At loss

Frances sat, her brain floating, in front of Marie’s statue. Her eyes hurt – too many tears those past days – but they were now dry. Relief was now slowly permeating through her cold frame, the soft voices that Father Tristan always programmed to float in the church undoing the knots in her stomach. Her shoulders sagged; no need to be strong, now. Here, she could trust Marie to watch over her. There was no family to force her to keep a façade, no friends to watch her, no teachers with silly expectations.

Father Tristan seemed busy, she had seen his frock billowing in a corner of the church, going to and fro. She didn’t mind; his presence, even from a distance, was a balm to her wounded heart. And when, at last, his voice echoed in the distance, Frances wondered if she would melt into a puddle altogether.

She had never felt this defeated, even the first time she had cried her eyes out in honor of her grandmother. A warm hand engulfed her icy skin, startling her. It took her a few seconds to be able to focus and realized that Father Tristan was kneeling in front of her.

— “What is wrong, Frances ?”

The words would not come, and she closed her eyes tightly.

— “Are you ill ?”

His voice was urgent; maybe he just needed to be on his way. Whispers across the altar told her something was being prepared. Yes, he didn’t have time, so she cut the chase.

— “We fought. I left. He’s been trying to call me the past few days, says he’s sorry.”

The resumé was pretty straightforward; no need to name the culprit, Father Tristan already knew. His eyes softened, his thumb tracing a circle across her skin before he let go. Cold creeped instantly into her frame, the warmth of his presence forgotten as she shivered on the bench.

Her mind was in shambles, aching in a strange way and she didn’t know what to do. It should have torn her in half to throw this relationship through the window. Should have crippled her with pain. Yet… it only brought relief and confusion. Emptiness and guilt. And lot of regrets.

Father Tristan didn’t sit beside her, for another was calling him. Standing tall, he addressed the man in clipped tone.

— “I will be with you shortly”, he told the man through clenched teeth.

And she wondered if the muscles of his jaw were always so tense. Then he turned to her, molten gold weaved in the patterns of his hazel eyes.

— “You need rest, Frances. Go home, soak in a bath. I cannot speak now, but I can cook dinner for you tomorrow.”

Her eyebrows climbed high upon her forehead; he was crossing the line again for her sake.

— “You don’t have to”, she feebly protested.

— “No, I don’t”, he confirmed.

Frances bit her lip, then whispered:

— “I don’t want you to be my therapist."

— “I will be your friend, then.”

The tone of his voice brooked no argument, and Frances relented, hope blooming in her chest as he leant over.

— “Until then, you need to take care of yourself. Everything will be alright.”

It was his smooth voice that followed her home, the reassurance seeping into her tired bones like a benevolent wave. His tender expression, engraved in her memory, that gave her the energy to survive the next day.

The eagerness of being cared for by an incredible person that brought her to enjoy her scalding bath the next evening so that, when she entered the church at seven, she was already feeling much more confident. Just a few words, the barest of touches, and universal love written all over his face. What miracles could Father Tristan muster !

He was waiting for her, already dressed in casual clothes, except for the traditional collar. ‘To be visible, should anyone need a priest’. She could only bow to his dedication. Today, there were no interruption as they walked down the main pedestrian street. Like a celebrity with no renown features; people would stare as he passed because of his ordination.

— “You look better”, he said, his eyes roaming her face.

She gave him a soft smile, her legs pumping to keep in stride with him.

— “Yes. I had some time with myself, it helped a lot. And so did your words, yesterday.”

— “I am sorry I couldn’t…”, he started.

— “Don’t. I’m the one popping up unannounced. I don’t expect you to be available at my whims.”

Father Tristan gave her a long, thoughtful look.

— “We had an encounter with a choir yesterday and nothing was quite ready to welcome them.”

That news caused her to regret her earlier state altogether; she would have loved to hear live music in his church.

— “Oh, why didn’t you tell me ?”

— “You weren’t quite in shape for a concert, Frances. And to be honest, I knew they would be pretty bad.”

An unexpected chuckle escaped the young woman’s lips, the weight upon her chest lifting slightly. Despite the cold weather – march was upon them, but winter lingered – she felt a little warmer inside.

— “Are you sure about hosting me, Father ? I fear I’m not going to be the best of company.”

— “If you don’t mind chopping vegetables, I’ll be happy to share my dinner with you.”

They were both avoiding the subject, both content to be reunited. For a moment, Frances didn’t even think about the fiasco of this past week end, or her not so clear celibate status. For days now, she had wracked her brain to decide what to do, falling short.

Yes, I’m calling Matthew. No, he can go to hell. Damn, you’re a bitch. No, I need to let go, it is called self-preservation.

A quick encounter with her best friend at home had brought a little relief, but not much clarity.

For the moment, though, she was perfectly content to follow her priest-friend to the last floor of an old building, the lodging from the diocese. As it was, Father Tristan didn’t make a lot of money, but his room was provided for. It even included a little kitchen, which he was grateful for. His rooms were simple, a shelf filled with books separated his bed from the kitchen table. Well groomed, and minimalist. Frances wasn’t even sure he had cleaned for her sake; the man was nothing if not organized.

Without so much of a word regarding her predicament, he shed his frock and extracted salad, onions and chicken from the fridge. He gave her a knife, asking her to work on the vegetables while the meat sizzled in a saucepan. It was so peaceful, a domestic Tristan working in the kitchen while she acted as sous-chef, talking about the things he’d done during her break.

With his simple shirt and pants, he could almost pass for an ordinary man. Except that there was nothing ordinary about him. Neither the way he cared for his food at the moment, nor the way he cared for people in general. Such a good man, keeping to the simple pleasures in life and bringing the best out of it.

Where her boyfriend tended to kick her out of the kitchen when he cooked, Frances found that her coordination with Father Tristan was puzzling. There were no words needed, all things setting into place naturally. Soon, they were sharing a delicious dish of salad with roasted chicken, the sauce created by Tristan just a reduction of chicken sap deglazed with lemon and cream.

It complimented the lively greenery with softness and Frances swore to ask the recipe. She was so going to try that at home !

— “This is delicious”, she moaned, stuffing a piece of tender chicken in her mouth.

He gave her a fond smile, digging into his plate heartily.

— “I am glad you like it. Simple things, as you see.”

Simple things.

— “Yes, but the very best. I tend to overcook chicken, so you’ll have to teach me.”

— “It will be my pleasure.”

This statement surprised her; how many times was he planning to cross the line ? Still, she wasn’t about to complain for his presence brought her much solace; God knew she needed it! Once the dish was discarded, Father Tristan proceeded to heat some water for an herbal tea while he instructed her where to find desert.

A little pink box, stacked in the fridge, revealed a set of mouthwatering chocolate cakes. A wide smile split her face as she set two little plates on the diminutive table. Bless Tristan for his sweet tooth; between God and chocolate, she sure had a guardian angel by her side. Little by little, hope slowly crept into her bones, hope that everything could be alright in the end.

— “Mmm, you certainly how to talk to women”, she purred, setting the cakes upon the diminutive table.

Father Tristan blinked before a smirk lifted the corner of his lips.

— “Not even close. But to you, I do know.”

Warmth flooded her chest as they settled with cake and herbal tea. Spoonful after spoonful, Frances engulfed the fantastic mousse, letting the strong chocolate coat her tongue until the dessert was but a memory. The mood seemed to shift then. Was it her imagination, or … ? When Father Tristan’s smooth voice rose, she knew she wasn’t mistaken.

— “So, what happened?”

Yup, not her imagination. And had stress not invaded her bloodstream once more, Frances would have marveled at how adept she was at reading his moods. Setting her spoon upon the now empty plate, she sighed.

— “Something stupid, about responsibilities and such. Speaking about the future, and crushing it at the same time.”

She didn’t make much sense, really, but Tristan’s unwavering gaze encouraged her to continue.

— “I’ll spare you the details. I’m just fed up with always coming in second or third place. After we fought, he remained silent for two days, then he started calling and leaving messages on my voicemail. I’ve erased most of them before hearing them, it just polluted my ability to think and loaded it with guilt.”

— “Have you talked to him yet ?”, he asked seriously.

Frances shook her head, crushing shame overwhelming her frame. She was such a coward.

— “No. I sent a message, asking for some time to sort my thoughts. I just didn’t know what to do. I was so angry at first, I wanted to throw it all away.”

— “And now ?”

There was no judgement in his voice, only plain acceptance of her limits that caused her to feel sturdier. Her brain kicked in, exploring every fiber of herself, shedding light in places she had refused to linger. Her heart, for one. The status of her feelings were reflected so plain, so easily that it surprised her.

— “And now… Now that anger is gone, and that I have time to reflect upon things… I still want to”

Father Tristan took a sip of his herbal tea, encouraging her to do the same. The soft fragrance filled her nose, along with another one she was less familiar with.

— “What’s in there?”, she asked, wondering why the smell was so soothing to her senses.

— “Chamomille, orange blossom water and honey. So, what has changed ?”

A small smile crept upon her lips; of course, he refused to allow her to distract him. Since it was for her sake, the young woman only dipped her head as she looked for the right words.

— “For one, you taught me to respect myself. That I was allowed to be spoken to like an adult, not yelled at. And there’s this relief as well that puzzles me. As if an immense burden was lifted from my shoulders.”

His eyes were smoldering ambers, boring holes into her. So intense that she nearly blushed at the attention. Then he seemed to snap out of his haze and he reclined against his seat.

— “This relationship was weighting you down”, he eventually said.

And the statement settled like a certainty.

— “Yes”, she breathed.

Air left her lungs in a surprised oof; once more, he brought clarity when she so desperately needed it. Father Tristan remained silent, choosing instead to drink a little more of the soothing liquid. With his simple dark jumper upon the open collar, he seemed so casual, so reassuring. So domestic. Welcoming. So much that Frances dared voicing thoughts that would have filled her with shame if not for his strong presence beside her.

— “Now that I have found my freedom again, I don’t want to go back to chains. I feel guilty to let him go, I have some affection for him, we have history. But I still feel better on my own.”