Inevitable and Only(28)

Then everyone lined up in the aisles and began a slow procession to the front for Communion. I stood uncertainly next to Elizabeth.

“You don’t have to go up with me,” she whispered, “but if you do, just cross your arms over your chest, and he’ll give you a blessing instead of the Host.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted a blessing, but it seemed rude to exit the line at that point, so I waited my turn and then stood in front of the priest with my arms folded across my chest. He bowed his head and made the sign of the cross over me, and mumbled some words. Then I turned and saw Elizabeth beckoning to me, and we went back to our pew.

I thought that was the end, but there were more prayers, and then finally the whole thing was over.

“So what did he think when I went up there with my arms folded?” I asked, as we walked out the door. “Do other people do that sometimes?”

“Oh, only if you haven’t taken your first Communion yet, or if you’re not Catholic, or if you’re … indisposed to receive Communion.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, just, you know. If you’ve committed a mortal sin.”

“A mortal sin?” I repeated. “What the hell kind of sin is that?”

Elizabeth looked around quickly, and I wondered if swearing on the steps of the church might itself be a mortal sin.

She said, “Like if you’re, you know, living with someone you’re not married to, or if you’ve had, um, impure thoughts.”

“Elizabeth!”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said quickly. “The priest wasn’t judging you, I promise.”

“Well, couldn’t I have worn a sign or something? Like, an ‘I’m not Catholic’ sign? So he’d know I’m not a mortal sinner? Not that wearing an ‘I’m not Catholic’ sign is a great idea, in fact it’s super offensive, but—”

“It’s really not a big deal,” she interrupted. “You’re also not supposed to take Communion if you’ve forgotten to fast since the night before. So it’s not just, you know. Sexual stuff.”

“Great,” I grumbled.

“Well, you don’t have to come back next week, I know the way now. I won’t get lost.”

“There were some parts I liked,” I admitted. “I liked some of the stuff he was saying about pacifism during the speech.”

“The homily?”

“Is that what it’s called? The part where he talked about our responsibilities to our neighbors.”

“Yeah, that was the homily. It’s different every week. This priest was a lot more liberal than our priest back in Ohio.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as a liberal priest.”

“Oh, lots of Catholics are Democrats.”

“Well, right,” I said, pretending I knew that.

“And the new pope is practically a Communist.”

I snuck a peek to make sure she was joking, and saw that she was grinning at me again. Elizabeth seemed to be in a much better mood today. She seemed—lighter somehow, as if she’d set down a hefty backpack she’d been carrying.

“You seem happier,” I said, without thinking.

Her smile fell, and she shrugged. “I felt closer to Mom this morning, during Mass, than I have—in a long time.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. About your mom.”

“Thanks.”

We walked in silence for a few moments.

“I’m sure this is really, really hard for you,” I tried again. “Coming here, living with a whole family you’ve never known. It’s hard for all of us. But I’m sure it’s way harder for you, with …” I trailed off, not wanting to say “with your mom dying.”

“I didn’t think I’d get along with Ross at all,” Elizabeth said, catching me by surprise. “I was sure I’d hate him, actually. Because my mom never talked about him when I was little. I knew that she’d gotten pregnant and left without telling him, but I always thought that he’d come looking for us, that he’d find us someday. I know now that he didn’t know I existed, but … that was hard for me to understand when I was younger.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

“And those days in the hospital, with my mom—at the end—that was pretty horrible. Talking to Ross on the phone for the first time during all that—I hated it. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to hate him. But then we talked a lot more, while we were cleaning out the apartment, on the train coming down here, and—it was like we’d always known each other. And just hadn’t seen each other in a long, long time. I don’t know.” She looked at me, and I was shocked to see tears rolling down her face. Her voice wasn’t wobbly at all. “It’s like he really is my long-lost dad. And somehow that makes it a little bit easier that Mom is—” But there her voice broke, and she didn’t finish her sentence.

Instead, she pulled something out of her pocket. Two somethings. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

My mouth must’ve dropped open, because she glanced at me quickly, then looked away. “I don’t care what you think about me,” she said, lighting up. “I kind of picked it up when everything was happening. I’ll quit. Soon.” She took a deep drag, then blew out a long stream of smoke. “But if you could please not tell …”