Home Again

Edward moved to the other side of the bed and sat down, curling his age-spotted, big-knuckled hand around his wife’s.

“I knew you would come today,” she whispered, starting to say more, but then a rattling, phlegmy cough shuddered through her chest.

Francis stared down at the pale, withered old woman. Her white hair, brushed and combed to salon perfection, curled against the grayed pillow like wisps of goose down. He took hold of her other hand, so slim and fragile, and squeezed gently.

Dull, watery blue eyes blinked at him, the corners tucked into folds of wrinkled flesh. Even now, in the last, pain-riddled days of her life, she exuded a calm gentleness that touched his heart.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

She spoke so softly, he had to lean forward to hear the words.

“It has been two weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of—”

Francis squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump that lodged like old dust in his throat. When was the last time you truly sinned, Ilya? When?

How could a benevolent God heap such misery on a woman like this? A loving, caring woman who’d never harmed a soul. All her life she’d helped people, and now here she lay, cancer eating through her bones, hopelessness spreading like a virus through her blood.

And what of Edward, her husband of fifty-seven years? What would he do after her death, how would he go on in this home that she had created for them?

“Edward,” she said softly, “get Father Francis a cup of tea.”

Edward let go of his wife’s hand and left the bedside, disappearing into the kitchen.

She waited for the quiet click of the kitchen door before she spoke. “Father …” She paused, drew in a deep, shaking breath, her hand curling within his grasp into a tight fist. “I am afraid for him, Father. The look in his eyes lately … He isn’t ready for me to die.”

Francis touched her face, gently stroked the velvety wrinkles. “I’ll help him, Ilya. I’ll be here for him.”

“I can’t stay much longer. The pain …” Tears slid down her temples. She squeezed his hand. “Take care of him, Father. Please …”

Francis brushed the moist trail from her skin and tried to smile. “God will watch out for Edward, and He is infinitely more capable than I. God always has a—”

Plan.

He couldn’t finish. He’d said the same thing a million times, but now he couldn’t speak. He needed to say something that mattered, something that would ease this gentle woman’s pain, and there was nothing. Nothing.

“Of course He has a plan,” she whispered, making it painfully easy on him. “It’s just… my Edward …”

Tears blurred Francis’s vision. He tried to think of something meaningful to say, but in the end, he found nothing, so he lapsed into the ordinary, the rote, absolving her of her sins—although he knew there were none, not really—and blessing her soul for the thousandth time.

“Thank you, Father.”

He stared into Ilya’s blue eyes, seeing the sharpness of life in all its wondrous, pain-filled beauty reflected in her gaze. He saw all the things he’d denied himself, all the roads he hadn’t taken. And suddenly he was thinking things he shouldn’t….

For thirty-five years Francis had slept alone, crawled into his narrow wooden bed on sheets that smelled of his own aftershave. Just once, he wanted to sleep on pillows that smelled of perfume.

It used to be enough to watch the world go by, loving other people’s children, talking to other men’s wives. But now, sitting here beside Mrs. Fiorelli, holding her withered hand, he knew how much he’d given up. He could baptize a million children, and not one of them would ever call him daddy.

He’d been a bystander to life. He still loved God, but sometimes, in the middle of a cold, dark night, he positively ached for human contact. For Madelaine. A hundred times in the past few years, he’d hauled himself out of bed, kneeled on the hard floor, and prayed for guidance and strength.

Courage. That’s what he needed, for Mrs. Fiorelli right now, and for himself. It was what he’d needed all his life and never really had. Angel had gotten all the courage in their family, and Francis had gotten all the faith.

If he’d had courage, just a little bit of it a long time ago, maybe he would have made different choices, taken a different turn.

But he’d taken the easy road many years ago. Back when Madelaine was pregnant and alone, Francis had

offered to marry her. Only, he hadn’t wanted to marry her, not really, and she’d known that, just as she’d always known everything about him. She knew that his love for God was the defining passion of his life and always would be.

No, Francis, she’d said quietly, crying. Be my best friend, be my baby’s best friend. Please…