God's gift

At loss

1. 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 heart 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. And a hot 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"

— "No, I don't", he confirmed.

— "I don't want you to be my therapist", she whispered.

— "I will be your friend, then."

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

— "Until then, you need to take care of yourself. Everything will be allright"

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 !