Chapter 14
Although it was a small church in the old part of town, its carved wooden door was as grand as the cathedral’s. Claire slipped into the still darkness where flickering candles reminded her of fireflies in the meadows of Vermont.
Incense burned the same aroma as it did in America, reminiscent of burning fall leaves.
Rows of red and green glass votive candleholders glowed at the feet of a statue of the Virgin.
Claire dropped a coin in a metal box and lit a candle in a green glass—David’s favorite color.
She knelt, made the sign of the cross. The flames flickered.
She whispered, “I pray Luca did not inherit your condition.”
Just to her right stood a confessional with dark red curtains covering the cubicle door openings.
Claire sat on a nearby wooden chair, remembering she felt just as cold in the Vermont church.
A brass bookstand and candleholders glittered on the altar, and, in an ornate vase, a bouquet of flowers seemed to be shivering.
White lights blinked on the two Christmas trees behind a nativity scene of life-sized statues.
She hugged herself and sighed a puff of steam.
She’d come in here to be honest with herself, certainly not to get warm.
Despite the kind nuns and all the friends she’d made, she was always lonely during the holidays—until she met David.
Now she’d lost him, her job, and possibly her home if David’s estate wasn’t settled when she returned.
Who was going to hire a fifty-year-old woman who was obsessed with a life-preserver swimsuit design?
The pain she’d stowed in her heart leaked out, leaving sticky guilt in its tracks.
She longed to understand why David hadn’t told her about his son.
In the deepest part of her heart, she knew he hid Luca to protect her, but that fact didn’t dull her sense of betrayal.
The pain mounted, and she knew she was to blame. Why had she not given him children? Having kids was his dream. But as the years passed, he spoke less and less about them. Until he ceased mentioning becoming a dad. Was that because he had become one, and she didn’t know about it?
An elderly priest poked his head out of the confessional and looked about. He spotted her, smiled, and hooked his finger at her, indicating he was ready to hear her confession. He pulled his head back behind the drape.
The lump in her throat grew larger. Being honest with herself required courage she didn’t have, but she needed to know her own truth.
She grabbed the chairback and, checking to ensure no one else was waiting for the priest, she picked up her box and strode to the confessional, pulled open the curtain, and slipped into the empty cubicle.
She knelt before the dark screen, behind which sat a tall male figure. She blessed herself and erupted. “Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been so many years since my last confession, I have no idea when it was, but these are my sins, I lied—”
“You do not speak French?” The man’s voice was gentle yet gravelly with age.
“I’m afraid not.”
“You are from America?”
“Is that another sin?”
He chuckled. “No. If you speak slowly, I will be able to follow you.”
“Okay.” She made the sign of the cross. “Bless me Father for—”
“You do not have to do all that again. You said you told a lie?”
“A big one.”
“To whom?”
The priests in America followed the Bless-me-Father formula; none asked for specifics. “I lied to my husband.”
“About?”
Claire gripped the edges of her coat sleeves. The truth poked at her like a sharp icicle. “I told him I wanted children. He really wanted them, and I told him I did too.”
“And you don’t?”
“I put my career first and was always traveling and too busy and then it was too late.”
“So, you lied to yourself, also?”
Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. Her protestations of: the time to have a child was never ideal rang in her head.
All that time—she lied—not only to David but also to herself.
“I guess so, although I don’t think I was aware of it at the time.
I’m not proud of it, but I guess I didn’t really want children, otherwise I would have made sure it happened. ”
“And you were afraid to tell your husband the truth?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her mouth dried.
“What did you fear?”
Sounds like crashing waves pounded in her ears. Why didn’t he just prescribe five Hail Marys and be done with it? “I—I was afraid if I told him…, he wouldn’t love me anymore.” She pressed her fingers against her lips, holding back a sob. Where had that come from? Was it true?
“Mmm. Do you really think he would have stopped loving you?”
“No.” Her rapid reply surprised her. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of the possibility, however unlikely. She couldn’t live without David’s love. Even now, the memory of his love kept her buoyed like a life jacket.
“Can you tell him the truth now?’
“No,” she cried. “He passed away.” Her sob escaped. “And he never knew.”
The priest made comforting humming sounds. “What do you think he might say if you could tell him now?’
“He’d be so disappointed in me.” She wiped her eyes.
“Why don’t you try imagining him? Remember how much he loved you and see if you can tell him.”
She stared at the screen, hoping the man behind it saw only her silhouette, like she could only see his.
She imagined David’s soft brown eyes, filled with love and caring.
She had thought he’d be angry, but he opened his arms and stretched them toward her.
“David?” she whispered. “I thought…I thought I wanted children, but I didn’t, and I didn’t know it then, but I know now that I didn’t, but it wasn’t because of the children, I was afraid, I think, because I didn’t want to be like my mother.
” She gulped a breath. “I didn’t know it then, and I’m so, so sorry.
” She closed her eyes, feeling him embrace her, enclosing her with his strong arms, his lips pressed to her forehead.
He released her, and his warmth left her like a retreating tide.
Her arms ached with longing. “I think he forgives me. I’m not sure.”
“I think he does, and I hope in time you will forgive yourself.”
“For lying, you mean?”
“Lying to someone when you know the truth is a lie. But if you are also lying to yourself as well as the other person, it’s not as big a lie. Do you know why you lied to yourself?”
“No. I must have been so convincing, even I believed myself.”
“It takes great courage to explore why one lies to herself. But now that you have admitted that you did lie, perhaps learning why won’t be too difficult.”
“I hope not.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face. “Thank you, Father. You’re probably going to have me pray a rosary for my penance.” She huffed a laugh.
“I think there is something that might help you more than a rosary.”
Not wanting her to do her penance? What kind of priest was this man? “In America, there is always penance. Is that not so in France?”
“Yes, but in this case, there is something I think would be more helpful to you. One of our nuns is from Canada. She misses speaking English. Sister Georgette would love to share a cup of tea and a conversation with an English-speaker. She also bakes cookies that are so delicious they are sold in the market. I’m sure she’d share some and enjoy a visit with you. ”
The last thing Claire wanted to do was talk with a nun who would remind her of all the years she spent at boarding school. “Of course, Father. I’d be happy to.” A stickiness rose in her throat. She hadn’t even finished her confession and was lying again already.
“When you leave by the great doors, turn to your left and ring the bellpull at the right of the blue door.”
“I’m sure I can find it.” She would turn right, pretend to be confused, and flee. Yet another lie, and she wasn’t even out of the confessional. She’d pray two Act of Contritions.
“I absolve you of your sins. I’ll give you a blessing in French if you don’t mind.”
“Merci, Father.” She bowed her head.
His blessing sounded like a soft carol. When he finished, he wished her a happy Christmas.
“Joyeux Noel, Father.” Her wish sounded like an apology for not visiting Sister Georgette.
Claire hurried down the side aisle but stopped before David’s candle. She knelt and watched the flame waver. Returning to his image in her mind, she asked him: Do you know why I lied to myself? His smile glowed with compassion and empathy and love.
Figuring out that part was going to hurt—she knew it.
She rose, blessed herself and headed to the door, just as a tall priest, buttoning his cape, arrived beside it. He smiled. “Are you looking for Sister Georgette?”
She recognized the priest’s voice. Was this man a mind reader? Did he know she planned to do the opposite of what he’d asked? She was a terrible person, lying to a priest. She swallowed her guilt and nodded.
“I’ll show you the way.” He touched her elbow and gently guided her out into the snow.