Elise

Frances watched the ceiling, tears falling freely on the cover. Little droplets that never ceased, soaking the cotton through, sadness tickling away like rain poured from the clouds. A never-ending waterfall that drained, far too slowly, the raging grief that overflowed her broken heart.

Her mind conjured Tristan easily, sitting regally beside her, his weight dipping the mattress slightly, his beautiful hand hoovering over her cheekbone, but never touching it. A spirit, so bright that it hurt to watch him, like the angels of those illustrations that radiated too much light.

You need to reach out, Frances, said the spirit.

Frances shut her eyes so tightly that her muscles screamed, refusing to turn her head. Refusing to see that, beside her, was only an empty spot. That the mattress only titled under the weight of his absence.

But you’re the only one I want to reach out to, she thought. And I can’t breathe, because of you. I can’t breathe when you’re not in my world, Tristan. You ARE my world. I can’t breathe…

Frances crushed her chest with both fists, trying to relieve the pressure. There was such a gaping hole, here. Bottomless, so wide, so dark that it was a wonder oxygen still flooded her lungs.

Reach out, to whom? Thomas? No, he was a comrade, a friend even, but this was a girl’s matter. A wound so deep, so personal that closeness was indispensable. Parents? Out of the question. Brothers? No, they were good enough to play tennis, but not to blurt out that life wasn’t worth living anymore. The woman she called her best friend, at home, was dismissed easily.

Nad.

In love with a priest, are you crazy?, she would say. And laugh at her stupidity, before smirking and blurting “I’m sorry” and hugging her exuberantly. Or, on the phone, chat her ear off until Frances could put two and two together and understand what she meant. The young woman shuddered; in imagination only, Nad was already too overwhelming. Not an option.

God, all mighty God, why did it hurt so much? Would a stab to the chest be less agonising? She had never felt this miserable. Leaving Matthew had been painful enough, but compared to this … like a landslide facing an earthquake…

Why, why, why? Why was the world dull and grey without Father Tristan’s smile in it? Why did waking up in the morning only caused a fresh wave of tears? Why did the world seem so pointless, now that she couldn’t return to church to watch his magic? Why had the lights been switched off, even outside? Why did the sun shine still when it rained in her heart?

At last, Frances rolled into bed. For the thousandth time, she opened the contact list of her phone.

There he was. Tristan. The number stared back.

You’re the only one I trust to speak to about my broken heart…

Her index hoovered for a long time, both angel and demon fighting upon her shoulder, their struggle so intense that tears blurred her vision.

Until, at last, she pressed the fated button.

The phone biped once, displaying its information message:

“The contact has been successfully deleted.”

Goodbye.

Frances broke down, burying her head into the sheets. For a long time, the only noise that could be heard was the traffic outside, and the heart-wrenching sobs echoing against the white walls of her bedroom. And, when her eyes were so red and puffy that she could hardly see anymore, her senses so numb, her nose so thick that she couldn’t speak properly, Frances stood and packed a bag.

A ghost within the city, she walked to her car and drove to her favourite spot. The cliff. And, walking up with sunshine gracing her face, she wondered why her insides felt so cold.

Huddling at the summit, Frances watched the sun set, letting darkness overtake the hills and fog rise up from the river. Night descended upon her, and still she didn’t move, wondering if her heart would still ache if she took a few steps forwards and just … jumped. Too drastic a measure.

Dead, the pain would be gone. But she wouldn’t be able to see him one last time.

So she stayed, unmoving, a shadow amongst shadows while the sun disappeared entirely. Night settled like a shroud, painting the sky in blues and blacks. Stars appeared in between clouds, shining vibrantly, disappearing, playing with the mist.

It was dark, so dark that she couldn’t hope to return without breaking a leg, at least. So she stayed, tasting moist in the air as temperature dropped and her eyelids became heavy. And when at last, eternity seemed to have passed, Frances fished her mobile out of her pocket to switch the lamp on. She didn’t want to die; his eyes would haunt her forever if she did.

And even if there was no hope, and the future was bleak, he still existed in the world.

Her thumb slid clumsily over the application, opening the contact list instead of the torch. And then, as if her guardian angel himself was watching over her, she stared at the screen.

Élise.

A person she hadn’t talked to since she left her home town.

Élise. Her little sister in all but mother. Her cousin, the best friend she’d ever had before their attempt at living together, and the descent to hell.

She pressed the dial button, heart speeding up.

The tonality rang twice. What if she didn’t answer? Thrice. A fourth time. And then…

— “Allô ?”

— “Élise. I’m sorry… I need to talk,” she croaked.

— “I’m here,” the quiet voice responded.

Three little words, so simple, so genuine. Exactly the ones she needed to hear. And so, Frances talked, and cried. And for a long time, Élise only prompted, and listened, and asked, and listened some more, and she cried with her.

Until, at last, Frances was ready to listen, her heart unburdened.

— “You will see him in three weeks,” Élise said soothingly. “Then, you will be able to mourn, or rejoice.”

Frances recoiled at the idea of Tristan leaving the church. She panicked.

— “I don't think he'll consider leaving the church."

There was a short silence on the line.

— "Don't you think he loves you too ?"

— "No… he can't… I can’t take him away from his duty, it would be criminal!”

But Élise would have none of it. Since when did she stand her ground like this?

— “It’s his call, Frances. If you truly love him, you must trust him to make the best choice for himself.”

A sniffle gave her time to consider what her cousin was trying to convey. The choice was out of her hands; there was nothing she could do about it.

— “When did you get so wise, little sister?” she half sobbed, half chuckled.

A sharp intake of breath told her the great impact the nickname had. They’d called themselves sisters for years, supported each other through many ordeals, and never judged. And this was what Élise was offering; the plain truth, without any ounce of critique.

— “When you left me to my own devices, I had to grow without leaning upon you… It was hard, but I understand now.”

Guilt mingled with grief in Frances’ chest, and she grimaced to keep the tears at bay. She’d cried for days, now, struggling in school not to show how weak she was. Would they ever dry? How many tears could someone possibly shed?

When she had left their shared apartment, two years ago, she had been ashamed to feel relieved. Sad, as well, for her friendship with Élise seemed torn to shreds. Yet, she could only watch the rooms with fondness when she passed the heavy door for the last time. Despite their disputes, much laughter had rung against those walls. Such complicity, such a connection, wasted because of different schedules and the meddling of their own past.

Because of Frances’ short temper and new boyfriend – Matthew - because of Élise’s difficulty to take distance with her education. Because of the many changes that had rocked their boat, their very different purposes in life. How eager they had been to lose themselves in petty arguments when their core was so attuned to each other.

But this was what happened to humans, right?

Seven years of friendship thrown to the wolves after a year biting each other’s heads off on trivial things. Washing up, the heaters, the price of shopping … fighting on trifle things, when, unbeknownst to both of them, it was their mothers and their lineage fighting in their stead. In the end, Élise’s demands had become stifling for a young woman who yearned for freedom. She had taken distance, abandoning her sibling to spend time at Matthew’s instead. Trying to find her own place. Fierce love had turned to anger, to resentment. Hurt, and a long process of mourning.

Yet, somehow, Frances knew when she closed the door to their common flat that she would open it again, someday. Weeks, months, years had passed. But that someday had never come. Until today. Until the need for a true, real friend was the only thing that kept her from jumping from the cliff side…

— “What did you understand?” Frances murmured, watching a crescent of moon rise in the horizon.

There was a short silence filled with the faint noises of the forest awakening for its nightly life.

— “I understand the weight I had set on your shoulders. With you gone, I had to fend for myself.”

To say Frances was impressed was an understatement. On the other side of the line spoke a young woman, full of confidence, without any demands. Someone who knew their own worth, and didn’t flaunt it to the world. Élise only graced her with her attention, and it filled her chest with a little hope. Just a spark, a tiny one in the mighty hole that threatened to swallow her whole. But one that showed her the way out of despair.

— “You have come a long way.”

— “You helped me so much at the time, like a mother. But every child needs to learn to fly. Let me return the favour.”

Her words rang true, so true that she now understood her own shortcomings. She had not been ready to take the part of a mother and fled the responsibility. But now, the frail shoulder stood, sturdy and strong, by her side. Offering love, even after all the hurt they had put themselves through. A mighty gift. A sob caught in her throat.

— “You already have” she told her, setting her head upon her arms.

A short silence followed, as if Élise considered her options.

— “I will come over next week end.”

Frances started.

— “You don’t have to.”

— “No. But I can.”

Frances smiled; it didn’t last, for her mind was already returning to the priest that held her heart in his hands. And so, unknowingly, Father Tristan had repaired the only real friendship that had meant the most to her. A miracle, performed by the grace of his existence only.