Kim Jacobson
St. Francis de Sales Writing Group
Millie finished trying on graphic T-shirts at Hot Topic. Too old for these now. She buttoned up her flannel and grabbed her purse. She noticed a Cheerio on the dressing room floor. A kid. How old? Boy or girl? Her child would’ve been four. She’d always imagined the baby was a boy. She’d named him. When she saw other kids, she’d guess their age and think, Enrico would’ve been four too.
The strangest things reminded her of him. Yesterday—a pinecone. As she walked to the gym, she heard it fall through the branches. She cringed at how violently it hit the sidewalk after leaving the mother tree. Last night in a dream, she saw Enrico behind thick, rain-kissed glass and just knew it was her son. They had each raised their hands to touch without actually touching. Enrico blinked his brown eyes, but didn’t smile. His cheeks and nose were speckled with faint freckles like hers at the same age. She couldn’t distinguish between rain and tears on her dream face.
Millie met her bestie at Starbucks. When cookie crumbs on their table distracted her, left by a kid, she confided in Carla about the dream. She asked Carla if she could meet her parish priest. Carla had mentioned numerous times how nice he was. Maybe someone spiritual could help. Counseling was too expensive.
Carla arranged the meeting, and Millie went on Thursday.
As Father Segreto ushered Millie into his office, they talked about the lingering South Bend winter. She sat on a comfortable chair in front of his desk and then blurted out her desire to confess something big. She stared at a portrait of the Virgin Mary hanging behind him until she found the courage to meet the priest’s eyes, brown like Enrico’s.
The priest was younger than her with smooth, olive skin. He leaned in. “I can hear your confession, Millie, but can’t absolve sins for non-Catholics.” He bit the inside of his bottom lip, then continued. “What’s important is that you’re here.”
She nodded and focused on the second hand of her watch.
Father Segreto leaned back. His chair creaked. “Just letting you know, so there’s no false expectations. No rush. Start when you’re ready.”
Her eyes darted from a hanging fern in the corner, to frost framing the window, to a bobblehead in the priest’s likeness. She avoided looking at the crucifix, but her peripheral vision was aware of it. “What do I say, though?”
“Whatever’s on your mind. There’s no wrong way to go about this.”
Millie swallowed, and silently sat for longer than intended. She looked at the door and then back at the priest. He lifted his right hand and placed it over his heart.
Her words gushed out. “Well . . . I . . . I thought I was doing a good and right thing by not keeping the baby. I couldn’t afford him. It wasn’t easy, Father. I refused pain medication. I didn’t want it to be easy. The first time didn’t work and the doctor . . . she tried again. When she did, my heartbeat slowed so much I went into shock and shook uncontrollably, and they thought they were losing me. I wanted to be lost, d’ya see? And . . . and—then it was done. And I can’t stop thinking about him—the baby, Enrico.”
Father Segreto didn’t flinch like she had assumed. He made her feel loved with his very gaze. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a handkerchief. He handed it to her. “For your tears. My mom stitched this. She’d want you to have it.”
Millie took it, but before raising the cloth to her face she noticed a brown embroidered cross next to the initials ΙΗΣ in red.
“Keep it, Millie. Call on the holy name of Jesus.”
She nodded and glanced at the crucifix. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you came. You did because you acknowledge your sin, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you consider adoption?”
“No. I . . . am . . . well . . . was alone then, too, and going to community college, and working mall security. I wanna be a cop, but it’s taking forever. And I panicked and just did it fast.”
“And the father?”
“Left me a month later.”
“I see.” He moved his hand up to his neck and struggled to pluck a medal out from under his collar. After pulling the chain over his head, he cupped it in his hand and held it over the desk. “Keep this too. St. Anthony of Padua.”
She reached out and unfolded her fingers. The chain slid into her palm. The priest’s body heat warmed her cold hand through the metal.
“I’ll be praying for Enrico and you.”
“You’ll—pray for us?” She squeezed the medal.
“I sure will, Millie.”
He asked about her family. She usually avoided this topic—too toxic. However, Father Segreto seemed legitimately interested, so she opened up.
When the clock in the bell tower struck two, she stopped the priest mid-sentence to explain that she had to work. She’d been there for nearly an hour and a half.
He said, “If you want to talk about this further, or anything else, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
Before she left, he blessed her.
The next day, Millie and Carla sat on her couch. Millie told her about the meeting. “He was very fatherly, but I don’t feel healed or anything.”
“Because your sins weren’t erased.” Carla’s bangles jangled as she sipped a margarita.
“He gave me this.” Millie pulled the medal out from under her shirt. “St. Anthony.” She retrieved the handkerchief from inside her bra. “And this.” She handed it to Carla.
Carla ran her fingertips over the embroidery. “These initials . . . they’re . . . ?”
“Greek. The first three letters of ‘Jesus.’ I looked it up. It makes me cry in a . . . a cleansing way.” She took it back and focused on flames flaring in the fireplace. “Do you think Jesus hates me?”
Carla flicked a thick strand of auburn hair over her shoulder. “No, Mill. I think he weeps for you. He feels your pain. He died so our souls can be forgiven.”
“That sounds crazy.”
“I know. For now, let’s think of a way for you to remember Enrico.” She nodded at a potted fern. “Like getting you a new plant or something.”
They volleyed other ideas back and forth, but nothing felt right. Carla invited her to Mass for the umpteenth time, and she declined.
After work the next day, Millie sat in her car waiting for it to warm up. A snowflake landed on her windshield and melted. A group of kids walked in front of her. They held onto a rope led by a nun. Another sister followed behind. Childless mothers mothering. She pictured Enrico in the same blue coat worn by the last little boy who sang to himself. The child reached into his pocket and turned around. He handed a Cheerio to the nun behind him. She smiled and popped it into her mouth.
As the group turned a corner, Millie imagined their souls hovering above them. She picked up her cell and dialed the priest. When he answered, she said, “Hi Father, this is Millie. I have a question . . . .”