“From my father?”
“Oh, that I cannot say.” The priest smirked, a twinkle in his eye. Definitely his father. “Confessions are confidential.”
“Even after the person’s dead?”
“Definitely. Your relationship with God doesn’t end with death, son.”
“I’m not surprised,” Carmine muttered, gazing across the desk at the priest. “That’s sorta why I wanted to talk to you. When they read my father’s will, he asked me to do him a favor. He wanted me to come here . . . said he left something.”
The priest nodded, not an ounce of surprise registering in his expression. He had been expecting him. “That he did. But before I give it to you, tell me something.”
“What?”
“How do you feel?”
Sighing, Carmine shook his head. “How does it look like I feel?”
“You seem to be holding it together pretty well.”
“Yeah, well, looks are deceiving.”
“Nonsense. Maybe you’re the one who can’t see.”
Carmine paused, hesitating for a fraction of a second, but the weight of his grief became too heavy to hold back. The dam broke, the words gushing out in a furious unyielding wave of emotion. It flooded the office, nearly drowning Carmine as he choked on the confession of his sins.
Father Alberto gazed at him, silently taking in his rant, and didn’t speak until Carmine finished. There was nothing formal about it, no asking for forgiveness from God or man. It was just Carmine and his truth, and the one person who could hear it without looking at him differently.
The one person who could hear it and never tell a living soul.
“How do you feel now?” the priest asked when the office grew silent again.
“I feel like I need a drink,” he muttered.
The priest laughed lightly. “I’ll tell you what you can do instead.”
“I don’t need Catholic penitence,” Carmine said. “I’m not fasting or repeating Hail Mary a dozen times. That’s bullshit.”
“Ah, I wasn’t going to tell you to,” he said. “I was merely going to suggest you make a list. Write down the names of everyone you feel you’ve wronged and find a way to make it right again someday.”
“That would take the rest of my life.”
Father Alberto shrugged. “You have something better to do? I once knew a man who tried to drink his pain away. He drank to forget his family, he drank to dull the loss of a life, and when he finally sobered up, he had to make up for it somehow. He was righting his wrongs until the day he died.”
Carmine gaped at him. His father?
“Speaking of which, this was left here.” Father Alberto reached into his desk, pulling out a long gold chain and holding it up. A simple gold band swung from it, Carmine’s chest aching at the sight. He recognized it, had seen it thousands of times, on the finger of the first woman he ever loved and later around the neck of the first man he revered.
His mother’s wedding band.
“I’m sure you know what to do with it,” the priest said, handing it to him.
Carmine carefully put the chain around his neck and concealed it in his shirt. The metal felt cold against his bare chest. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I also noticed you didn’t take communion. Would you like to do it now?”
Carmine shook his head as he stood. “Maybe next time.”
“Next time,” the priest mused as Carmine headed for the door. “I’ll take that. It means you might be back some day.”