to keep him from
climbing over top of her. “No, I’ll go.”
Standing now, he leaned down to her, his tone
gentle yet adamant. “You can’t. You don’t believe what we believe.”
An elderly lady at the end of the pew pressed
towards them, hobbling as she gripped the back of the pew in front of them for
support. With no time to discuss, Rebecca relented and twisted her knees to the
side, letting Chris and the woman pass, surprised to feel tears stinging her
eyes.
She slid forward onto the kneeler not because she
wanted to pray, but because there she could better hide her unshed tears behind
her hands. She listened as the singing began again, catching an occasional waft
of perfume as people passed by her on their way back to their seats. She
shouldn’t have come. The entire experience made her uncomfortable despite
Chris’s efforts to set her at ease. His command to stay in the pew only
confirmed she did not belong here.
I’m sorry, Lord. This was a
mistake. One tear crept from her left eye, and she wiped it away when suddenly a sense
of peace washed over her, like a gentle wave receding into the ocean. She
heard, not with her ears, but with her heart: Home.
She didn’t know what to make of it, and in another
second, Chris returned and knelt beside her. She didn’t raise her head, but he
lifted a piece of her hair that had come loose from her braid and tucked it
behind her ear. She shivered as his breath caressed her neck. “I’m sorry. I’ll
explain after Mass.”
She gave the slightest nod so he would know she had
heard him, not really interested in talking about it later. Home. That was
where she wanted to go. Maybe that was what the voice—God?—meant.
The whole weekend had been a mess. Not a bad mess,
but the kind of mess that left her out of sorts—scared one second, thrilled the
next. Chris’s presence amplified every feeling, and all the emotion had worn
her out.
They stood a final time, and Father John dismissed
them.
Chris ushered her out of the pew, guiding her with
his hand to the small of her back as they made their way to the back of the
church. As they passed through the double doors, she saw Father John greeting
everyone personally. Surely Chris would want to introduce her to him. She
needed to tell Chris now how she and Father John were acquainted if she wanted
to spare him any awkwardness. She had about five seconds before they would be
face to face.
“Chris, do you remember after Alan and Jamie’s
wedding, when you asked about my first kiss?”
His brow knit together and his eyes narrowed as he
struggled to understand why she would bring that up at this moment. “Yeah. You
said I was eight years too late.”
“Yes. Well, my first kiss . . .” She inhaled deeply
and let the rest out in a rush. “I kissed Father John.”
8
Dreams of Our Fathers
The torrential rain required Chris’s full
concentration on the road, forestalling any conversation on the ride from the
church to Rebecca’s apartment.
The drum of rain on the rooftop created a
relentless rhythm. Rebecca’s thoughts drifted back to the church as she
struggled to see through rain splattering and rolling down the windshield. The
scene after Mass turned out not to be a scene at all. She had caught Chris off
guard, but being a good-natured guy, she didn’t detect even a trace of
discomfort in his introduction.
Father John had taken her hand and begun shaking
it, saying how pleased he was to meet her when his arm stilled with
recognition.
“Rebecca Rhodes? It can’t be.”
“It is. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” he said before he released her hand.
“Chris didn’t mention your last name.”
“He didn’t mention yours to me either. I didn’t
realize until I saw you up front.”
“Your first Catholic Mass?”
She nodded. It may have been her last, too.
That’s when he caught sight of Chris’s bruised
face. “What happened to you?”
Chris bit the right side of
climbing over top of her. “No, I’ll go.”
Standing now, he leaned down to her, his tone
gentle yet adamant. “You can’t. You don’t believe what we believe.”
An elderly lady at the end of the pew pressed
towards them, hobbling as she gripped the back of the pew in front of them for
support. With no time to discuss, Rebecca relented and twisted her knees to the
side, letting Chris and the woman pass, surprised to feel tears stinging her
eyes.
She slid forward onto the kneeler not because she
wanted to pray, but because there she could better hide her unshed tears behind
her hands. She listened as the singing began again, catching an occasional waft
of perfume as people passed by her on their way back to their seats. She
shouldn’t have come. The entire experience made her uncomfortable despite
Chris’s efforts to set her at ease. His command to stay in the pew only
confirmed she did not belong here.
I’m sorry, Lord. This was a
mistake. One tear crept from her left eye, and she wiped it away when suddenly a sense
of peace washed over her, like a gentle wave receding into the ocean. She
heard, not with her ears, but with her heart: Home.
She didn’t know what to make of it, and in another
second, Chris returned and knelt beside her. She didn’t raise her head, but he
lifted a piece of her hair that had come loose from her braid and tucked it
behind her ear. She shivered as his breath caressed her neck. “I’m sorry. I’ll
explain after Mass.”
She gave the slightest nod so he would know she had
heard him, not really interested in talking about it later. Home. That was
where she wanted to go. Maybe that was what the voice—God?—meant.
The whole weekend had been a mess. Not a bad mess,
but the kind of mess that left her out of sorts—scared one second, thrilled the
next. Chris’s presence amplified every feeling, and all the emotion had worn
her out.
They stood a final time, and Father John dismissed
them.
Chris ushered her out of the pew, guiding her with
his hand to the small of her back as they made their way to the back of the
church. As they passed through the double doors, she saw Father John greeting
everyone personally. Surely Chris would want to introduce her to him. She
needed to tell Chris now how she and Father John were acquainted if she wanted
to spare him any awkwardness. She had about five seconds before they would be
face to face.
“Chris, do you remember after Alan and Jamie’s
wedding, when you asked about my first kiss?”
His brow knit together and his eyes narrowed as he
struggled to understand why she would bring that up at this moment. “Yeah. You
said I was eight years too late.”
“Yes. Well, my first kiss . . .” She inhaled deeply
and let the rest out in a rush. “I kissed Father John.”
8
Dreams of Our Fathers
The torrential rain required Chris’s full
concentration on the road, forestalling any conversation on the ride from the
church to Rebecca’s apartment.
The drum of rain on the rooftop created a
relentless rhythm. Rebecca’s thoughts drifted back to the church as she
struggled to see through rain splattering and rolling down the windshield. The
scene after Mass turned out not to be a scene at all. She had caught Chris off
guard, but being a good-natured guy, she didn’t detect even a trace of
discomfort in his introduction.
Father John had taken her hand and begun shaking
it, saying how pleased he was to meet her when his arm stilled with
recognition.
“Rebecca Rhodes? It can’t be.”
“It is. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” he said before he released her hand.
“Chris didn’t mention your last name.”
“He didn’t mention yours to me either. I didn’t
realize until I saw you up front.”
“Your first Catholic Mass?”
She nodded. It may have been her last, too.
That’s when he caught sight of Chris’s bruised
face. “What happened to you?”
Chris bit the right side of
Similar Books
