How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,1
vlog. When I disappear to record new posts with Abel, they think I’m strumming Coldplay covers at open mike night with a couple other guys from the Timbrewolves.
“Just the two of us,” I nod.
“And I think it’s great,” Father Mike says. “Nothing like a drive across the country to clear your mind, you know? Make you think about things a whole new way.”
“That’s what we thought,” Dad nods.
“You and Becky were always so close.”
“Still are. They still are,” Mom smiles.
Father Mike sips from Mom’s Grand Canyon mug. “And I understand you’re going to some—what, fan conventions, right?”
“For Castaway Planet.”
“Wow. Great show. I catch it now and then.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, sure. Love its vibe. Sort of retro sci-fi, a little campy, but a really powerful allegory, you know?” He tilts his head and nods at me. “I think everyone feels lost on a scary planet sometimes.”
He wiggles his fingers to illustrate scary. I think I’m supposed to smile.
“Father Mike, would you like some blueberry pancakes while you’re here? There’s leftover batter.”
His blue eyes crinkle. “That would be excellent. Thanks, Kathy.”
“Greg, can you help?”
“Hm? Oh! Yes, sure.”
Don’t leave me don’t leave me I say with my eyes but of course that’s the point, and they vanish into the safe yellow kitchen. They have no clue. When I met with Father Mike before Christmas for an informal counseling session, they asked me how it went and I blushed and muttered fine. I could have told them about the stuff he said, could have blamed my leaving St. Matt’s on the creepy “must-read” book he lent me. But I kept quiet. Because under their sweet candy shell, I know they’re bitter enough to agree with him.
I fix my eyes on the family-photo wall. Mom and Dad at senior prom, wedding at St. Matt’s, me and Nat mugging in pirate hats, the four of us on Sunset Beach in matching white shirts and chinos.
“How’ve you been, bud?” he asks me.
“Fine.”
“Still miss you on Sunday.”
I nod.
“I see those great parents of yours in the pew all by themselves.”
I look at the floor.
“It’s been what—four, five months?”
“I guess.”
“That’s a long time.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not judging. I just think you must feel lonely. We miss that guitar of yours in folk group.”
My face burns. He steps up to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. He’s wearing a blue polo shirt tucked into khakis and he gives off a childish smell, like Wonder bread and school antiseptic.
“Brandon, I want to tell you something, okay? Something I maybe didn’t make clear enough when we talked. Can you look at me?” I can’t meet his eyes. I settle on his left nostril. “The Big Guy upstairs still loves you. He understands what it’s like to be a young boy, these swarms of strange feelings filling up your heart…” He knocks a fist into his chest. “He’s on your side, you know? And as long as you pray for the strength to live life the way he asks, he will give you that gift. I know he will. I kinda have an ‘in’ with him.”
He grins and nudges me, and when I don’t do anything he nods until I nod back. I hate giving in. I want to be casually profane like Nat is when she comes home from Bennington and tries to shock us with stuff from her Theology of The Simpsons class. I want to say I left church for a reason, and I’m not coming back. But when Father Mike walks in a room I’m ten years old again. I’m traveling the altar midway through Mass, lowering my brass candle snuffer over one, two, three flames while he watches from his big chair with a gentle smile, making sure I’ve got everything right.
“Can I give you a quick blessing?” he asks me.
“Okay.”
He thumbs a cross on my forehead and starts in with this intense Lord, defend Brandon prayer. I wonder if this is a stealth exorcism. Plaid flashes in the kitchen doorway and I know Mom and Dad are listening in, hoping to God it does the trick but ready to set their jaws and keep loving me if it doesn’t. I don’t know which makes me feel worse.
“Amen?” he says.
“Amen,” I whisper.
“That was really nice, Mike.” My parents slip back in the room reverently, like he’s just made me a saint. Mom hands him a short stack of pancakes on my favorite blue plate.
“My pleasure.”
“You just worry so much. His first trip without us,”