in the town where I grew up. It was run by Franciscans. They were terrific to me.” It still made him smile warmly to think about it.
“My mother left me here when I was ten,” Gabriella said quietly, looking out over her garden. But he already knew that.
“That's unusual.” But he already knew from what she'd said in the confessional that there had been nothing ordinary about her mother. He distinctly remembered her mention of the beatings, and wondered if her being left here had actually been a blessing. “Was it a financial problem that made her leave you?”
“No,” Gabriella said quietly. “She remarried, and I guess I didn't fit into the picture. My father had deserted us the year before, and run away with another woman. For some reason, my mother always used to blame her troubles on me, and she always felt it was my fault.” She spoke very softly, as he watched her with silent compassion.
“Did you? Feel it was your fault, I mean?” He liked talking to her, and wanted to better understand why she had stayed here. He thought it was important to understand the people he tried to help, and worked with.
“I suppose I did. She always blamed everything on me, even as a child… and I always believed her… I figured that if she'd been wrong, my father would have interceded on my behalf, and since he never did, I just accepted the guilt for whatever it was they blamed on me. After all, they were my parents.”
“Sounds pretty painful,” he said gently, and she looked up at him then and smiled. It had been, but it seemed less so now, after more than ten years of peace and safety.
“It was. But being orphaned at fourteen can't have been easy either. Did they die in an accident?” she asked. They spoke like two friends, and it was so easy and open that neither of them were aware of time passing. It was so pleasant talking to him and she felt entirely comfortable with him, which was rare for Gabriella.
“No,” he explained. “My father died of a heart attack, very suddenly, he was only forty-two, and my mother committed suicide three days later. I wasn't old enough to understand everything that was happening, but I think she must have been overwhelmed with shock and grief. A little grief counseling might have worked wonders. That's why those things are so important to me. They make so much difference.” Gabriella nodded, wondering what kind of counseling would have helped her mother. “It took me years to forgive her for what she did. But I talk to so many people now in those same situations, people who feel trapped, or frightened or alone, or overwhelmed, and just don't see any way out of their problems. It's amazing how many people don't have anyone to talk to, and they just panic in the face of problems the rest of us think aren't all that bad, or all that important.”
“Like Sister Anne.” She smiled at him again, and this time they both laughed. They had shared some important things about themselves with each other. And they had a lot in common. They had both lost their lives in the outside world, and their families, suddenly, and forever. And they had found their salvation in a life where they would never again encounter the kind of problems that had nearly destroyed them as children. “When did you decide to become a priest?” she asked, curious, as they started to walk slowly back to the main part of the garden.
“I went into the seminary straight from high school. I made the decision when I was about fifteen. It just seemed right for me. I can't imagine a better life than this one.”
She smiled at him naively. He was so good-looking that in some ways it seemed incongruous to see him in the familiar Roman collar. “I'll bet a lot of girls you knew were disappointed.”
“Not really. I never knew any. There were only boys at St. Mark's. Before that I was too young, and I was pretty shy as a kid. It just seemed like the right choice for me. I never doubted it for a minute.”
“Neither have I, once I was sure,” she admitted to him seriously. “I thought about it for years, living here. The nuns I grew up with always talked about the ‘calling and my ‘vocation,’ but I never thought I was good enough. I kept waiting