The Father of Her Son - By Kathleen Pickering Page 0,19
*
MICHAEL HAD CALLED twice but she hadn’t answered the phone. She couldn’t until she had the chance to put her plan into action. She’d had to wait until Saturday. Now, she passed through the front doors of the Church of the Little Flower. As she worked her way down the center aisle, she was struck by the cool air wafting through the shadowed vestibule, the smell of incense, beeswax and summer flowers that were bunched in bouquets along the altar. With one phone call to the rectory, Kelly learned that the pastor and the only other priest in the rectory listened to Confession on Saturday afternoons.
The only problem, Kelly thought as she watched the two confessionals with the little red lights glowing above the priests’ doors, was to discern which cubicle held her brother. If Kelly was going to pull off her plan, she at least needed the ear of the correct priest.
An elderly woman exited from behind the curtain of the closest confessional. Kelly approached her.
“Excuse me. I’d like to speak with Pastor Sullivan. Do you know where he is?”
The woman indicated the confessional from which she came. “He’s in there, my dear.” She patted Kelly’s arm and headed for the kneeling bench before a small altar in an alcove.
Kelly stared at the vacant cubicle adjacent to the closed door where her brother sat. She hadn’t seen Michael in eight years and had spoken to him maybe that many times throughout the years because he had been so involved in the seminary and the two other parishes where he’d been assigned. He had no idea Kelly was in his church. Her knees almost buckled as she stepped closer. Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, she pulled the curtain closed behind her, knelt and waited for her brother to open the small door to listen to her anonymously through the darkened screen.
She waited, her pulse pounding, until finally the door slid open.
“Good afternoon.”
She smiled at the sound of his gentle voice. She spoke quietly, imagining herself as a regular Brooklyn girl and hid her accent as best she could. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been several years since my last confession and I need your help.”
“Several years is a long time.”
“I know, Father, but I didn’t know how to handle my situation.” She worked to keep from falling into her lilt since her brother’s accent was so very predominant.
“How can I help you, lass?”
She hesitated. She’d never told anyone her secret. Now she was about to reveal it to her brother, a family member, the kiss of death—even if she was in disguise.
“You can feel free to speak. I will not judge you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I have a son out of wedlock. He just turned six and my family does not know he exists.”
Father Michael remained silent for a moment. “And this boy’s father?”
She shook her head, even though her brother could not see. “He does not know about the boy.”
“And why would you not tell him?”
The memory of that awful night flooded her. It was as if the dam of tears she held back for all these years poured from her at the sound of her brother’s concerned voice. “Because, Michael, the man raped me. I couldn’t get far enough away from him! I didn’t know I was pregnant until I was long gone.”
Oh, God, she used the hated R word and it cut into her heart like a razor blade. Blinded by her own tears, it was too late before she realized she’d returned to her native accent and her brother was charging from the confessional and reaching for her from behind the curtain.
“Kelly!”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. She laid her head against his chest and sobbed, the cool fabric of his vestments soothing her hot skin. Each hiccupping breath released the pain and horror she’d tamped down for all those years in order to continue putting one foot in front of the other.
“What are you doing coming to confession like that? Why didn’t you call me?”
Kelly couldn’t stop crying, so Michael led her from the side door of the church to the garden behind the rectory. They sat together on a bench beneath an ancient oak tree. Becoming reduced to a weeping fool was not part of her original plan.
With her brother’s strong arm around her shoulder, those huge blue eyes watching her as if she’d crumble any moment, she sucked in the Sullivan