Summary


SUMMARY: She was clearly in pain. She clearly needed help. How could I deny her? How could I ignore the distress of a child of God? I couldn't. And that was my downfall.

BxE AH AU of the spiritual kind

A collaboration between Belladonnacullen & FictionFreak95.

Please note that we don't own Twilight, or Catholic prayers, this is simply a work of fanfiction.

(originally posted to FF.net 01.13.2020)


Chapter 9 - Temperance

 

Chapter 9. Temperance

Bella

I wake up early and brew a big pot of strong coffee. I start to fry a couple eggs to go with it. Alice is going to need all the help she can get if she really wants to make it to mass. And if I know Alice, she really wants to make it to mass. Then I realize I could use a bite, and there are three other adults in this house.

Before I know it, I've got bacon in the oven, and toast in the toaster, and lots more eggs going on the stovetop while I'm grooving out to Monkey Business.

What? I listen to The Black Eyed Peas sometimes.

Maybe.

Anyway, I have fun thinking about a young Father Edward getting down. I'm kind of dying to see it. I can't really picture a priest dancing, except like how Father Volturi danced with Grandma at Rose's wedding.

Which brings me to thoughts of Angela's wedding, less than two weeks away.

I haven't looked at the text from Ben that I woke up to this morning. I don't want to know what it says.

I wonder if Father Edward could smooth things over with Ben and Angela.

I wonder if he should.

He probably doesn't know all about me and Ben. And when I showed up at confession the other day, there was no way I was talking to anyone about my shit. But now I really want to let go of the guilt I've been carrying around for years.

Of course, I don't know if it's possible to truly let go of guilt - Catholic upbringing here.

But I'd like to try.

And I know who I'd like to try it with.

I have a sinking feeling that if I opened up and told him everything, it would put so much more distance between Father Edward and me. It would be one more reason I could never be as close to him as Alice is.

Which is probably good. My thoughts about Father Edward are impure, to say the least.

Despite everything, I can't help daydreaming about him standing up at the altar at Angela and Ben's wedding. I'm sure he'll be at the reception. Probably drinking. Who am I kidding, of course drinking. And maybe he'll ask Mom or Alice to dance. Maybe he'll ask me. With just the idea of it, I feel raw inside - sad and happy all at once. And I wish I was something I don't want to be at all.

"Are you crying?" Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen and clicks off the stereo.

"What? No! Slaving over a hot stove. You know how it goes," I say, dramatically wiping my forehead (along with my eyes) for cover.

Mom laughs a little and starts to hum as she putters around the kitchen, checking on things. She hums a little louder as she pulls out plates and silverware.

"Mom?"

"Mm hmm?" she asks between bars of a very catchy chorus, if I do say so myself.

"Mom?"

She stops bustling. "Yes?"

"Were you humming one of my songs?"

She smiles. "I suppose I was."

"You've even listened to one of my songs?"

"Do you know the YouTube?" she asks me. "On the computer?"

I'm pretty sure my eyes pop out of my head. "You follow me on YouTube?"

"They're all over there. One song even has ninety-six thousand likes."

"Have you liked my posts?"

"Bella, eggs! You don't want to go to all this trouble then let them burn."

I sneak glances at my mother as I try to concentrate on the pan in front of me. "Have you listened to the lyrics?" I cringe at the thought.

Mom's noncommittal as she takes the plates into the dining room to set the table, and before I know it, the rest of the family finds their way down to breakfast. Angela's ignoring me again. Dad's just glad there's food. Mom's beaming at me like I negotiated world peace, instead of just making Sunday breakfast. It's unsettling.

Alice looks positively green. All except her eyes, which are completely bloodshot. I take a seat next to her.

"You should eat," I whisper in her ear.

Alice winces then shakes her head slowly.

"I promise it'll make you feel better."

Hung over or not, my little sister manages a pretty good side eye.

"I could slip some whiskey into your coffee. You know, hair of the dog?"

"What's that, girls?" Mom asks.

"Bella's trying to get Alice drunk at breakfast," Angela says as she picks at the food on her plate.

"What?!" Mom yells. And we've gone from world peace to World War III. "Bella, are you -"

"I'm just not feeling well, Mom," Alice insists, interrupting Mom. "Bella's got nothing to do with it."

"I kind of do."

"Stop taking all the blame," Alice says.

Mom starts in again. "Alice, are you really -"

"But it's totally my fault," I say, talking over Mom.

"I was on a mission, Bella. A failed mission, but a mission anyway."

"Oh, I think you definitely got where you were going. And then some."

Angela looks between me and Alice and scowls.

"I don't know what's gotten into you girls this morning," Mom huffs.

"Maybe you should stay home, Pixie," Dad calmly suggests, using Alice's nickname like she's still four years old. Like she wasn't just drunk off her ass last night.

Alice stares into her lap. "No, I think I really need to hear what Father has to say today."

And then she takes a deep breath and tries for a bite of toast.

xXxXx

When I was little, our church seemed like it was big enough that it took thousands of people to fill the pews. It's not, though. St. Mary's can hold a few hundred people at best. It's only about half full this morning, with people mostly bunched up along the aisle.

I slide in next to Alice and hold her hand in a show of support. I know just how she feels. I can't remember a single Sunday senior year when I wasn't hungover for mass. But it's also because I'm excited. I'm about to see Father Edward up on stage, doing his thing.

I have never, ever, in my entire life been excited about mass.

God's honest truth.

Eventually organ music swells and the whole church vibrates. Back in the balcony, the choir begins to sing a hymn.

I used to annoy my mom to death with my singing when I was a kid, but she never yelled at me when I sang hymns. So I did. Over and over. Which is why I know this one - every single word of it. Still, I hum along instead of sing. My family would know I'm a total fraud.

The doors at the back of the church swing open, and I stand on tiptoe, hoping to catch a glimpse of Father. I have to laugh to myself because I'm acting like he's some rock star. But, really, I'd be just as stoked if Patti Smith or Carrie Brownstein were walking down the aisle. I have no idea whether this is some holy impulse, or just leftover nostalgia from when I was a kid, or if it's just me fucking up my relationship with a priest, of all things.

Probably me.

One by one, the people in the processional walk past our pew. Joey D'Amico from down the block is carrying Christ on the cross and another little kid's waving incense. Bishop Whitlock's behind them, holding the Gospel. And finally, I see Father Edward with his head bent in prayer, his hands clasped in front of him, wearing a long, emerald green robe.

By the time the hymn is over, Father's facing us from the altar. The color of his robe along with the light from the stained glass make his hazel eyes look like they're blazing with holy fire.

We begin the slow, rhythmic call and response. First Father, then the congregation. I'm surprised how good it feels to pray right along with everyone. I know the prayers like I know my parent's neighborhood. Like I know what happens on Christmas morning.

I can't pay attention to the first reading because I'm too busy watching Father Edward take his seat. Bishop Whitlock claps him on the knee and they whisper like kids in the back of a class. Like they're some kind of religious renegades. Troublemakers together.

Christ.

Alice nudges me with her elbow. She's not looking good. Her eyes are glassy, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She's wrapped an arm around her midsection.

"I think I -" she whispers in my ear, but then lurches from her seat, pushes past me, and runs up the aisle with a hand over her mouth.

The congregation all around us murmurs as the choir breaks into another hymn. I slip out of the pew and try to act calm as I head for the vestibule, getting there just in time to see the front doors swing shut. Outside, Alice is bent over the hedges, leaving no doubt why she had to leave.

People make extra room as they walk past on the sidewalk. Some grimace. Some laugh.

"Get a good look?" I ask a snickering boy as I kneel next to my sister, and hold her hair away from her face.

"I'm so sorry, Alice." I say. "I should have stopped you last night. Or at least tried to slow you down. I'm sorry for sucking. Lately it seems like I -"

"Oh my goodness," Alice chokes.

"I know, I just -"

"Stop it!" Alice stands up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I expect her to look like a wrung out dishrag, but instead, she looks pissed. "Not everything is about you, Bella."

"What?"

"I drank too much. I wanted to talk to you, but I chickened out. I'm vomiting."

"Yeah, but I -"

"No! My hangover is not about you. Angela's wedding is not about you. Mom's nitpicking is not about you. You have this way of putting yourself in the middle of every single thing, which is probably great if you want to be some big rock star, but it makes it kind of shitty as your little sister."

"Alice, I -"

"I just wanted to talk to you last night. About me. Just me."

"I -" I shut my mouth and struggle to think of something to say that doesn't involve the word "I".

I can't.

I suck.

Jesus.

Alice's eyes are tearing. Her hair's a mess. She still looks green.

"You look like shit," I try.

Alice smiles a little.

"And you smell like puke."

Alice chuckles reluctantly and tries smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. I help with her hair.

"You want to go home?" I ask in all seriousness.

She shakes her head.

"Then you should definitely wash your mouth out."

After a trip to the bathroom, I clutch Alice's hand in mine and push open the heavy wooden sanctuary doors. The whole congregation is standing. Father's behind the pulpit.

"...Indeed there are those who are last who will be first, and who are first who will be last."

Father Edward looks up from the Gospel, straight up the aisle. Straight at me.

It's not all about me. It's not all about me.

"This is the Gospel of the Lord," he says. Like he's talking to me. Like there's no one else in the church.

It's not all about me.

The congregation chants back as Alice and I walk down the aisle. Father watches us as I stumble over people's feet on my way back to my seat. I hold up a finger as I help Alice over a purse and a toddler. Mom coughs. Angela shakes her head. I hear Emmett chuckle from across the aisle.

When we're finally settled, I smile up at Father Edward. His eyes lock with mine for a second. Or an hour. And one corner of his mouth draws up into the smallest hint of a smile.

I watch. I wait. My heart flutters.

And the moment passes like it was never there.

It's not all about me.

"That passage from Luke was pretty grim, don't you think?" he asks us all. "There will come a time and a place for each and every one of us when it's too late. We may change our mind and decide to turn to God, but the train's already left the station. Salvation will be out of reach.

"In my mind, though, that's the long game. How do we get as many in the station as possible? Get them waiting for that train, so they don't miss it?

"Lately, I've been reminded of the parable of the prodigal son. We all know this story, yes?"

People all around me nod and murmur.

"Do you mind if I paraphrase a bit? It's the story of a kid who thought he knew more than his father. Typical teenager. Am I right?"

People laugh. Alice lowers her head. I grab her hand. This story isn't about her.

It's not about me either, I try telling myself again.

"He fought his parents tooth and nail about anything and everything."

From out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mom nodding.

"Didn't want to herd his goats. Hated his robes. Wanted new sandals like all the other kids. He was never happy, despite his parents' best efforts. Felt he was controlled and he resented it. So you all know what he did. He left."

Of course, I know this story. I probably heard it for the first time as a toddler, and dozens of times since. But I'm captivated. I notice I've inched up toward the edge of my seat.

"He demanded his share of his father's estate and took off. And you know what he did then, right? He partied. Maybe even experimented with pot a few times," Father Edward mock whispers.

Kids in the congregation grin. I hear Mom gasp. Dad shakes his head. I cover my mouth so my parents don't see me laughing.

"I'm sure he had a good time at first. I mean-" he holds his hand out and starts ticking off vices- "Money, wine, music, women. I bet they were the kind of girls his parents would never approve of."

More people laugh this time around, but Father Edward's not laughing.

He's looking at me.

Just me.

It's not about me, I tell myself again. At least, I hope it isn't. Because I am that girl.

Stupid church.

"But what happened when the money ran out and all those girls were gone? When the wine ran dry. And the music stopped?"

Father Edward's voice is quiet. "He couldn't go home because he'd had that terrible fight with his father, remember?"

And Alice was right, because I can't stop thinking Father Edward is preaching just to me. I'm sitting in the middle of a crowd, and I'm sure his eyes keep coming back to me. I'm sure this whole sermon is for me.

Which is probably the point. Father Edward wants us all to feel this way.

He's a good priest.

And according to Alice, I'm self-centered.

We're quite the pair.

"The boy thinks his family hates him. Right? They must, because he was being kind of… well, a jerk."

My dad laughs out loud as Father adds, "Of course, the boy's father might say it differently, but I wouldn't want to offend them." He nods to the statues of saints behind us.

The congregation laughs even more. Dad nudges Mom, who just shakes her head.

"And then one day the boy finds himself outside the gates of his childhood home, the very home he'd fought so hard to leave. The one where he'd told his father he didn't need him.

"He wants to leave and run away." Father glances around at the congregation, then tiptoes away from the pulpit like he's trying not to get caught. "Because he can't face his family."

Then Father comes back to the pulpit and looks straight at me. I know it's true this time because Alice sneaks a glance at me from my right, and Angela's downright staring at me from my left.

"And just when the prodigal son is about to go, the door opens. And there's his father."

Father Edward's eyes grow wide as he slowly looks up, like someone very tall is standing over him.

"'Surely he's going to refuse me,' the son thinks to himself. 'Surely he'll tell me I can't stay here.'"

"Surely," Father Edward says… to me? And I can't take it. My cheeks are burning. I'm downright warm. I close my eyes. I bow my head.

"I really think this is about me, Alice. I have a problem," I whisper in my sister's ear.

"Maybe I was wrong," she whispers back.

"What?"

"Maybe everything is about you."

Alice and I giggle, and Mom shushes us like we're kids.

I try to refocus my attention on the hot priest on stage. It's not all that difficult, really. I could stare at that man all day long.

"The son can't bear to hear his father reject him, so he turns to go. But then two huge hands grab him from behind and pull him into a hug that lasts an eternity. Holding him. Accepting him."

"Loving him," Father Edward says as he smiles across the sanctuary at me.

"For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and now, he's found."

Father Edward takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

"How do we get the people we love to the station so they don't miss the train to Life Everlasting? We could threaten them like we heard in today's Gospel, sure. But when you threaten the people you love, they tend to run away, just like the prodigal son."

He looks around at all of us out here like he's waiting for it to sink in. "I don't think that's the way to go."

"If we want our family on that train, then it's our job to welcome them home. We open our arms. We forgive. We love. And how do you make sure you're on the train? Stay humble before your family. Be brave and face them."

He takes a breath.

I take a breath.

He looks at me.

I look away.

"'But Father,' you might say, 'My family isn't like that. I can never go home.'"

"If you're feeling that way, all you have to do is look around you. St. Mary's is your family. I'm your family. Ready to welcome you. So let's all practice a little forgiveness, let's all be humble and brave. Let's all wait in the station together."

Father Edward takes his seat as the rest of the congregation begins reciting the Nicene Creed. The words lull me into a place where I'm not sure what's real and what's imagined, what's present and what's past. Mass has never felt this personal. Mass has never made me feel like crying. Mass has never been spoken just for me.

I'm tempted to receive communion when everyone lines up, but I can't. I know I can't. I don't believe any of this. The only reason I'd be in the line shuffling down the aisle would be to get closer to Father Edward. To gaze up into his eyes as he places a wafer between my parted lips.

He's trying to help me because he's a priest. If he wants to get close to me, it's because he wants to save my soul from eternal damnation. Which is something I've told myself over and over I don't believe in.

So I slip out of my pew with the rest of my family, but I walk toward the vestibule, instead of the front of the church.

I pull my phone out of my pocket as I wait for my family outside.

There's a text from my manager:

Hope your head's clearing and we'll see you back soon.

There's a text from Jake:

Saw Alice run out just now. Poor kid. Wait for me?

Was Jake even in the church? I guess he was.

And there's a text from Ben.

I can't stop thinking about you. About it. Us.

Fuck.

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