we’re quiet for a long time.
“My mother used to come here, I’m told,” I finally confide. “And I just wanted to feel like I’m near her.”
The priest studies me. “And do you?”
My shoulders slump. “Not really.”
