Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

Better than a Shrink
by Julie Barrett

I don’t know why I’m doing this.

This journal, I mean. Not why I’m here, sitting under a tree in the middle of nowhere. Two days ago, I left Ballykissangel with little more than a rucksack and the intention of getting as far away as possible. I haven’t covered much ground. I suppose it’s all that emotional baggage that’s weighing me down. I have enough of that to sink the cross-channel ferry.

I found this journal and pen lying on top of my clothing in the sacristy when I went to change after I’d christened Kieran. Inside, written in Brendan’s hand, was the inscription, “Make good use of it.” He told me once that he kept a journal because he could say things in it that he couldn’t tell God. When I pointed out to Brendan that God knew what he was writing, and he winked, placed a finger to his nose, and said he had his reasons. At least he knew what he was doing.

The wake we had for Assumpta did some good for me, but my entire world has been turned upside-down and twisted around so many times lately, I don’t know which way I’m supposed to go. Everyone means well, but I have to have time to think on my own, without any distractions.

Before I left, I posted a letter to Father MacAnally asking for a leave of absence. No, I told him I was going. Between losing my mother, losing and regaining my home, and other not so little crises, the stress was getting to me. Well, that sounded good in the letter – I think. Everyone knows the real reason. Every time I walked out the door, I’d look at the church, then towards Fitzgerald’s, and wonder if I had done the right thing. If I had decided to stay a priest, would Assumpta still be alive? Is God punishing me? If so, He’s certainly doing a good job.

I fell asleep – no, cried myself to sleep – against the tree. I dreamt that about the night Assumpta and I sat watch at Brian Quigley’s construction site. There was a chill in the air, and we had taken refuge in the warmth of her van. She reached out to hold my hand, just to warm me up as before. Only this time I didn’t pull away. I could feel my pulse quicken as we moved closer. Just as our lips touched, someone knocked on the door of the van. I woke up with a start to the sound of a woodpecker in the tree. I hope that bird got what he was looking for.

It is so very quiet here, save for the animals, and they go quiet as well when I draw near them. Occasionally I hear a car or a lorry on a road in the distance. I’m sure that I can’t be more than a mile or so from the road, but the trees muffle out most of the sounds of civilization, which suits me just fine for the moment. As much as I try to sort things out on my mind, I just can’t get past those last few days. For once I felt so secure in my position; it was as if everything was coming together in a wonderful, heady rush of feelings. Looking back, I think it’s safe to say that I spent the entire last year or so conflicted over Assumpta – or more precisely, my feelings for her – that few other events from that period stick out in my mind. Mum’s death, of course, being the exception. Now, I’m not what one would call a “mother’s boy,” but we were very close, especially after Dad died. The more I think about it, the more I believe that her death helped me realize that it’s important to hold on to the things that you love, and that I at least ought to let Assumpta know how I felt about her. That afternoon by the lake when I told her how I felt was at once the happiest and most gut-wrenching moment of my life.

There are some who would say that Assumpta’s death was preordained, and there was not a damned thing that I could have done about it. If that’s the case, I’m glad I told her that I love her. As for me, I don’t know what to believe. It could be preordination, or divine retribution, or just one hell of a tragic accident. If I ever get around to talking to God again, maybe I’ll ask, although I don’t expect an answer.

My body finally won the tug-of-war with my brain. I slept a little better last night, in spite of the weather. Only now that my brain has had a little rest, it’s gone into overdrive.

I wonder: Should I have not given the sacrament to Assumpta? I know that was the last thing she would have wanted. But I was (technically still am) a priest. One of my first acts in Ballykissangel was to go deliver the sacrament to an old man who had recently died. Assumpta was kind enough to give me a lift, but she seemed incredulous over what appeared to her to be a stupid ritual performed over a dead man's body. Would he care? He wouldn't, I explained, but the living do.

One of my last acts as a priest was to perform the sacrament on the body of Assumpta Fitzgerald. I know she didn't want what she saw as an old ritual from a nearly dead religion, and believe me; it was difficult for me to do. Yet, after some thought I do believe that she would have understood that the act was more for the comfort of the living than the dead.

That's one of the few things that I do believe.

Last night it rained. It was one of those cold, soaking rains that chills the bones even if you’re sitting next to a fire indoors. I finally found shelter underneath a rock overhang. My rucksack was soaked, but most of its contents survived. One of the few things that I took away from my short time with the Boy Scouts was that you should always pack everything in your rucksack inside of plastic. Funny, but I don’t remember packing everything so neatly. I suppose I was still going on autopilot at the time.

Today I thought long and hard about killing myself. A few days ago, that thought would have seemed absurd. This morning I changed into some dry clothes, took off walking, and came upon a lake. Last night’s rains had left the air clean and fresh, and the surface of the water looked like a mirror, it was so still. I looked at my reflection and didn’t recognize the soul looking back. If I just tipped over and went in, I thought, I could be with Assumpta. The prospect began to look more and more tempting until a fish jumped nearby, spreading ripples across my reflection. A bird swooped down from seemingly out of nowhere and narrowly missed its fish dinner. Lead us not into temptation, eh?

The incident did give me pause for thought. Church teachings aside, I suppose suicide really wouldn’t have solved anything. With the way my luck was running, Assumpta and I would have ended up at different places after death anyway.

I still think of her constantly. I’ve counseled others so often about how the pain of losing a loved one subsides with time, but never goes away. I hope that’s true. Right now, the pain is just as fresh and sharp as it was that night.

Maybe I will go back to Manchester. My sister said I’d be welcome at any time. Now that I look back, I think she knew that I was going through a bad patch. I always did wear my feelings on my sleeve. I suppose that might be one reason of many that I’m not really cut out to be a priest, I suppose. I can see now that in so many ways I wasn’t mature when I made the decision to enter the seminary, even though I had been though university. My mother was ecstatic about it, though. I wonder what she’d make of all this?

I called Helen today. I couldn’t bring myself to say much of anything about my current situation, except that I was on leave. What could I say? She’s asked me to go to Manchester to stay for a few days with her family. Besides, she said, she could use a little help clearing up the last of our mum’s estate, with her husband off again and all. She only knows he was off in Eastern Europe somewhere. She joked that if he told her, he’d have to kill her. That was not the kind of joke I really wanted to hear just right now. I made her swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone that I was coming. No problem, she said. Everyone else would be too preoccupied to notice. Or had I forgotten that United plays Liverpool on Saturday? Well, I was a little to damn preoccupied to think about football. In Manchester, forgetting about a big match is considered to be the worst form of blasphemy next to denying the existence of the Holy Trinity, whether you’re Catholic or Protestant. Actually, that would come in a close second to being a Liverpool supporter.

I can think of even worse blasphemies right now.

God, I miss Assumpta.

I love her so much.

I’ve been out for a week in all – I think - just wandering about aimlessly, with occasional stops in one small town or another to pick up bits of food. I finally hopped a bus to Wicklow and booked into a small hotel. I must have been a sight at reception, but I didn’t care. I still don’t care. I don’t know why I’m going to Manchester, except that I have nowhere else to go.

I took a shower and then fell onto the bed. I don’t even remember pulling back the sheet, but what sleep I managed was full of dreams of that awful night. Caught a bus to Dublin this morning, and made it just in time for the ferry to Liverpool. The crossing was terrible: eight hours of rain, high waves, and misery. Even so, I thought about taking the next boat back. Suddenly, going home seemed like a big mistake. Home? I thought I might be able to make Ballykissangel home.

I close my eyes. I am back in Fitzgerald’s, taking in Assumpta’s smile. I motion her to the end of the bar, look into those beautiful eyes, and tell her I love her. Then the lights go out. My world comes to a screeching halt.

My plan to turn around and leave was thwarted by the appearance of my sister at the ferry station. Helen had brought along Tommy, and there was no way I could back out in front of her son.

We passed the ride to Manchester with a lot of small talk. I got the feeling that Tommy was just busting a gut to tell me something, but Helen kept him at bay. I found out once we got to the house when he literally dragged me up to the spare bedroom. There, laid out on the bed was a Manchester United Scarf. “You’re going to the match with us, Uncle Peter! Do you like your scarf? I bought it myself!” I didn’t know what to say.

“If Mark’s leave hadn’t been postponed,” she said, “you’d have to fend for yourself. We’ve had tickets for ages.” I should have known. Mark is a Liverpool supporter, having grown up there. He and Helen jokingly call it a mixed marriage, and as far as I know, it’s solid. “I know you support Middlesbrough, your traitor, but I you’ll have to settle for United this time.” I wanted to tell her that I really wasn’t up for football, but that would have been yet another blasphemy in this city. Of course, I thanked Tommy for the scarf and said I’d go along to the match. What else could I do?

After she got Tommy off to bed – quite reluctantly on his part, I might add – she poured us each a Boddingtons and sat beside me on the sofa. “Now tell me about it, Peter.” I couldn’t. I knew she wouldn’t understand, even though she reassured me that she would. Just from the way she said that, I think that she must have been on to someone at my old parish. Maybe I’m must reading to much into her tone of voice. On the other hand, the Church grapevine travels fast, and she might have heard something from my old parish. If I ever see Will again, I swear, I’ll deck him.

We talked for most of the night. She listened – and kept the beer coming. I couldn’t tell her about Assumpta and me. I did tell Helen about how she died, and that if she hadn’t been so damned independent she might be alive today. It should have been me down in that cellar. I couldn’t tell Helen that, could I?

I tried to sleep, and couldn’t, so I went for a walk. It wasn’t daylight yet, but the city was already waking up. I bumped into a milkman, apologized, and got collared by a cop. He could smell the beer on my breath, and asked for some identification. Without thinking, I showed him my Irish driving license. And what was a Manchester boy doing with such a thing, he asked? I explained that I was a priest (was being the operative word) on a leave of absence, and I’d learnt to drive in my parish in Ireland. Right, he replied, and he was the Virgin Mary. In his defense, I’m sure I looked more like a football hooligan out to stir up trouble after a night on the town than a priest. I gave him my sister’s address and he escorted me there. Much to his obvious disappointment, my bleary-eyed sister verified my story. She brought me inside and gave me a good tongue-lashing. I told her that I had my own life to lead, thank you very much, and stormed off to bed.

Tommy brought breakfast up to my room. No, it was lunch. I’d slept a good – or not so good as the case may be – six hours. I asked Tommy why he wasn’t in school, and he looked at me as though I was an idiot, which I quite obviously am. It was Saturday. Match day. We were to leave in an hour and a half. I’d better go down and apologize to Helen.

Manchester was brilliant – until the last minute and a half when they let Liverpool score twice. I hadn’t been to a game at Old Trafford in quite some time. The stadium was packed with cheering people. Although I had a lot of trouble concentrating on the match, I must admit that it was a welcome diversion.

I simply cannot get my mind off Assumpta. Now I’m seeing her everywhere. Not just her, but other people from Ballykissangel. I know its nonsense. I walked down to the loo with Tommy at one point, and he must have wondered why I was dodging through the crowd, trying not to be seen. It’s just that I kept seeing people – Brian, Brendan – I didn’t want to talk to them. So I made the whole thing into a game. Then, wouldn’t you know it, straight out of the loo walked the spitting image of Father Mac. Seriously. The man could have been his brother. Maybe he was, for all I know. At least he was a Manchester supporter, whoever he was. I couldn’t imagine Father Mac supporting a football team at all – beyond the token cheers for the parish school team. The whole incident gave me quite a start.

I suppose it’s my conscience – or God – trying to tell me something. I shouldn’t have run out on Ballykissangel like that, but I just didn’t know what to do.

Helen had accepted my apology before we left, then apologized to me for the way she treated me this morning. I’m sure I deserved that treatment. She sent Tommy off to bed after we had a late meal and broke out a couple more cans of Boddingtons. She caught me up on goings-on and brought me up-to-date on Mum’s estate. There wouldn’t be much left after all the bills were settled, but I was welcome to it if I needed it. In fact, she wanted me to look over the paperwork and make sure everything looked okay. She probably has it right, but I’ll take a look. It’s the very least that I can do.

We sipped our beer in silence for a while. Helen finally spoke up. She told me that she hadn’t spoken to William Russell, a priest at my old parish, since just after I went back to Ireland. He’d called to check up on her, and had mentioned to her that someone from Cilldargan had phoned the parish house while I was on retreat. Whoever it was – and I suspect Father Mac - he didn’t so much spill the beans as ask for advice on how to “push my buttons” so to speak. She put enough together to figure out that I was having a crisis of faith, but hadn’t even begun to guess the rest – even though she knew why I left Manchester in the first place.

So, I broke down and told her. Everything. I assured her that I’d kept my vows, but that I just couldn’t carry on as a priest any longer. Maybe it was a blessing that our mother was gone so she didn’t have to see me go through this. It would have broken her heart. As it was, Helen was silent for a long time. Finally, she spoke: “Peter, you know I love you. The last thing me – or Mum – would want is for you to be hurting.” She paused. “Religion may be the last thing you want to hear right now, but remember, when Christ walked on Earth, he loved unconditionally. He still does, as far as I know. You may think that you’ve let God down – or that perhaps He’s let you down - but maybe He has other plans for you. I’m not telling you what to do, Peter, but I ask you to give it some time.”

It’s too bad women can’t be priests. She’d make a damn good one.

I spent two more days mostly walking the streets – sober – and thinking that maybe it was time to go see Will. On the other hand, he might feel duty-bound to report to someone that he’s seen me. Will has been a very close friend ever since seminary. I want to trust him, but I just feel so betrayed by people, by events, that I don’t know what to do. At one point, I walked through a park just after it had rained. The smell of the rain and the flowers reminded me of the scent of Assumpta’s hair. I sat on a wet bench and cried.

I stopped in at a bar today. The type of spot Americans might call a watering hole - a small, dark, smoky room with a large bar and a few tables. It’s the first time I’d set foot in such a place in a while. I took a pint of lager back to a dark corner and just sat, staring as if the bubbles were going to do something interesting if I looked at them for long enough. A lady slid into the chair opposite and started to chat me up. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for that sort of thing. She asked me if I was gay, and I shook my head. Bad breakup, she asked. “You could say that,” I replied bitterly. “She’s dead.” I left the bar, her staring open-mouthed, my beer untouched.

I just walked in the drizzle for who knows how long, and found myself back at Helen’s just as Tommy was coming home from school. He put the kettle on while I went upstairs to change. My next stop was going to have to be the launderette, I realized as I pawed through my rucksack. Just as I was congratulating myself for thinking a normal, mundane thought for a change, a dog collar popped out and fell on to the floor. How did that get in there? I had deliberately left my suits behind. It must have been in there since I’d gone on retreat. I picked it up and sat on the edge of the bed, twirling it in my fingers.

Not so long ago, I knew that the priesthood was my calling. I willingly took the collar, a symbol of subjugation to a higher authority. So then, why did God put me smack down in Ballykissangel and right there with Assumpta Fitzgerald? Was it a test? If it was, then I have failed miserably. There was a knock at the door, and I jumped. Tommy informed me that a mug of tea was waiting and Helen would be home soon.

After much digging in the rucksack, I found some almost clean, not too rumpled trousers and a sweater. I found Tommy in the kitchen, deciphering the instructions on a box of frozen lasagna. His parents had this bright idea (his words) that he should cook one night a week, and tonight was it, seeing that Helen had stayed late at her part-time job today. He told me that he really wanted to do a stir-fry, but he wasn’t allowed to use the big knife without supervision. I offered to help. It was about time I started to do something in return for a roof over my head. I couldn’t take a stir-fry, though. Wasn’t in the mood for Chinese food, I told him. I don’t think that I could even look at Asian food for a long time. We ran down to the corner market and picked up a few odds and ends.

On the way back Tommy knocked the wind out of me by asking, “Is she beautiful, Uncle Peter?”

“Who?”

“Oh, one of dad’s squadron mates gets that same look you have on his face every time he breaks up with a girl.” Damn. I suppose he deserved some sort of explanation.

“Just before I came home to visit, I lost a parishioner. She ran the pub, and was well-liked by everyone. Her husband was in Dublin at the time, and he took it particularly hard.” I looked away for a moment to fight back a tear. “And yes, she was a beautiful lady.” We walked a few steps in silence. Tommy certainly is a perceptive young man. “How old are you now?"

“Almost twelve, Uncle Peter. You know that!”

“Going on forty-two, no doubt.” My explanation seemed to have satisfied him, as he changed the subject to the upcoming United match.

Helen arrived to find the kitchen a mess, and Tommy and me trying desperately to keep the spaghetti sauce from boiling over and the pasta from sticking together. I suspect Tommy would have been better off if I’d just supervised and left the cooking to him. I promised to do the washing up after dinner, much to his relief. That was one promise I thought I could keep.

Keep it I did, despite Helen’s protests. When we were growing up, I was hopeless in the kitchen. I’ve become better over the years; living alone will do that. Still, I carry no pretense of culinary greatness. There are still days when it’s all I can do to manage to keep toast from burning. After I got everything tidy, I asked for directions to the nearest launderette. She pulled back a curtain in the corner of the kitchen to reveal a small washer/dryer combo. If only all my other problems were that easy to work out. We spent the evening washing clothes and helping Tommy with his homework. He was learning how to solve a simple equation for y. I’d like to solve for why.

I’ve lost track of my days. I had no idea what day of the week it was until I saw a copy of the Guardian on the kitchen table. It’s Thursday. Maybe it was time to talk to Will.

St. Francis of Assisi hadn’t changed much since the days I served there. I supposed that Will would be hearing confessions about the time I arrived. The thought did cross my mind to just walk straight in and give confession, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And what if Father Laurence was hearing confessions today instead? I certainly couldn’t handle that. He makes Father Mac look like a progressive priest. To say the two of us don’t get along would be an understatement. Some people think that I left Manchester to get away from him, and that’s fine. He may have been part of the reason, but the business with Jenny was most of it. I put my hand on the door and felt it push towards me, so I pulled the handle and held it open for an elderly couple exiting the church. Then I decided I’d just wait for Will to come outside. The sun had come out, and so I sat on a bench, thinking.

Thinking can get you in trouble. I decided that maybe I wasn’t ready to talk to Will after all, and stood up to leave just as he walked through the door and into the sunshine. Perhaps he hadn’t seen me. I turned away and began to walk. “Peter?” he called. Too late: I’d been spotted. Maybe he’d think he’d had the wrong person if I ignored him. I kept going, looking straight ahead, but felt his hand on my shoulder after I’d taken about three steps. I spun around and stared. If I hadn’t been on a public street, I just might have taken that shot at him. I spoke his name, hesitated, and took off. He took after me, running, the hem of his cassock flapping around his ankles. I tripped on a broken flagstone and went right into the side of the church. Will just stood there. I stared back, and then I felt blood trickling down my arm. Funny, I hadn’t felt a thing when I hit the wall, but my shirt was torn and I’d managed what looked to be a nasty cut. Somehow, it didn’t really matter.

Will didn’t say a word, though he opened his mouth and then closed it again, apparently thinking that whatever he was going to say wouldn’t have gone over particularly well. He helped me up (mostly against my will) and walked me to the parish house. And there was Mrs. Becker, standing at the door with her arms folded across her chest. That woman must be 85 if she’s a day, but she’s strong as an ox. She helped me into the kitchen and went for the first aid kit. She looked at me disapprovingly, just as she always did, and then announced that she had to go to the market, and that tea was ready.

Will patched me up. It wasn’t much of a wound, but I’d bled like mad. I’ll probably have one hell of a bruise tomorrow. “How about something more medicinal,” he asked. I nodded. “Gift from a grateful parishioner,” he said as he pulled a bottle of Glenfiddich from the cabinet. He poured some of the liquid into a couple of glasses and led me into the sitting room. “You look like hell, Peter.”

“Thanks. I feel like it.”

“You want to talk about it,” he asked as he closed the door. “Sanctity of the confessional, clerical confidentiality, whatever you want to call it, it won’t go out of this room.” He sat down took a sip of his whisky. “Father Laurence is in London, at a conference. Gone for a week. Learning more ways to torture new priests, no doubt.” We sat for a moment, just staring at each other. “You did the right thing when you left, you know. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you.”

“You have no idea.” I walked over to the window and stared out.

“How’s your sister bearing up? You know if I hadn’t been a priest…”

“…her Air Force pilot would have beaten you to a pulp.” It was the same old banter. It just came out, but it stung. I just stared at Will. He had no right. He looked back, blankly, and then gave me his old smile. Maybe I’d better just ignore it…for now. I sat down and took a sip from my glass. “Helen’s remarkable: Taking care of the estate, holding down a part-time job – all with Mark off on duty again. I wish I had her strength.” I took another sip and closed my eyes. “I suppose you’ve heard.”

“They called from Cilldargan to say you were on a leave of absence and to put you up if you came through. And you’re supposed to call Father MacAnally and let him know you made it okay.” Either they were being amazingly circumspect, or Will was holding back. “I didn’t think you’d take her death this hard.”

“What do you expect?” I slammed the drink on the side table and stood up. He’d crossed the line there. “Just because I’m a priest I’m supposed to bottle everything up? When she died, I lost everything. Hope, faith…” I stared at him, seething, and received a slightly puzzled stare in return. Oh, God. He was talking about my mother. And Jenny before that, I realized. I slumped back in the chair, wishing I hadn’t jumped to conclusions.

“Peter, I am so sorry.”

“So am I.”

We talked for a while, mostly about what’s been happening in the parish since I left. Apparently Jenny didn’t brood for too long after she came back home. She’s seeing someone her own age, but Will thought it best if I steered clear of her. No problem. I turned down his invitation to stay for dinner – much to Mrs. Becker’s relief, I’m sure – and assured Will that I’d be in touch with what is still my home parish. If I call during Mass I’ll get Father Mac’s ansaphone. That is, if I call. He’s the last person I want to talk to right now. I suppose I’ll have to call, though. Otherwise, they’ll be on to Will agin.

I decided to walk rather than take the bus back, as it looked like the rain might hold off for a while. I thought I could make it in time for dinner, and I could use the chance to think some more. I suppose I was just a little more than halfway there when I heard the screech of brakes and the dull thud of metal against living flesh. When I looked for the source of the noise, I saw a boy - not much younger than Tommy, - sprawled out on the street. A mangled bicycle lay next to him. Thankfully, he had his helmet on, but his leg was cut and bleeding badly. Tearing off my shirt, I raced over and folded it up for a compress – the sleeve with my own blood on the inside – and began to apply pressure. Something else I’d learnt in Boy Scouts. Why didn’t I learn CPR? No time to dwell on that, as the boy had begun to gasp for breath.

A knot of people gathered around as I tried to calm the boy down and see to his wound. A policeman pushed through with his parents, and said that an ambulance was on the way. The child’s breathing started to get worse. The officer tried to get the crowd to move back and give us some room. I kept the pressure on his leg and tried to comfort him, and his parents knelt down beside his head and his mother stroked his face. I think he started to breathe a little better. It was difficult to tell. I’m sure the sight of his parents had something to do with that.

The ambulance arrived in short order, and the attendants took over, gave oxygen, and saw to the cut. Just listening to them talk, it didn’t sound too good, and the mother lost control and cried for a priest to give her boy Last Rites. No one else spoke up, so I reluctantly told her I was a priest, but I was on leave and not exactly prepared to give the sacrament. They could call ahead to the hospital, I offered. No, she wanted it now. Once again, a ritual for the comfort of the living. With the thought that it might calm her down, I began to do what I could without interfering with the paramedics. Just as I started to speak, it began to drizzle. I managed to finish before they loaded the boy on the ambulance. The police escorted the parents to a car and took off, sirens blaring, leaving me standing in my undershirt. I sat down on the side of the street and put my head in my hands as the rain began to beat down.

So, I suppose God is trying to tell me that I’ve been put here to help people. I can accept that. But I cannot accept that the only way I can do that is as a priest.

“Excuse me, Father?” A police officer put his gloved hand on my shoulder. “I just need to ask a few questions. Let’s get into the car. Would you like a blanket?” He didn’t wait for an answer; instead he wrapped it around my shoulders after I’d crawled into the back seat. “So you’re a priest, eh?” Detective material if I ever saw it, although I kept that sarcastic thought to myself.

“Well, I guess I am,” I replied. “I mean, I’m on leave to visit family,” I quickly added. “I wasn’t expecting to be pressed into service.” A shiver let loose through my body. I’m not at all sure that it was entirely due to the cold. He asked if I’d witnessed the accident. No, I said, but I’d heard it. Someone thrust a warm paper cup into my hand. It smelled like tea, and I just held on to it, letting the warmth escape to my hands.

The officer’s radio squawked and he excused himself to answer his call. “Well, Father,” he said, “that was a P.C. on duty at the hospital. The doctors said that if you hadn’t been here to give first aid, that boy might have bled to death.”

“Boy Scout training. Anyone could have done it.” I tried to force a smile. “Is he going to be okay?”

“They say he’ll live. He was very fortunate to have worn a helmet. He was concussed, but it could have been a lot worse.” He then took my name and contact information in case they needed to be in touch, and then offered me a ride, which I gratefully accepted.

I’d just begun to stop shivering when someone knocked at the window beside me. It was a priest, and a woman who I think had been a bystander. I rolled the window down and noticed that the rain had stopped. The streetlights were just coming on, their glow reflected in the fresh puddles.

“He’s not a real priest, look at him, Father,” she accused. Well, I didn’t feel like one, so I guess that made her right. The priest motioned her back and stuck his hand through the window. “Father Christopher Spencer.”

“Peter Clifford.” I shook his hand. He didn’t seem to notice that I left off the “Father” part. He probably took one look at me and figured I was a bit shell-shocked. I suppose I was.

“Didn’t you used to be at St. Francis of Assisi?”

“Uh, yes. I…I’m on kind of a leave right now.”

“I heard about your mother. I’m sorry.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Mrs. Hubble was upset because…”

“I understand.” Boy, did I. “By the way, it looks like the child is going to make it.”

“Then I’d better get the hospital and see his parents. You’re welcome at Mass anytime, Father Clifford.”

“Thanks.” As I rolled up the window, he began the task of calming down the hysterical Mrs. Hubble.

Helen and Tommy were waiting at the door, and she ready to give me another tongue-lashing from the look on her face. This was twice in as many weeks that I’d been escorted home by the police, and tonight I must looked like something the cat dragged in. Before she could say a word, the policeman told her the entire story. He opened the car door to leave, then walked back and shook my hand. “I’m not Catholic,” he said, “but I’d expect they’re proud to have a priest like you.” Yeah, right.

Helen had kept some of dinner for me, and she and Tommy sat at the table while I ate and told them about the accident between mouthfuls of food.

“Who was it?” Tommy asked. I had no idea. “Well, if it was someone at school, it’ll be all over the place tomorrow. Wait until I tell ‘em my uncle saved his life.” I shook my head and told him I was just passing by, and someone else could very well have done a better job. I would prefer that he kept it quiet. Not that he will.

After we got Tommy off to bed, I told Helen that I’d been down to see Will. And as far as he knows I’m on leave, trying to cope with my mother’s death. I was quite willing to leave him with that impression.

When I turned to this page in the journal, I found a sticky note in Brendan’s handwriting: “It’s better than a shrink, isn’t it Peter? And a lot cheaper, God knows.”

Yes, God knows.

I guess I cried myself to sleep last night. It seems like I cried for hours. Sleep was fitful, but I did dream of Assumpta again. We were in the kitchen at the pub, sitting opposite each other at the table. I held her hands. She leaned over and I touched my head to hers. I could smell her hair, and feel her breath on my hands. “Peter,” she told me, “its okay.” I looked into her eyes, and I swear, I could see straight into her soul. She seemed so peaceful.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.” With that, she got up, walked to the door, and smiled. “I’ve got to go,” she said, nodding towards the bar.

“Assumpta, don’t leave me.”

“I love you, Peter.” She turned and slipped through the doorway. I followed, but the pub was empty.

I woke up feeling more rested than I had in days. I guess last night’s dream had something to do with it, silly though it seems in the light of day. This morning I took off walking again, and found myself at a Catholic church. After much waffling, I finally slipped in the back and listened to Father Spencer finish Mass. It was the first time I’d set foot in a church since I’d christened Kieran. On one hand, I felt a sense of belonging. On the other, I watched Father Spencer go through the motions and say the words, and it all seemed so foreign. Helen’s right, as usual. I need to give myself some more time. Who knows? I may have some startling revelation, get hit on the head or something, and realize that the priesthood is where I should be. Or maybe I’ll just chuck it all and try out for Middlesbrough. Okay, that’s more than a bit far-fetched, but I’ll do my best to get out to a match soon – and take Tommy with me.

After school, Tommy and I walked down to the store on the corner. I purchased some candy for him, and a postcard and stamp for myself. We walked to the park, where Tommy caught up with some other boys for a game of football. He dragged me in to play with them. It felt good to kick the football around. I scored a goal, and the boys on my team ran up and slapped my hands. Finally, I smiled.

I begged exhaustion and sat down on a nearby bench, taking in the afternoon sun and the sound of children playing.

The postcard was a little creased from being in my back pocket, so I smoothed it out on my knee and began to write. It was one of those touristy postcards, with a picture of a man in a cloth cap and a very loud shirt giving the wink and placing a finger to his nose. The caption was fairly idiotic, and I forget what it said. I addressed the card to Brendan Kearney in Ballykissangel:

Dear Friends:

Just wanted to let you know I haven’t done anything stupid – other than to leave Ballykissangel. I hope to return one day – if you’ll have me.

Please forgive me.

Love,

Peter

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