Chapter Text
It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, since last you were here. A really long time. At least twenty years, you think. Twenty, and it looks much the same as you remember. As before.
The same crooked pew in the middle row, the same creaks in the floorboards near the altar. The very same scratches at the door behind the podium that you fixated on every Sunday morning, counting over and over again, drawing lines with your eyes to make a map of tiny stars. You’d used to wonder what made those scratches and your mother told you: it’s just old -- dents and marks from altar boys being clumsy with candles. Roger Davis once told you demons made those scratches.
Your mother didn’t like that.
You feel the tug of a smile. She’d be happy to see you back here. Back at St. Patrick’s.
Unusual, you think, looking around at the empty chamber. The lights are down, only sun pouring in from the windows. You’d expect to see Sturge tending to something or other, but the church feels vacant, no sign or feeling of anyone having been inside at all today -- aside from a familiar, nostalgic scent hanging in the atmosphere.
Probably just the memories.
The clack of your heels echo down the aisle until they hit the carpet of the platform holding the altar, and by instinct, you kneel, eyes up at the hanging crucifix as you, again, by instinct, make the Sign of the Cross.
The confessional box isn’t much of a box at all. That disappointed you a great deal when you were so young. It’s just a small booth, right next to the nursery, soundproof with two doors on either side. One for the penitent and one for the Monsignor.
You enter on the left. Why the left, you remember asking your mother.
Because the Monsignor is the Right Hand of God.
It’s much tighter inside than you remember. Uncomfortably compact in such a way you think it might be done on purpose, so that people might feel more inclined to say their peace and get out of there, but it’s very possible that Crockett just never had the budget for a bigger one. Never mind a bigger church itself.
You peek through the lattice opening in the partition and see no one on the other side, but there’s that faint scent again. Woodsy and smoky and a lot like pine. It relaxes you, reminding you of how gentle the Monsignor always had been, of how delicately he spoke to you. You shift to settle on your knees and breathe in, and out. Closing your eyes.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, or if you’re even there,” you say. You fold your hands beneath your chin. “I heard you're coming back from your trip, but...I saw Bev Keane pacing around the rec center like something’s wrong, so...I don’t know.”
You wet your mouth, grimacing a bit. “I don’t even know if I want you to be the one to listen to me, honestly. I feel like you’re not really processing what anyone says anymore. But no one’s really listening to you, either, are they?”
You open your eyes to stare at your hands, at a little spot on the bench between your knees. A little tear in the fabric there. You fumble your way through a small laugh.
“Sorry, that was a little mean. I didn’t mean for it to sound...well, I'm sure you know, at least. It’s just -- I just know that you’re getting sicker and no one’s taking care of you the way they should, but...anyway, I’m not here to do that, to talk about…”
You hesitate, suddenly, just realizing. You smile, in spite of yourself. “Sorry. It’s just -- I guess it's just been a while since I’ve talked this much out loud. All my friends live on the mainland and I’ve been living on my own. I don’t really go out much. I know I don’t have to explain myself like that to you -- you probably haven’t really noticed how much Dad and I don’t come to church. I guess I felt like there wasn’t a point to it, for a really long time. When Mom left, I -- I didn’t know what to think. They didn’t tell me for so long why they divorced. I thought if -- if God really talked to me, He’d tell me why she left, right? He’d tell me why Dad cheated. He’d tell me that the accident was the real reason why she never called me. I think it was just easier, you know? To blame someone I never knew.”
You pause. You feel your eyes stinging, begging to cry, but your hands don’t shake. You notice your shoulders don’t tense. The small space should feel threatening, but it doesn’t.
“I don’t know if you remember my first confession,” you go on, off-handedly. “I was so little, then. Maybe eight or nine. I think I told you I lied to Mrs. Greene about kissing her daughter on the playground. I lied because I didn’t want Erin to get in trouble, but she did anyway. She was going to whether I told the truth or not. And I knew that, even back then I knew that. And I was confessing that to you because I wasn’t sorry about the lie. A venial sin, or whatever you call it. The minor ones that just get forgiven in passing, or something. I wasn’t sorry about that. I was sorry that I kissed her. I thought I was going to Hell for it and I was scared, but not because I would go, but because I thought Erin would have to -- because of me.”
The small space should feel threatening -- like it’s closing in on you. But it doesn’t.
“And do you remember what you told me, Father?” You ask him, even though you’re unsure that he’s there. “I don’t, not verbatim, but I know you calmed me down so fast. I was crying right here, in this same box, kneeling on the same bench. I started picking at the seams in the cushion. You smiled at me through the little holes in the window here and told me something like, ‘you will never go to Hell for loving someone, or showing someone that you love them.’ And it made me cry even harder. It just moved me so much. I never forgot that."
You breathe out a shaky laugh.
"Wow, that was a long-winded way of telling you I trust you, huh.” You wipe at tears that haven’t come. “I'm so sorry I -- I didn't mean to get so off track. I mean, I -- I guess I just wanted to explain myself before I tell you -- I feel like you're the only one who's gonna believe me, like. You're the only one I can talk to.”
Your eyes burn, and yet, no tears.
“I don't really have anyone else right now, not here. Not on Crockett. And I know I could talk to God but He's not much for conversation, huh."
Another shaky laugh.
But it’s not yours.
Your eyes snap up, peering wide through the lattice window. "Father? Monsignor Pruitt?"
(It’s not the Monsignor either.)
Dark, round eyes are staring back at you.
Through each of the tiny openings, you can piece together the face of a stranger, of a man you’ve never seen before -- with waves of thick, dark hair and a saturnine brow. Obscured through the lattice pattern, his image is not quite complete, but his eyes.
You can make out his eyes most clearly. A deep, depthless brown, broody and yet, kind -- a softness in them you’re sure you would only see in a priest. In a man who’s seen too much, but despite that, maintains a certain gentility. A certain warmth. He smiles and you feel it.
A warmth.
Your throat feels dry, suddenly. "O-Oh, I'm sorry, I…"
"Forgive me, I should have made my presence known earlier, but I loathed to interrupt you,” he apologizes, sheepishly. A warmth even in his voice.
"No, it's okay, um…"
"Father Paul Hill, I'm pleased to meet you, Miss…?"
You tell him your name and he smiles, gently, repeating it softly. Slowly, almost as if it were something Holy. You’ve never heard anyone speak in such a way, not to you.
"Welcome back, then. You've been greatly missed here in the congregation."
"Oh, I can't imagine that very much,” you shake your head, awkward. “My family was never very...um. Devout."
"The Shepherd will rejoice to carry home a lamb thought to be lost,” he tells you, so strangely but so sincerely that you’re more surprised you haven’t laughed at the absurdity of such a sentence, but rather had to fight to keep from sighing wistfully at how tender it sounded, coming from him.
"R-Right, um,” you mutter, burning in your cheeks, in your neck. That’s twice he’s caught you off-guard and you’ve barely been speaking with him for thirty seconds -- God knows how long he must have been listening. Oh, shit, you realize -- he was listening.
You cough, feeling the breath catch in your throat as you fumble around for your cardigan. “I'm sorry, um -- y’know, I've been in here so long, other people must be waiting to -- "
"There hasn't been anyone else in the church for hours. Just you and me."
(Just you and me.)
The very tightly compact little booth seems much too small, actually.
"O-Oh,” is all you can manage, in a voice well above an octave higher than natural.
"You needn't continue if you feel uncomfortable,” he assures you. “I’m not the one you expected to be talking to, yet still I lingered here, knowing that. It was wrong of me.”
“N-N-No,” you stammer, in that moment more terrified that you’d somehow hurt this obscenely sweet man’s feelings than mortified that he’d heard one of your more embarrassing and delicately personal childhood stories. “You were probably expecting a regular parishioner, it’s not your fault, I’m just a -- just…”
“Jesus did not belittle those who’ve strayed from his flock,” he says, softly, comforting. “When he brought that wandering sheep back home, he -- you know, he was prouder of having one who returned than ninety-nine who never left.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You’ve never heard that story. You know it’s a parable but you don’t think you’ve ever read that one. Your family never read you many stories, and if they did, it was a time you have no memory of anymore. Gone, with your mother. You think she would have told you that one if she could have. She would have liked that one.
You feel your hand lifting up to wipe at your eyes. Oh, the tears are there now. You hadn’t realized. You blink and several of them drip down your cheeks, heavy, leaving little splotches on the bench under you. You must have been whimpering because Father Paul is trying to comfort you from the other side of the partition, whispering precious little words of thanks and praise.
“Shh, shh, you’re safe, you’re in God’s house,” he coos, nodding his head as you sniffle. “You’re safe with me. You’re with me.”
There’s a feeling stirring up low in the pit of your gut that you’re very-quite sure you shouldn’t be feeling as those words fall from his mouth, from between his lips. You choke out a little sob before clearing your throat, sniffling and wrapping your cardigan tightly around yourself as you realize you’ve almost completely forgotten to confess what you came to confess.
“I won’t press you to go on,” he says, as if he can somehow feel your apprehension. “I know how you must be feeling right now, and I’ve already overstepped, but…”
You shake your head, cutting him off. “N-No, no, it’s okay, I just -- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so emotional -- ”
“There’s no need,” he says clearly, soothing. “No need for that. Don’t apologize. Emotions are a gift. That you’re able to feel them so deeply, so openly -- is a blessing. Don’t be ashamed of that.”
You sniffle, just once more before feeling like you can grin again. “Thank you, Father.”
“Of course.”
Heaving a sigh, you shift around, knees cracking from having spent so long in one position. The confessional no longer feels like an entrapment, but you still fidget with your fingers. Still a little nervous, if only for the fear of sounding silly, at the least, or like a complete lunatic, at the worst.
“Um, I must have built this up to be something huge and personal, but it’s nothing like that,” you start to explain. “I mean, I know I’ve done some not-great things in my life, like lying, stealing from the shopping center, but this -- this isn’t like that, this isn’t something that’s like…”
“A confession can be anything,” Father Paul says. “It doesn’t have to be a sin or a wrong-doing of any sort. Something you said, or did. It doesn’t even have to have anything to do with you directly, it can be just that. A confession. Something you don’t feel that you can share with anyone but God.”
“And God won’t think I’m insane?” you say, hoping he gets the joke, but if he laughed earlier, then --
“Not at all, nope,” he says, surely enough, through a breath of a laugh. You smile, biting at your lip from making it too wide.
“Then -- I just -- well, it’s just…” You frown, thinking about it now, again. Only It. All other thoughts vanish as you remember. “I just saw something, the other night, and…”
Father Paul falls quiet. You notice he’s leaning in closer to the lattice -- you no longer need to worry if he’s going to judge you. He’s giving you his undivided attention. He’s listening.
“I just saw something,” you say, quivering just a little. “I was walking my dogs and it started raining, so we had to hurry back up the trail -- I live by the Uppards, so -- we’re a little ways away from everyone else. Anyway. I was jogging, and my dogs were trying to keep up. And I turned around to pick them up, because it started to thunder, and I -- ”
You freeze, just for a moment, a tightness in your muscles as you think about how it felt to turn around and see what you saw. You lose focus on his face through all the tiny holes in the lattice window, fixating on what seems like a beauty mark, right by his left eye, barely there. Maybe not even a beauty mark at all. A freckle, maybe. You blink slowly, afraid to think of It again.
The Father remains quiet, patiently listening. He doesn’t even seem to notice you’re staring at him. You wonder if he’s staring back at you and then your vision focuses on his eyes again.
You blink and feel the sting of tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I picked up the dogs because I saw lightning strike, and when it did, I -- I saw It.”
“What did you see,” he mutters, patiently, but with an intrigue. Not a curiosity but -- an expectancy.
You swallow thickly, lip quivering into a helpless smile. “That’s the thing, Father -- I don’t know what It was. I only saw it for a second. The lightning flashed and the thunder clapped and I swore I -- ” -- you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking off the urge to cry again. “I saw something. Somebody. Really tall. With glowing, bright eyes. I heard something like a scream, but maybe it was just the storm. I don’t know. I don’t know. I only saw it for a second. I grabbed the dogs and I ran. I ran back into the house and locked the door. Shut all the windows. I didn’t look outside again for two days. I’ve been sleeping with the lights on.”
There’s some non-committal noise of approval from your opposite side as you hear the creaking of the chair he must be sat in. You count a few steady, even breaths, both from yourself and from him, before speaking again.
“But yeah. That’s it. I’m sorry it’s not super exciting. Like a vision or something,” you say, lightly. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”
“I’m so sorry that It scared you,” he says, with an air of sympathy, consoling you.
“I’m sorry,” you say again, feeling sillier with each passing second. “I don’t even know why I felt like I needed to tell the Monsignor -- to tell you. I guess I just needed...I don’t know, just -- ”
“Needed someone to tell you that you aren’t crazy,” he finishes for you. He’s smiling. A smile so warm it’s nearly candescent. He beams at you.
“Yeah,” you agree, exhaling in a sigh you hope to the high heavens doesn’t sound as dreamy as you fear it might. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for the month, you think. “Yeah.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to hear that you’re not crazy,” he starts off. “In fact, it has nothing to do with that. I think you’re blessed.”
Brows winding together, you narrow your eyes. “Blessed?”
“Yes, blessed,” he affirms. “Blessed to have borne witness to something most other people would ignore, or shrug off as a bad dream or hallucinations. Blessed, indeed -- but that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?”
Air catching in your lungs, you blink rapidly, tilting your head. “I -- w-what do you mean?”
“You said you didn’t know why you felt like you had to tell the Monsignor -- to tell me -- that you saw something like this; I don’t think that’s true.”
You tighten your mouth into a line, trying to meet his eyes through the dozens of holes. “I...I mean…”
“I believe you,” he amends himself, “when you tell me that you needed validation, I do believe that. But I think there’s more to it, more that...perhaps you just haven’t realized, yet.”
Befuddled, you feel a fog leaking into your brain -- “Father, I don’t -- ”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says softly, assuring you. “It’s okay. I can only imagine the fear that must have filled you upon encountering the unknown. You’re so brave to tell me about it. I appreciate that. I cherish that. Your willingness to make yourself vulnerable to me, a man you’ve only just met. What incredible faith you have.”
You bite back a blush, turning your head to hide your shift in expression. Maybe faith isn’t exactly the right word, but if he wants to call it that, he’s welcome to. You’re certainly not going to tell him otherwise, let alone let yourself believe it’s anything but.
“You haven’t confessed anything that would earn a penance, but,” he goes on, warmly. Smoothly. You can hear the smile in his voice. “I’d like you to do something for me. If you don't mind, of course.”
“Anything,” you blurt out just barely as he finishes, and give a little cough. “Father.”
He hums a deep, short laugh behind his closed, amused smile, and you both pretend for the other not to notice.
“I want you to come to Mass on Sunday.”
You lift your brows. "Come to Mass?"
"Yes, on Sunday," he says, "this coming Sunday and the next, if you'd like. Or, actually, every Sunday up until Easter, how does that sound? Would you do that for me?"
You can't fight the smile that cracks across your face. He catches it, looking away as though he's just seen something he wasn't supposed to, but even so -- he smiles, too.
"For God?" he amends himself. "Would you?"
You nod, just a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah. I think I would like that."
There's another small noise that he hides behind a cough. "Good. Ahem. Good, I'll -- we'll see you on Sunday, then. God be with you."
"Thank you, Father," you say, making the Sign of the Cross one more time before gathering your keys and handbag and making a swift motion toward the double doors.
God be with you, indeed.