Father Brentwood had brown eyes that locked onto me. Maybe it was some kind of trick priests learned in seminary school where they make their eyes infinitely deep. He touched my forehead and didn't need to say a word, but I heard his soft deep voice anyway, "I understand what you're going through. It must be so hard. I'm here for you."
When he moved the wafer closer to my mouth all the ambient noise, the sniffles and coughs, footsteps on the granite floors, and the choir singing went quiet. I bit my lip and looked down. Who was I? Hundreds of people filled the church, and in that moment, it was only two of us. I didn't deserve to have this, to have him see me so perfectly. It was like having the eyes of God on me, stripping me naked, exposing me for who I really am. Gently sliding my tongue out, I accepted the wafer. He whispered the words, "Body of Christ."
I shuttered to the sound of his voice. My whole body tingled. I responded with, "Amen."
Returning to my seat, the further away I got from the priest the colder I felt. The sounds of the parishioners, the singing, and all the footsteps gradually came into focus. It was like being ripped from heaven back into reality. I couldn't help but glance at my phone. Hospice only watched Bill for a couple hours a day. The rest of the time I was on feeding and diaper changing duty. During the week, I spent my two hours shopping and running errands, rushing to get back to the house to start dinner before the kids got home. Five minutes late and the Jamaican nurse would glare at me. I'd always apologize, like it's my fault my husband has ALS. Like it's my fault I am barely holding it together. I mean what am I supposed to do? When your husband needs 24-hour care when am I supposed to sleep? I can't just help the kids with their school, make dinner, clean, and sleep all while bill 's now computerized voice says, "Allie, I need to be changed." "Allie, scratch my back." "Allie, I'm hungry."
Three years ago, we went to Disney as a family for Christ's sake, and now the closest I got to a vacation was the time I had in between hitting the snooze button and the alarm going off again. I take my vows seriously. I meant it when I said in sickness and in health.
I remained in my pew as the rest of the parishioners filled out. None of them made eye contact with me. In the first year they all wrapped their arms around Bill and I. "We're praying for you. God will provide." The second year, when Bill stopped coming to church, everyone asked me, "How's Bill doing. Give him our best." I'd always respond the same way. "He's doing as good as can be expected. I'll pass on your well wishes." A month ago, I exploded when someone came at me with that same goddamn question. "You want to know how Bill's doing? I'll tell you. Well, he finally lost the ability to speak. He uses his eyes to talk to a computer, and that computer spits out some godawful voice. He shits himself twice a day. He has bed sores all over his back. And to top it off, he cries himself to sleep every goddamn night."
After that people stopped asking me about Bill, but Father Brentwood pulled me aside. Before he could speak I started, "I'm sorry for my outburst, father. It's just-"
"Allie, I'd like you to come to confession."
"I don't know, Father. I don't know what I'd confess. I haven't been since my first communion. I mean-"
"Sometimes confession isn't as much about what sins you've committed," Father Brentwood interrupted. "Sometimes it's about the release you get from talking. You seem like you need a release. Please, confess to me. I'll see you next Sunday." He walked away before I could think of a reason not to come.
I stayed kneeling in my pew pretending to pray, occasionally opening my eyes to watch the people go into the confessional. I wanted to be last. I wanted to know the church was empty. One by one, they went in and then came out, stopping to kneel and say a few Our Father's and Hail Mary's. I wonder if each of them felt like I did? Did they all feel like they have a special relationship with the Father? I mean, he must counsel fifty to a hundred people a week. Are we all special to him?
The first time in Confession I had no idea what to say. I babbled, "I don't know father. I know I sin. I just don't even really know where to begin... I hate my kids. I can't believe I'm saying that, but I do. Every day they come to me for one thing or another. And sometimes I just want to scream at them. Go ask your father! Oh, wait, you can't. Don't you get it. I'm all alone here. I am doing this every day all by myself. And then I feel so much guilt - so much guilt. I can't even quantify it. It is like a mountain of guilt resting on my chest. I can't breathe. I can't sleep. I have no appetite. Bill's the one with ALS and I've lost almost as much weight as he has. We had such a good life together, ya know? He was always there to help. We were a team when it came to raising our kids. We both worked hard so we could take vacations and relax. Now there's no time for relaxation. Sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom with the shower running and just cry. Other times -I can't believe I am telling you this - sometimes I go in there and masturbate. I know that's a sin, but I haven't been able to have sex with my husband in two years, Father. It isn't even a relationship anymore. He's my third kid, except this kid weighs 180 pounds and was never potty trained. I know it's awful, Father. I know it's the worst, but sometimes I catch myself wishing that death do us part would come a little sooner."
I said a few more things, then just devolved into tears. Father Brentwood stayed silent, allowing me to cry everything out. I cried and cried, not even thinking about the nurse in my home pacing around waiting for me to get back, not even thinking about how pathetic I must have looked. When my sobs died down to whimpers, and those whimpers died down to sniffles, he spoke. "I do not hear any sins today. All I hear is a woman who's been given more than is fair. I know I'm supposed to tell you that God has a plan but hearing that won't help. And whether he has a plan or not, it doesn't really matter. All that matters is you're hurting. You feel alone. It's OK. You're not evil. You're not wrong. Anyone in your position would be feeling like you do. And I don't think most of them would be able to hold it together like you have. You don't need God's forgiveness, today. All you need is His love and compassion. Go home; come back to confession next week and confess to me again."
The week that followed my first confession, when the kids needed help with school I did it without raising my voice. I went online to find some new recipes I've never made before. I smiled at the other shoppers, walking through the aisles of the grocery store thinking about how amazing dinner was going to taste. I sang to Bill as I bathed him, reassuring him that I'm his wife, now and forever. Not once did I need to hide in the bathroom sobbing or masturbating. I slept better. I ate better. I had the energy to cope with it all. I even had time to take a bath. I shaved my legs and armpits for the first time in a month. The closer I got to Sunday the more I imagined Father Brentwood. I pictured his brown eyes, his tall trim body. I thought about his soft honest face. I envisioned his large hands holding the communion wafer and placing it in my mouth. I couldn't wait to be on my knees in the confessional, hearing his calm soothing voice, telling me I am forgiven, telling me that I am loved.
