Page 104 of Saint
“How is he doing, my best friend whose heart you broke years ago and then rebroke again in Europe for some reason? That best friend? Is that the one you’re asking about?”
I’ve explained to Seansomany times that Elijah was the one who brokemyheart in Europe, but it never makes any difference. He is firmly Team Best Friend, and will be until Judgement Day, I guess. And then probably even on Judgement Day, he’ll berate Jesus into agreeing with him that I’m some kind of best friend seducer.
“He’s miserable, thanks for asking,” Sean says, going back to his email. “He also does the whole ‘hey, not that I care about the person I’m desperately in love with, but how is he doing’ thing. It’s less subtle than you think.”
I feel a flush of excitement that Elijah’s asking about me. “Do you think he’s miserable because I haven’t talked to him yet? Since leaving the monastery?”
Sean apparently decides to give up on the email and turns to face me with a sigh. “Yes, okay? Yes. I think he wants to see you so badly that he would harvest his own kidney in order to do it, and it wouldn’t feel like too high a price. But I think he’s also miserable that you left, because he feels guilty and he thinks it’s his fault and that he’s stolen your Jesus-binky or whatever.”
“Sean, I know you’re around babies all day, but please don’t say Jesus-binky again.”
My brother keeps going, undeterred. “But I also think he will be very excited to see you on Friday.”
God, I hope so. The minute I left Mount Sergius nearly two months ago, all I wanted to do was go to him. Drive straight to his apartment and pound on the door and then kiss him until the world ended.
But I’m doing things a little differently on this new path to the well. I’m doing things with patience—patience that I’ve learned at the abbey, patience that I’ve deepened with him and God both.
Old Aiden Bell could never.
Which reminds me, I need to get on my way if I’m going to make it to Father Jordan’s church before he gets ready for Mass.
I kiss all the babies, give Martina one last toss into the air, and then get my phone.
“I wish you’d let me buy you some suits,” Sean sighs as he watches me. Neither he nor Dad have anything that matches my shoulder measurements, so I’ve been piece-mealing together business outfits from Dad’s nicer pants and button-down shirts from Kohl’s.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be doing this,” I remind him. This job is really just a stepping stone until I begin carving out my new vocation here in the world. “And also I let you rent me a tux for Friday, remember?”
“Ugh, fine. Go. Get me lunch on the way back, will you? Zenny packed me something called a superfood bowl, so I need you to bring me back a sandwich with cheese in it. Or bacon.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, and then I leave, closing the door behind me to keep the babies from escaping to have an office building adventure. And then I start my walk to Jordan’s church.
It’s a gorgeous fall day, the kind that used to make me think of hard cider and woodsmoke and football, but now makes me think of the crisp air in the beer garden, of the way the bright trees looked from the hermitage window. Of raking around the taproom and sharing a bottle with the other monks while the leaves burned in a smoky pile.
Ordinary time is what the Church calls it. The time strung between the liturgically heavy seasons of Lent and Advent.
But there is nothing ordinary about it. It is perfect.
The five block walk to the church is still disorienting to me, even though I’ve made it almost every weekday for the last month. The bustle of cars rushing past, the people darting in and out of buildings, the litter, the signs, the restless inhalations and exhalations of a downtown during business hours.
Where is everyone going, I wonder, and in such a hurry? No one even stops when the wind blows ruby-red leaves down the street, like so much autumn confetti. No one ever seems to breathe.
No one is ever silent.
I have to remind myself often of what Brother Connor said, about regret. Because I feel regret often.
I miss Mount Sergius so much it hurts.
I make it to Jordan’s church, a tall edifice made of stone and stained glass, over a century old, and then I let myself inside one of the wooden doors.
I think I might have to hunt for him, but when I come inside, he’s standing at the front of the sanctuary, looking up at the crucifix with his hands laced behind his back. The crucifix is a copy of the one we have at Mount Sergius, and so I could easily stare at it for hours too. I join him.
“I know the woman who makes these,” Father Jordan says as I come to stand next to him.
“The crucifixes?”
He nods. “She’s a sculptor here in the area. Very sensitive, very reclusive. But with a ferocious gift, wouldn’t you agree?”
I do agree, and then I say, “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
