the idea of you enjoying something I’d made for you. Dad didn’t care for sweets, and Papa was always avoiding carbs, but you would try anything, no matter how questionable.
Not all of them were hits. Like my homemade pretzels that came out flat as pancakes, biscotti so hard you could barely bite into it, chocolate soufflé that was grossly raw in the center. One time, already a couple of years into my baking career, I’d added salt to my cupcakes instead of sugar, and you ate the whole thing without even complaining. It wasn’t until I tried one myself that I realized my mistake.
“Why didn’t you say something?” I could barely stomach one bite. Like drinking seawater, it was disgusting.
“I didn’t want to offend you,” you protested with a smile.
I punched your arm lightly. “I’m not doing this to torture you, Henri.”
You laughed, and it lit up something inside me. Even more than my parents or friends, I loved to make you smile.
“I thought you might have resorted to poison,” you said.
I gave you a wounded look. “This is supposed to be a nice thing I’m doing for you. How will I get any better if you’re not honest with me?”
“I’m honest,” you said a little defensively, then seemed to realize I was only teasing. “You are certainly expanding my palate.” You ruffled my hair, and I leaned into it, forever craving your affection. “Perhaps you can try again next week using sugar instead?”
I smiled sheepishly and dumped the cupcakes into the trash can, then gave you a close look. “How many of those would you have eaten before telling me they tasted like ass?”
“All of them,” you said with a grin.
I actually believed you.
But there was one aspect of my Sundays you rarely joined, and that was in attending church. Religion was one of those subjects you avoided—like Mater and your work. You were so open and honest about most things, that your silence on those topics felt even weightier. I wanted to unravel you like a knot and inspect each strand individually. You were my favorite subject, and not knowing how you felt about certain things made me fixate on them even more.
Papa and I were at Saint Kevin’s one day when I asked him if you believed in God.
“I don’t propose to know the answer to that, Vincent. You’ll have to ask Henri yourself.”
“Is it because he knows there’s more than one god?”
“That’s quite an assumption.”
Maybe it was stupid to pray to a Christian God when we were gods ourselves. I wanted to be just like you, and if you thought Catholicism was dumb, then maybe it was.
“Doesn’t it bother you, though?” I said to Papa. “When you know most of what the priest is saying isn’t true?”
Papa sat back and patted the pew so that I’d sit next to him, rather than kneel in prayer as we’d been doing. Mass had finished already, but Papa liked to stay a little longer so that he could pray over everyone and their mother’s souls—he literally made a list. I didn’t mind it, though. Praying was similar to my nightly meditations, and I found it calming.
“Do you like coming here?” he asked.
I nodded. I’d always liked coming to church. Even when I didn’t agree with the sermon, I liked the performance element—the priest’s beautifully woven vestments and the way they held their crosses so reverently, the ceremony, and the smell of incense as it floated down the aisle. I liked receiving the Eucharist, the repetition of the prayers, and always knowing what to say back. When I was younger, I’d wanted to be an altar boy, but Dad wouldn’t allow it.
“I’ve always found comfort in the church,” Papa said. “When my life wasn’t going the way I wanted, I could come to this place and unburden myself.”
“To confess?” I asked.
“That was part of it, but I also appreciate the stability. Having this one thing, at least, that I can count on to see me through. There may come a time when you feel you’re making all the wrong choices. In those times especially, it’s important to remember that God’s love is unconditional.”
“But who is God, and why not pray to Mater instead?” She was someone who, at least in dreamscapes, I could hear and see and touch. And I knew that even inside her prison, she had magnificent powers.
Papa said, “God is everything you cannot put into words. The unexplainable, the miraculous. He’s the voice inside your head telling