Chapter 15 #2
"Hamish," Amy says, with the patience of a woman explaining to a golden retriever, "Wine is grape juice. It's just fermented."
I stare at her. My brain tries to reboot.
"Fermented," I repeat.
"Aged," she clarifies. "Like cheese. Or your knee."
An older woman in front of us turns her head, eyes narrowed, as if to say, This is not a Red Sox game.
"Just stay here," I tell Amy.
"I'm not going to combust if I stay in the pew," she whispers.
"But I will if ye leave and ask the priest fer grape juice," I mutter, and shuffle into the line.
As I approach the altar, the priest looks up and his eyes flicker with recognition, though I've never met the man before. Which is what I'm trying to make up for.
He glances down toward my knee, the soft elastic brace under my dress pants. Before I can stop him, he lifts a hand and makes a small sign of blessing, subtle and quick, directed at my leg.
I inhale sharply, startled. He murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, "For healing."
My throat tightens.
"I can feel it heal, Father. Prayin' for a meniscus miracle," I whisper back, ridiculous and sincere.
His lips twitch. Then he completes Communion just as he's done it a thousand times before. The wafer sticks to the roof of my mouth. I sip the sweet wine, Christ's blood, and I'm a wee bit more cleansed in my soul.
When I return to the pew, Amy is watching me with wide eyes.
"Did the priest just bless your knee?" she whispers.
"Aye."
"That is the most Catholic thing I've ever seen."
"Aye," I agree with a sigh.
We kneel again. We stand again. There is singing.
Then Amy's stomach growls, loudly.
It's not a delicate sound. She freezes, mortified, and I bite my lip.
"I should have gone up just for the bread," she mutters. "Carbs."
"Amy," I whisper sharply. "Do no' make fun o' transubstantiation."
"Of what?"
"Transubstantiation. It's no' a snack. It's a sacrament."
"I know what it is, but it is objectively just bread and wine. Or grape juice."
"It is the body and blood of Christ."
"It is not actually His blood or flesh. It is a wafer."
"It is Christ," I insist.
"Fine. It's a Christ wafer," she says, holding up her hands. Her stomach growls again. "I wouldn't mind a little Jesus in my tummy right now."
My soul leaves my body.
"Now yer just tormentin' me. Stop."
"I'm sorry. I'm trying. I really am. It's just... I thought my family's butter lamb was weird, but this takes the cake."
"The butter lamb is disturbing. Cloves fer eyes?"
"My mom is very proud of it. It haunts my childhood."
"Why is there a butter lamb? What do sheep have ta do wi' Christ dyin' fer our sins?"
"Why do you think you're drinking Jesus's grape juice blood and chewing on, like, a bit of His right thigh in grain form?"
The choir begins a hymn and I take a long breath, trying to let the music smooth the jagged edges of my tattered, lapsed soul.
"I'm not mocking your faith," Amy whispers. "I am making fun of how panicked you are. Not going to church doesn't make you a bad dad. I love you, and we'll find a way to make sure she gets whatever God guidance we let into our life."
My heart jumps. I try to be calm.
"It's easy. We make sure she goes through First Communion. We go ta Mass a few times a year. We put her in Catholic school."
Amy stares at me like I've just suggested we raise the baby inside a cage filled with scorpions.
"That's your easy plan?" she whispers.
"Aye."
"You just casually escalated from Christmas and Easter to full-blown Catholic school."
"It's efficient."
"It's preposterous."
Because the truth is, this is not about efficiency. This is about me wanting a system, a structure. A set of steps that mean I'm doing fatherhood correctly. And I don't know if there is such a thing.
Mass ends with the final blessing, and the crowd begins to shift and move, the whole cathedral turning into a cheerful stream of families. People smile. Someone says, "Blessings," like it's a casual hello. Then a man approaches with two kids. He looks apologetic and excited at the same time.
"Mr. McCormick. Sorry, I don't want to bother you, but my son is a huge fan."
I paste on a polite smile, because I'm in a church and God clearly wants me to sign some autographs. Maybe that's my penance.
I sign a program. Then another. A kid asks if my knee is better, and I say, "It's gettin' there," both a lie and a prayer.
Amy slips away while I'm signing. When the group disperses, I find her outside, down the steps, arms folded, face scrunched in confusion.
"There ye are," I say.
"We talked about religion a long time ago," she says. "You were so chill about it. Where did this all come from?"
"That was before ye were twenty-three weeks along," I say quietly, "and now I see all the ways I could fail a child, Amy."
Her face shifts. I keep going, because once it starts, it comes out fast and hard.
"I've been a striker almost ma whole life.
If I do ma job, I score goals. If I work hard, I get results.
I can measure it, control it. Then ma knee goes and suddenly I canna control ma own leg anymore.
Now there's a baby and I canna control any of it, and Mum is disappointed, so mebbe if I do the right rituals, the right steps, God will.
.. I dinna ken. Approve o' me. Make me feel like I'm doin' it right. "
Amy wraps her arms around me, pressing her cheek to my chest.
"This has nothing to do with religion," she says.
"Aye," I admit.
"It has to do with you being scared."
"Aye," I whisper, because that's the truth of it.
She kisses me, quick and sure.
"We're going to figure it out. But right now we need to go home so I can eat a Cadbury egg and pick up the herbed butter lamb my mom wanted us to bring."
"How did yer ancestors find a way ta make a lamb creepy?"
Amy nods solemnly. "I guess it has something to do with Jesus?" Her stomach gurgles. "I'll bet those communion wafers taste better with herbed butter on them."
I groan.
We kiss again, and the weight in my chest shifts. Then my phone buzzes.
A text from Mum: You went to Mass, Hamish, right? Both of you?
I take my phone and pull Amy close, positioning the screen just so, the enormous house of God behind us. The selfie makes us look respectable, though Amy's eyes are a bit too amused.
"Say Jeeeesus," Amy says as I click the picture, ignore her, and add it to my reply to Mum.
I type back: Aye. We did.
Amy peeks at my screen, then looks up at me, eyes bright with a mix of love and exhaustion and the kind of patience you only get from a woman willing to sit through transubstantiation when all she really wants is a doughnut.
"We'll talk about Catholic school later," she says.
"Aye," I say.
And as we walk down the cathedral steps into the gray Boston morning, I'm left with a question:
"Does the butter lamb transubstantiate?"
She punches my arm, and we laugh as we head home.