Retreat

Hello my dear readers. Brace yourselves for a pretty long chapter, it just didn't feel right to cut it. I hope you enjoy, and never forget that I love comments more than chocolate !

— “Are you hurt?”

Oops.

— “Ah, no, just a limp. It’s nothing.”

Frowning, the priest stared her down. With his six feet, he towered so easily over her that every attempt to flee would have been useless. Especially in her diminished state.

— “What happened?” he demanded.

In her hazed state, Frances only gathered that he seemed worried. Hence her blunt reply.

— “Oh. Just the flu. Don’t fuss, it’s much better than the first night.”

Then, she chuckled at the memory of her crawling on all fours.

— “I couldn’t even stand from my bed because my calves wouldn’t work.”

Her mirth didn’t travel across her companion who blurted out, appalled.

— “Couldn’t you call someone?”

Frances frowned, taken aback by his frantic tone. Why the panic? She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

— “Why? I don’t want my family to drive four hours for the flu, it’s a virus, it’s not worth it.”

— “Not worth it? Have you seen the state you are in?” he huffed.

Frances’ eyebrows scrunched together; she knew to be pretty resilient, and didn’t understand his outburst. But Father Tristan was a friend, now, wasn’t he? It wouldn’t do to dismiss him and make her escape. She was, in truth, rather used to her boyfriend being rather callous whenever she felt sick. Like that time she had to have surgery and he never came to visit. So the priest’s wave of concern took her aback, and she scrambled her brain for her a moment to gather how to soothe him.

— “Listen. It’s all right now, it’s over. The fever is mostly down, and I’m just limping. I can get on with my life, cook, sleep, and move around.”

Father Tristan crossed his arms in an intimidating posture, his slender jaw set in a stern line, golden eyes narrowing. Damn, it was little wonder the thugs he had fought didn’t come back.

— “Mostly?” he asked, his smooth voice laden with an edge.

Frances pursed her lips, trying to recall the last time she had controlled her temperature.

— “Pretty down today, there will be the characteristic V peak tomorrow, and I’ll be done. Nothing to worry about”

Her chirpy tone didn’t seem to reach him.

— “It seems plenty to worry about to me.”

— “No, really. I even managed to follow all my classes today, so it’s fine, really.”

His features suddenly darkened, a stormy cloud passing in his eyes. Frances’ eyebrows knitted in worry. Wrong answer?

— “You’re still going to class? Limping like this?”

She could understand the incredulity; people usually didn’t grasp the tremendous workload that her school set upon the student’s shoulders. Shrugging, she tried to make light of the situation; he really shouldn’t get all riled up for this.

— “Yeah. I can’t miss too much, I’d be too far behind so…”

— “Grit your teeth and get on with it? You can barely walk!”

The young woman cringed; he seemed … almost angry. Dropping her eyes to the ground, she suddenly felt like a schoolgirl scolded by a teacher.

— “Yeah.”

Gone was the sense of hope and security from the concert. Now, cold reality replaced it with its ugly truth. Yes, her curriculum was crazy, and no one cared if students cracked under pressure. Learning a 70-page fascicle by heart because the teacher wanted to ask about the figure 2.a from page 35 wasn’t even strange … she was used to it, even if it made no sense. And it angered her that she and her classmates would be mistreated so easily without anyone battling an eyelash. But such were the rules if you wanted the diploma. And now that she was here … well, it was better to get it, right?

— “You don’t sell your school very nicely,” Tristan said in a clipped tone.

Frances shrugged, trying to repress the shiver that his voice, usually so welcoming, had caused to invade her spine.

— “It’s crap, so I don’t mind. I would never…”

A yawn interrupted her then.

— “ … never recommend it to anyone, believe me.”

Father Tristan’s eyes wouldn’t leave her, and Frances felt pinned in place by his attention. People passed them, still talking about the concert, or planning for a drink, circling them as waves would flow around two rocks at sea. Frances nibbled her finger; she needed to find a way out, sleep was calling and her brain dying of exhaustion.

— “Well…”, she started, only to be interrupted. “I’ll head home to rest a bit. Thank you again for letting me…”

— “Are you driving in that state?” he cut.

Ah, so he was still mulling about that. Frances nearly rolled her eyes; how easily concerned turned to annoying sweetness. He couldn’t possibly know that she was pretty resistant to fever in general. Send a stomach flu her way and she was toast, but her body could sustain very high temperatures without diminishing her too badly. A genetic present from her Father, apparently.

— “Yes.”

— “This is not very cautious, young lady.”

Something snapped in her, a bundle of rage that came out of nowhere and exploded without control. The appellation, perhaps, that caused her temper to flare; she would not be treated like a child! Her eyes turned fierce, her glare hitting its mark for Father Tristan’s features morphed even before her words stormed over him.

— “Will you stop berating me?! I’m sick, I deal with it as I see fit, thank you very much.”

Her exasperation caused Father Tristan to catch his upper lip between his teeth, his hands coming up in surrender.

— “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to…”

— “But you did. I’ve taken care of myself well enough those past years, Father Tristan. I’m used to be alone.”

Frances panted, her outburst leaving an immense wave of exhaustion behind. The bite was gone, and a flimsy bit of sadness passed behind his eyes before he seemed to come to a decision.

— “Just give me five minutes, I’ll warn my congregation and drive you home.”

Already, his long legs were in motion.

— “I assure you this is not necessary,” she snapped, barely able to turn around such was the stiffness of her spine muscles.

Father Tristan froze, the mask of his profession sliding upon his face instantly. In this moment, Frances found that she couldn’t read him anymore. Squat. Not at all. And it felt weird, as if a concrete wall had just risen between them.

— “Not necessarily, or unwelcome?” he asked, his voice carrying much further than she thought.

A wave of relief washed over her as she understood the reason for his state of tension. Father Tristan was making sure he wasn’t overstepping his bounds. Anger got blown in the wind, replaced by a deep sense of gratitude. Frances addressed him a gentle smile, one that – she hoped – conveyed how deeply she trusted him.

— “You are never unwelcome, Father Tristan.”

His features relaxed, golden eyes softening.

— “Then let me help, please? As payment for the great repairs on my frock”

— “All right. You get to drive my fantastic mobile then.”

He nodded, and disappeared in the thinning crowd. Frances didn’t move an inch; her body was reaching the “out of battery” state already, and she was secretly glad that she wouldn’t have to drive back. Although it wasn’t the first time, the motorway could be treacherous in her state of exhaustion. And it would prevent her calf from cramping on the pedal; blast those sore muscles and stupid virus!

Her car awaited but a few hundred metres away, and Frances settled in the passenger’s seat. It felt weird, but not unwelcome. Father Tristan was a smooth driver, and Frances found that her eyelids were dropping by themselves. She struggled with all her might; the young woman never slept in public. A refusal to show weakness, or perhaps, just politeness that prevented her from leaving the driver to his own musings. Still … today was proving rather difficult; she felt as ease with him. Fortunately, it was a short drive, and she managed to pull Father Tristan in a conversation of sorts.

Or rather, she needed to settle one particular sore point.

— “Do you respect me at all, Father Tristan?”

Her question caught him off guard, for he gave her an incredulous look, shrouded in the night’s flimsy lights.

— “Of course, I do.”

Frances sighed, wondering how she could possibly express her request without being rude.

— “I … I wish you could consider that I am not a child anymore. I have been alone for a long time now, in boarding school for 7 years already. I know you are older than I am, but I need you to have faith in me.”

Her words brought such silence in the car that she feared she had offended him. Little did she know that her words had struck him hard and true. Eventually, he relented.

— “I understand, Frances. I would just rest easier if someone was by your side.”

— “No, I’d rather be alone when I am sick.”

She expected him to argue; who would cook for her if she was sick? To which she would respond smugly that fasting helped the body heal faster. Instead … instead, he landed a blow that left her breathless. So accurate, and painful at the same time. Yet, stated with such benevolence that her heart lurched.

— “You fear to show weakness?”

Tears sprang from her eyes, unbidden and shameful. Frances wiped them angrily with her sleeve. How she wished she could nurse her wounds in peace, away from anyone’s gaze right now? But she needed to respond, and set her walls anew to avoid wallowing in grief.

— “Weakness is not welcomed much in my home,” she said, her voice thick. “The only time I called for help…”

— “What happened?” he asked.

— “I was in hospital and Matthew didn’t come.”

Tristan remained silent in the darkness, the outline of his faint eyebrows scrunching in consternation.

— “Why?” he eventually asked, ever the diplomat.

By now, Frances had regained her composure. Anger replaced disappointment.

— “It was nothing, a little routine surgery but… I needed him, and he said it was only two days, so I’d be fine.”

She didn’t see the priest grit his teeth in frustration, but clearly heard in his voice.

— “That is not very thoughtful.”

No, it wasn’t, but she understood that work took a lot of his time. Jealousy was the main issue.

— “I could have dealt with it if he had not taken his ex-girlfriend to the hospital, three months after, because ’she hates hospitals.” But I do, too. I am terrified of hospitals, Tristan, I stay as clear as I can from them.”

He didn’t correct her familiar address, listening as her anger, her grief was, at last, expressed. Her boyfriend’s behaviour puzzled him, but something else was lurking in the shadows.

— “Why?”

Frances’s tongue darted over her lower lip, unsure.

— “I … you will think I’m crazy.”

— “I’m quite sure I won’t. Tell me, Frances, as a friend to another.”

The unexpected title caused her chest to suddenly expand, tensions released as she took a large gulp of air. As if, until now, something had weighted down her chest so heavily that she couldn’t breathe.

— “I think something happened to me there, I was too little to remember. It just lingers in my mind that hospitals are dangerous to me.”

She felt him stiffen on the wheel more than she saw him, but the sharp intake of breath couldn’t be mistaken. Child abuse was a problematic subject in the Catholic Church, one that might be close to his heart.

— “Something traumatic?”

Frances sighed, wondering what might have happened, this night, to leave her such an anxiety disorder around white coats. She had a few fleeting images and the imperfect memory of a two year old; the light switch, above her bed, that had thrown the room into a semi darkness. The horrible paint, between green and grey, peeling from the walls and the noises outside. Nothing more when it came to events. But the weight upon her chest, and the tremors that ran through her spine every time she recalled those days were very real. It could have been anything, really. From a treatment done a bit too harshly, to the fear coming from her mother that she might have to go through surgery, or the mood – horrible – that always permeated those white walls.

— ” … it may be nothing, it is just me who found it traumatic”, she eventually stated.

The true fact is that she didn’t know, and neither did her parents.

— “If it doesn’t feel right, Frances…”, he started.

She cut him gently, her head falling over the headrest.

— “Yes, I know. It means it isn’t. I’ve learnt that from you, remember? But I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m not strong enough tonight.”

There; she could admit it now. Eyes closed, she missed the concerned look that her driver sent her way; he stored the information for later, mightily worried that Frances would admit weakness in front of him. Perhaps her trust ran deeper than he thought.

— “All right, Frances. I won’t push. But you know you can talk to me anytime you wish, right?”

— “I know, and I thank you for that.”

Could she be more earnest than that? Probably not, she’d poured her heart in that gratitude.

— “Do you trust me?” he blurted out.

His tone surprised her enough to straighten in her seat with a wince; Father Tristan never seemed unsure or hasty.

— “You’re driving my car!” she retorted hotly, her hand shooting to show his spot on the wheel.

Given the blank stare her gave her under streetlamps light, Frances chuckled.

— ”… Of course I do! Nobody gets to drive while I’m in my car.”

Realisation set in, his feature relaxing.

— “Then I’ll give you my number in case of emergency.”

A lightning dropping at her feet would have caused less alarm. Frances started, swallowing the “no” she was about to spurt with a squeak; he could only receive her reluctance badly. But she didn’t want him to shed the distance inherent to his status for her sake. Owning a priest’s private number, as an unmarried woman, surely this was wrong, right? And he probably knew it better than she did, but was willing to overlook this breach …?

Frances navigated his concern with both awe and anger. She was perfectly capable, and had plenty of other emergency options. If she chose not to use them, assessing her own health, who was he to decide otherwise?

His voice, amused, suddenly tore the silence.

— “What? Stunned that a priest owns a mobile phone?”

The quip, more cutting than usual, tore through her considerations. Deflection through a good dose of humour; her usual trick turned against her, disarming her efficiently. Frances couldn’t help but smile.

— “You own a computer and watch downloaded movies.”

— “Good point”

Was it her, of Father Tristan was more laid-back and less formal than in church? Perhaps she was just tired, and he still annoyed. So, before silence could settle again, the young woman decided to tackle the task with a banality that didn’t convey any of her previous thoughts.

— “You don’t have to”

Father Tristan paused, giving her a curious stare.

— “I want you to keep it somewhere, just in case. I trust you with it”

His words humbled her, and thus, she accepted his offer.

— “All right. I'll endeavour to never use it, but thank you all the same.”

Her driver merely nodded. Somehow, both of them felt uneasy about it. Fortunately, their exit was at hand. Frances guided Father Tristan on the deserted roads of their common city. Right, straight on, left, right again … the turns were endless. When at last, he pulled the parking brake, Frances started. Damn, in the three minutes it had taken for them to find a spot, she had nearly fallen asleep.

— “All right,” she murmured. “Time to move”

And she wasn’t looking forward to it, for as usual, all the spots close to her flat had been taken at this hour and there was still some distance to cover. After half an hour sitting comfortably, she was loath to push her legs to function again. The muscles were cold now and would ache like hell. The passenger door was suddenly wrenched open and she now faced a very tall, very determined man of the cloth with his bag over his shoulder. Frances groaned, and grabbed hers before she wiggled her toes in her shoes. For the end of November, it wasn’t so cold yet, but wet. Not raining, at least, but the road was covered with a thin layer of moist that caused the lights to shimmer.

Her calves protested, cramping slightly as she lifted her legs to put them on the ground under the priest’s watchful eye. Gritting her teeth, she braced the sides of the car to push herself up, trying to keep her posture as straight as possible. The momentum sent her tumbling, and she would have crashed had two strong arms not wrapped around her shoulder and middle. For a millisecond, the time it took for her brain to catch that she was wrapped in a priest’s arms, Frances felt at peace. Protected, safe, surrounded.

— “Easy. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

His smooth tone sent shivers down her spine, the intimacy of their embrace so overwhelming that she tightened her arms around his to keep aloft. From this close, she could even smell him, a faint, reassuring fragrance that went straight to her heart.

What was she doing? Damn virus, making her a cripple and taking advantage of a friend!

— “Sorry, sorry” she mumbled.

— “Don’t be, it’s all right. I’ll help you”

His soft words washed over her like a benevolent wave and she understood, now, why he inspired such faith in people. His presence was so calming, so soothing, as if his proximity could erase all the hurts of the world. Anchored like an oak tree, sturdy like a rock … and connected to the heavens. A man that had become much more than a human, and very out of reach.

Gathering her courage, Frances let him go and straightened herself. Her whole body screamed at the loss, but she couldn’t allow this contact to remain. It was too overwhelming, and she needed her brain intact to make it home … to continue on her path. With a smile, she reassured the priest.

— “Thank you. My legs had become too stiff in the car. I can manage now”

— “I’ll take you to your door.”

The young woman nodded; it was in the right direction for him to get back to the church. The area wasn’t really unsafe, but it was eleven at night after all.

— “What about you? Do you live close to the church? Shouldn’t you take my car?”

Father Tristan walked close by in case she needed help, but kept his distance.

— “No, it’s ten minutes from here, and I walk fast. I can take care of myself.”

— “All right,” she whispered, her eyes contemplating the light that danced in his irises.

The steep stairs that led to her building were negotiated with difficulty, and Father Tristan offered his arm to help her. She took it eagerly, revelling in the strength of his body, knowing that it would be the last time they touched. It felt like a blasphemy to allow her fingers to trail along his sleeve before the wet atmosphere separated them again.

— “Thank you for everything. You have been a great friend to me this evening.”

His face was impassive, but in his eyes swam a thousand emotions that she could not decipher.

— “You are welcome, Frances. Rest well, and take time to heal.”

— “I will. Goodnight, Father Tristan”

— “Goodnight”

She fished the badge out of her bag, and he waited until she had passed the heavy door before he turned away, and rushed down the stairs. His robes billowed behind him as he disappeared from her sight like an angel of doom. Once more the Ecclesiast from “Equilibrium”.

This night, she dreamt of a gentle embrace. Of safety, and happiness, and the beauty of shared affection. None of it remained when she awoke but the gentle hum of safety.