Confessions- Part One

Confessions

 

The church walls were built from a yellow sandstone, that had been eroded with age. On the roof was a steeple where the original darker wood had been replaced by lighter modern, factory-made materials. Scaffolding clung to the left side of the building, where the walls joined the roof. The sun reflected off the plain glass window on the right-hand side, burning across the dying grass of summertime and a pair of mossed over gravestones.

Father Sean Teger carefully unlocked the side door, sliding it open just a fraction. He entered, ducking under the dome-shaped entrance. The air inside the church smelt moldy and he made his way to the reading area, moved pamphlets for play groups and addiction support groups out of the way to one side, before leaning forward on tiptoes to open the window above.

Entering the adjacent kitchen, he boiled the kettle and took two teabags from the cupboard at eye-level. Father Teger put the two teabags into his small Thermos flask and poured in most of the hot water. He looked up on the wall, noticing that the tiles were beginning to chip. He reached up and opened the window above the stove. It required effort, the lock slightly stiff. On the shelf next to the stove was a picture. He looked at himself in the picture and stifled a sigh, that when it was taken he had a lot more hair. Next to him was Bishop Séadna O'Heifearnain, at the time Father O'Heifearnain, with his arm around him. He pondered how young they both looked.

Taking his flask in hand, Father Teger placed his cassock over his plain white shirt and jeans, then entered the confessional.

He sat in stillness for a long time, before looking down at his watch. It was 9:45. Sipping at his tea, he closed his eyes. For a long moment, he enjoyed the silence and continued sipping. He heard the door move scratchily on its hinge. Then a high-pitched cough, before the movement of the curtain by his head. Someone had entered the other side of the confessional.

There was another cough and a slight rustle of fabric as someone sat down. Father Teger opened his eyes and waited.

“Good morning,” Father Teger said, continuing to wait.

Another cough. “Good morning.” The speaker coughed again. “Father.” It was a female voice.

“Would you like to talk?”

Another cough. Another shuffle of fabric. “Yes, father.”

“Proceed when you are ready. I am here to listen.”

A couple of coughs this time. “It has been…” Coughing broke the speaker’s train of thought. “It has been five years since my last confession.”

“I see.” He paused. “Is there anything specific you’d like to talk about today?”

Another cough, but less forceful. “Yes, father.”

“All right. Please, take your time.”

The cough came, but the quietest thus far. “Years ago, I....”

He waited, let the silence work.

“Years ago, I… had a baby.”

He waited, but no further words came. “I see. Perhaps you can say more when you are comfortable.”

A cough, louder this time. “I was… I was very…” More coughing. “I was so… young.”

There was another pause, the shifting of material against material.

“Please continue if you wish. I am here to listen.” Teger waited, the previous sounds briefly accompanied by a further, quieter cough.

“The baby, I couldn’t…”

He waited.

“The baby, I was too…”

He waited.

“The baby, they made me…”

He waited. But this time, no further response came. “Go on if you’d like. I am here as always to listen.”

A small cough was now accompanied by a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. “They made me give away my baby.”

There were further sharp intakes of breath, as the silence sat.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. I can see how difficult it must have been. Have you ever voiced this before?”

The cough now sounded almost distant and was outweighed by the intakes of breath. “Yes.” A pause as she continued to gasp for her words. “Once.”

 

“Perhaps you could tell me about that, when you are able?”

The coughs had dispelled. The only sound now was short mouthfuls of air. “It was…”

He waited.

“It was f…”

He waited

“It was five years ago…”

He waited, as the inhalations began to become less frequent.

“It was five years ago, here. To Father O'Heifearnain”

He waited, but this time it was him who could not find the words. Teger looked down and saw he was gripping his Thermos flask with both hands, like he was hanging on to stop the word from spinning.

Father Teger went to speak. His mouth was dry. Now, he gave a cough to try and clear his throat. “What was…” He coughed again. “What was his advice?”

“He said I should forget about it. Move on with my life.”

“How…” He coughed. “Did you…” He clutched his flask even tighter. “How was that advice received?”

The silence formed between them, anticipated.  Father Teger loosened his grip on the Thermos flask, to put it down. To find there was a mild tremor in both of his hands.

“I didn’t want to…” The breathing returned. “I never could.”

Teger clasped his hands together. “So, my child, you seek absolution for giving up your baby? You will have it. God believes that you did things with the right intentions.”

There was a long pause, broken only by the staccato rhythm of quickening breaths.

“No.” A few sharp intakes of breath, a slight shuffling of material. “I seek forgiveness for listening to them.” The last word stood out amid the softness of the rest of the words.

“Them?” Teger enquired.

“My mother…” The breathing became more erratic still. “And Father O'Heifearnain.”