22. The Strange Weight of Grief
22. The Strange Weight of Grief
~ brIDGET ~
It took several minutes, but eventually Sam walked towards the dining table where I sat and placed two mismatched mugs of coffee in front of me.
I slipped my fingers through the handle of the closest mug and wrapped both hands around it, sliding it towards me like I would hug it. I needed something to hold onto.
Sam frowned as he took his seat. “Oh… Do you take creamer or sugar?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “Usually, but honestly, I’ll drink it however it comes.” I wasn’t supposed to drink coffee at all, but right now I felt like I needed it.
“Let me see what we’ve got. I haven’t had a chance to look through things yet. Just a sec.”
The chair scraped as he pushed away from the table again, returning quickly with a little sugar bowl and a bottle of ready-made creamer from the fridge.
I made my mug creamy and sweeter than it needed to be, then took a sip and nodded. “It’s good, thank you.”
“No problem.”
Sam took a sip of his black coffee, and sat back in the chair. I could feel his eyes on me, but I was still feeling so weirdly fragile—like if I moved too fast, or the wrong way, a piece of me would break off. And I definitely didn’t want to start crying again.
But Sam had that same weird, comforting presence that Richard had, and he had hot coffee. I needed something to help me focus before I started driving.
So even though it was weird, I didn’t say anything, and I was surprised when he didn’t either. Usually when I sat down with a guy, he either got nervous at silence, or he let me carry the discussion and just gave me one word answers and listening noises.
But Sam just sat there, watching me without any apparent concern about the fact that neither of us was speaking.
He’d taken off the sweater and cross necklace he was wearing before and rolled up his sleeves. I hadn’t really paid attention before, but while I was sitting there, staring at nothing, my gaze fixed on his arms—he had nice arms, the strong, tendony kind that I fondly referred to as forearm porn—and tattoos.
I almost spat out the mouthful of coffee I’d just taken.
Instead I swallowed uncomfortably, coughing and spluttering while he jumped back up to get some paper towels and hurry back to me.
It wasn’t until I’d stopped coughing and stared at him, red-eyed, and croaked, “They let Priests have tattoos?” that he went a little still and his eyes went wary.
His mouth tightened as he leaned down to wipe up the little spray of coffee on the tabletop where I’d coughed a little too hard.
“I’m not a priest,” he muttered, then shrugged like he was trying to loosen the muscles in his neck. “If the tattoos bother you, I’ll cover them up. I just thought—” He put down his coffee and reached for the first sleeve to roll it down, and I almost choked on my coffee again.
“No, no! That’s not what I meant—I like them! I just… I’m just surprised. I thought the church frowned on that kind of thing. Don’t the old ladies think it’s the devil imprinted on your skin, or something?”
Sam hesitated, his eyes locked on mine like he wasn’t sure whether to trust me or not. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he stopped pushing the sleeve down.
“Some parts of the church do. The wrong parts, in my opinion,” he said quietly. “I try not to flash them around, but they’re a very real part of my past, so I’m also not ashamed of them. I just… I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. Like I said, this isn’t usually where I work.” He grimaced, gesturing back towards the chapel.
“Where did you get the tats? And where do you usually work?” I asked uncomfortably. I wanted to know, but he used words that seemed so alien to me.
“In prison,” he said sheepishly.
I waited, but he was taking another swallow from his coffee.
“The ink? Or the work?” I asked.
“Both,” he said a moment later, then his eyes cut up from the cup to me, like he was watching to see how I’d react.
“You went to prison?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
He frowned. “I was in for almost four years. I was supposed to have six, but they let me out early for good behavior. But it was enough. I didn’t want to go back—at least, not on that side of the bars. By then I’d already met Jesus and was starting to help the other inmates. So they took a chance on me, I guess.”
“The prison? Or the church?”
He huffed. “Both, again,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I had to find a job when I got out, and it’s funny how working is supposed to be part of demonstrating your rehabilitation, even though most businesses won’t hire a convicted felon. I was in touch with the pastor at the prison and told him how I was struggling, and he said the guys missed me and… yeah, it kind of went from there. Now I’ve been out and serving… four… almost five years?”
My brows rose. “You’re the Priest at the prison?” Then I looked down at his forearms and tipped my head. “I suppose that makes more sense, though.”
“I’m not a Priest.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “You were praying with old ladies. You wear a cross. And in the middle of the day on a Tuesday, you’re in church.” I pointed at him. “Priest.”
He arched one brow in a heavenly— no pun intended—boyish charm expression. Then he shook his head and counted his points off his fingers. “I don’t have to be celibate, just married for sex. I don’t wear collars, or swing incense. And no funny hats,” he said pointing towards his own head. “No one has to call me Father. I just talk to people. I’m a shepherd. A mentor. A coach… a spiritual advisor. The church calls me a Pastor.”
“Pastor, priest. What’s the difference?” I asked with a snort.
“You’d be surprised. A lot of being a priest is ritual—how you look, what you say, what you do. Most of my job is about the heart. How you feel, why you make the choices you do, why God cares… that kind of thing.”
I let him see on my face that it was a dubious distinction, but I wasn’t going to argue with a man of the cloth. “Well, you don’t look like a Priest, so maybe you’re right.”
“Oh? How should a Priest look? Like Richard?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. But trust me, that’s not a compliment. I think if more Priests looked like you, there’d be a lot more people ready to go say prayers on a Sunday,” I snorted.
He chuckled. “Well, then, I guess… bring your friends?”
I actually laughed at that. This dude was wild. And I needed something to distract me from everything else right now. “So, seriously though, you work out at the State Penitentiary? And they called you here?”
Sam gave a grim smile. “Yes—and yes. I guess they were in the middle of looking for a replacement for Richard to work here, and there’s not a lot of pastors with part-time schedules out this way. So they asked if I’d spend a few weeks here until they could appoint a new pastor.”
“Tell them to keep you on,” I said seriously.
His eyes went wide and he physically leaned away, waving his free hand in protest. “No. This isn’t the place for me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these people love Jesus and I’m happy to serve. But… just no. I’m not the right shepherd here. I’m just helping out. And trust me, no one was more surprised than me when they asked me to do it. I’m more used to gang bangers than quilters. Some of the old ladies were a little intimidated this morning,” he said with a self-deprecating twist on his lips. “I don’t want to be the reason someone doesn’t come to God.”
It was weird, seeing that expression on his lips and hearing that tone. I knew that feeling. And for me it had nothing to do with God. It was just straight judgment.
People took a look, or learned something, thought they knew what they were seeing, and acted accordingly.
And it sucked.
The ghosts of my past wanted to float up then, my brain conjuring images of the things that happened to and around me, and all the ways it made people afraid of me. I shivered and shook my head.
“Well, I don’t know about the God part, but I get that whole judgment thing. And I’m glad that’s not how you… work.”
“I’m hardly in a position to judge others—convicted felon, remember?”
I nodded and took another sip of coffee, staring at him over the rim of my mug.
He gave a flat little smile. “Just ask. I’m not scared to talk about it.”
“What were you convicted of?” I blurted.
“Assault and battery, sexual assault on a woman, and voyeurism.”
I blinked. Sounded like my kind of party. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“How long ago?”
“It happened a decade ago. I was convicted eight years ago, give or take.”
“And… now?”
One side of his mouth tipped up in a wry smile. “Now, I’m proud to say that not only have I not touched an unconsenting woman since I was sent to prison—present company excluded, sorry about that little slip earlier—but I think I can confidently say I’ve helped quite a few other predators turn their lives around, too.”
“And the church people still judged you?”
He shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve had t-shirts made. I don’t usually get the chance to lead with that. I still look like trouble, and the ladies of the bridge club know it.”
I shrugged, but deep down I was impressed. “Not all heroes wear capes. If it’s any consolation, the world doesn’t just judge the tough guys. I mean, look at me.”
Sam smiled. “So, you’re a hero just in your Clark Kent era?”
“No,” I said emphatically. “The opposite. I mean, you’ve got tattoos and… the rest of this,” I said lamely, flapping my hand at him. “But… I can relate.”
He tipped his head. “Can you?”
“More than you realize. My tats are just on the inside, that’s all. So my judgment arrives by stealth. I don’t have t-shirts either. So people have to spend time with me to realize they think I’m… wrong,” I said, reflecting his wry smile and oh well, shrug.
He didn’t take the bait to move on though. He took another sip from his coffee, but his eyes remained intent on me. “What are they judging you for?”
I stared at him, surprised that the urge was there to tell him the truth. That never happened. But I caught the words before they tripped off my tongue, though my heart started hammering because that had been close.
When I didn’t answer, Sam’s expression went serious, and he shook his head. “You don’t have to worry with me, Bridget. Trust me, it would have been better if I’d never gone the route I did. But I can’t change the past. All I can do is walk into a different future. And I’ve made it my purpose to help anyone else along the way who wants to.”
I almost choked on my coffee again. It was so close to some of the stuff that Gerald had been saying to me for years and…
God, all the cold and brittle things I’d been able to ignore for a few minutes sank their teeth back in. I put my coffee cup down, suddenly tense and needing to move.
I needed to get out of here and go home, but home felt so empty, and I just didn’t want to. Except, I had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t feeling sexy. Vigorí and my new friend Sid were going to have to wait.
But that just left me sitting in a priest’s cottage, deflated and strangely afraid of being alone.
I stared at my half-empty coffee mug and suddenly felt overwhelmed.
“Bridget?”
I blinked and looked up at Sam who was staring at me intently. “Can I help you? Somehow? It’s kinda my job now. And if it matters… I understand the judgment of others, but I don’t offer it. Promise.”
I shook my head. “Thank you. I just… my problems are different, that’s all.”
“So try me. That’s one thing about being a God guy, you’d be surprised by the stuff I hear. I bet I have stories that could curl your hair.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Ditto.”
He chuckled and went back to his coffee, but I saw the smile stick even when he was drinking. And even though he’d looked away, his eyes came back to mine even before he’d swallowed his coffee.
“I think you do need a t-shirt,” he said gruffly.
I folded my arms, but I was smiling. “What would it say?”
“Oh, nothing except Trouble.”
“We could start a club.”
He snorted. “I’m trying to help others out of trouble now, remember?”
I mock-pouted and glared at my coffee. “It’s so stupid that it has to be one or the other. There are some kinds of trouble that don’t hurt anyone. Why can’t we do that stuff without getting smited?”
“Oh, don’t worry—God won’t smite you for the stuff that doesn’t hurt you or others, Bridget. The problem is people… struggle to see the difference. I know I do. So if they see something that feels dangerous, they back away. And they’re wary of the person who made them scared. I wish life wasn’t that way, but I’m getting better at accepting things the way they are, rather than how I want them to be.”
And that reminded me of Richard—who used to say stuff like that to me in high school.
A memory drifted into my head—Richard sitting across from me in his Chaplain’s office looking concerned and trying to convince me that I was more than the things that had happened to me. No matter what other people thought.
And that made me teary again.
Damn.
“Bridget—”
“You just sounded like Richard for a minute there,” I said hoarsely, dashing the tears away. “That’s all.”
“Well,” Sam said, sitting back in his chair. “From everything I’m hearing, that’s a compliment. Thank you. Everyone who knew him said Richard was a good man and…” I could feel his eyes on me, but didn’t want to meet that penetrating gaze. “Bridget, if it’s any comfort to you, I’m confident that Richard is in heaven now. So don’t be sad for him. It’s sad to miss him from here. But he’s never going to feel darkness or pain again, and he’s always going to have joy. That’s a beautiful thing.”
I did look at him then. “Is that where you’re going when you die? Even though you did bad things?”
He nodded. “And I’m very grateful that’s the case. If you’d met me a decade ago—”
“So, what you did before just doesn’t matter to God anymore? He’s like, you’re being good now, so we’ll just forget about the rest?” I asked bitterly, the memory of that letter floating through my head. I knew I was lashing out at my father and Sam didn’t deserve that, but my skin was too tight and my heart was racing, and I was sad, and—
“No, Bridget. God isn’t like people. It’s not all or nothing. It’s not just good or bad. God accepts my darkness, but shines light on it. And… I don’t know how to explain it except… he uses it.”
I arched one brow at him. “God uses your darkness?”
Sam nodded slowly. “Don’t get me wrong, He’s not pushing me towards it—quite the opposite. But… just like this conversation. He uses my past to help me connect with people. That’s why I serve in a prison. Usually,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Because those guys know about what I used to be. And they can see what I am now. And I’m not perfect—not even close. But they can see the difference. God takes what used to be ugly in me and turns it into something useful. I don’t forget where I came from. Ever. But I’m free of it. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
He shrugged. “I struggle sometimes. You can’t live the way I lived for twenty-five years and just walk away without… carrying the marks of it.” He tipped his head towards his tattoos. “That’s what the old ladies feel when they get close to me. That’s what scares them. They can sense it on me. I wish it wasn’t true, but it is.”
“But that’s just baggage,” I said bitterly. “Doesn’t matter whether you’re different or not. Doesn’t matter if you wanted what happened. It only matters that it’s there. They’re judging you!”
“And sometimes I do things I’m not supposed to. We all have our issues, right?”
“Darkness.”
He nodded and leaned forward, folding his arms to rest on the table. “From God’s perspective, it’s like your shadow—everyone’s got one. It’s just that, the more light there is, the less you can see it.”
“But then, they’re judging you for things that they have too!”
“Yep. But my shadow’s easier to see than theirs. So sometimes they forget because theirs doesn’t show up as much. That’s all.”
“You’re being very nice to the bridge club bigots.”
He shrugged. “I’m glad that God sees all the ways I’m dark and doesn’t reject me. He doesn’t get fooled by whether my shadow’s showing more or less. He just cares and helps me, regardless. It’s the people who point and judge. But if I reject them for that, I’m no different than they are. Just choosing a different darkness to care about. I get things wrong. So do they. If we reject everyone who ever does the wrong thing, we’d never stay in a relationship with anyone.”
I went very still, staring at him, because it was a weird way to see the world and God and this whole issue. It appealed to me for my own flaws… but for monsters like my dad? They should never get a pass, no matter what.
Something in my chest kept pushing forward, wanting to talk to Sam about my past and see what he thought of that—would his eyes go wide, then shutter closed? Or would he shrug it off and not care?
Or something else?
I licked my lips and his eyes dropped again, but he yanked them manfully back up to meet mine with an intensity that made my breath shorter.
Then it struck me that I was sitting next to a fucking Priest and my heart was thrilling when he looked at my lips and… dear God, what was wrong with me?
But before I could make an excuse to leave, there was a sudden crash of tinny music and Sam muttered something and pulled his phone out of his pocket, answering it before he put it to his ear.
“Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?”
Sam listened for a second, then blinked, muttered an apology to me and got up from the table, wandering into the kitchen and asking a couple quick questions before saying, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I had a memorial today and… it just might take an hour. Just… hold on.” Then he hung up the phone with a frown and turned towards me, rubbing his face.
“I’m really sorry, Bridget. But I have to—”
“I have to get home anyway, don’t worry about it,” I said quickly, pushing out of my seat, wishing I could slap myself for the way I’d been sitting there gawking at him like he was dessert. He was a fucking Man of God.
That thought didn’t help me want to corrupt him less.
I really was broken inside.
Ugh.
“Thank you for the coffee and the talk,” I said without really meeting his penetrating gaze as I got into the kitchen where he was standing.
But to my surprise, he put himself in front of me, blocking my passage when I was about to step past him.
“I want to finish this conversation another time, if you’re willing?” he asked quietly, watching me intently. “I think Richard would want me to try, at least?”
I wasn’t used to someone who held bald eye-contact like that. Except Gerald. But I was pretty sure piercing gazes were a psychiatrist’s bread and butter.
Maybe that was a thing for priests too.
Pastors. Whatever.
He didn’t wait for me to respond, but pulled open a drawer and pulled out a little notepad and pen, scrawling something on it, then ripping it off and holding it out to me. “My number,” he said. “I think I’m going to be here a few weeks, but I don't know. Even when I’m at the Prison, I’m within driving distance though. How about we have coffee next week—we can talk about Richard. Or… whatever you need.”
I folded my arms. “Father Sam… are you asking me out?”
“I am not your father.” He raised an eyebrow like a warning, but his lips slipped up on one side. “And no.” Then he waved the paper a little bit, urging me to take it. I didn’t break eye-contact, but when I took the little piece of paper from his fingers, his smile got wider. He stepped back to give me space, opening an arm towards the door. I took the cue and walked past him to the door, opening it.
“Not yet,” he added quietly as I stepped over the threshold .
My breath caught and I hesitated, midstep. But I didn’t turn around. Didn’t let him know I’d heard him. And as I got moving again and trotted across the carpark to my car, I caught myself smiling a little bit.