“Going over to help with the bailing,” John announced after breakfast the next morning.
“Want some extra help?” Joe asked.
“Not today, son,” his father replied. “Rest off a bit. And it will give Mum some time with you, without the rest of the mob. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks Dad.”
“Like another coffee?” his mother asked as his father drove off.
“Sure would!” Joe answered. “You know, Mum, you make the best coffee in the world.”
“Turn your Irish off,” she laughed in reply. Then added, “I think we’ll have this out the back – a great view and a good spot at this time of the day.”
As they settled on the settee in the spot his mother had chosen, Joe exclaimed, “I see what you mean, Mum. This is terrific!”
The golden plains rolled on for miles until they collided with the purple-blue mountains, far in the distance. The smoothness of the flat, golden carpet was broken periodically by large patches of bottle brush and tall gum trees.
“What a wonderful spot!” he added.
“Yes,” she laughed. “It is great, isn’t it? And the funny thing is, we didn’t plan the house for the view – it just turned out that way.”
The sun moved higher in the sky as they exchanged news of interest to each other – she, of the family and their activities, especially those of the grand-children at home and at school, he, of the lighter times in Vietnam and of the orphanage and its inhabitants.
Joe was ready to explain more of the latter when his mother turned to him, “Joe, what about you? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Me!” Joe tried to laugh. “Nothing more to tell Mum. We left after we finished the building.”
“It’s okay, Joe. I don’t want to pry. I know there is something very wrong. And I’m here if you need me.”
“Mum, why do you say that? Do I look as though something’s wrong? I’m fine.”
“No, Joe. You look fine. Don’t worry about your looks. You have masked well. It’s just – well I suppose, perhaps mothers feel things. I don’t want to pry – just – I’m here.”
For the past few minutes, as his mother talked, Joe could feel his mask cracking, slowly at first, and with each crack, inner bottled feelings beginning to bubble out. He began to rise, but it was too late. He sat down again as he unsuccessfully endeavoured to stem the flow of tears. Her arms went around him as he leaned his head on her shoulders. The grief that had been bottled for so many weeks silently flowed. Occasionally cockatoos and galahs sang their songs as they darted overhead; otherwise, silence.
Minutes later, he pulled back. “Sorry Mum,” he whispered.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” She took his hand.
“Okay, Mum, you won’t be impressed by your youngest son. But here goes…”
In broken sequences, he told his story.
“I’m lost, Mum. I don’t know what to do.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Joe, for confiding in me. I wish I could take some of this pain from you.” She stopped for a moment, for a quick inner prayer – please God, help me!
“Joe, honey,” she continued, “I wish I could say I know how you feel, but I don’t. I wish I had all the answers for you, but I don’t. But there are a couple of things I do know. Firstly, you are over-taxing yourself with guilt and most, if not all, of this guilt is unreal. You broke the man-made law of priestly celibacy. If there was any real guilt in that, you’ve already sought and been granted Church forgiveness.
“Any guilt you feel regarding Naomi’s actions or well-being is unreal – get rid of it. Any guilt you feel as a priest having the ‘wrong’ sort of feelings is unreal – get rid of it. Feelings are neither right nor wrong – any guilt towards feelings is unreal – get rid of it. As I said, the guilt you are carrying is unreal!
“Depressed!” she continued. “Of course you’re sad and depressed, even though it’s not obvious. Some people live their whole lives in a depressed state. Others, like you, lock them up inside. Left there too long, they fester and cause unhealthy results. There is help, Joe. For a healthy life, sometimes we have to close the door on the past, hard and all as it is – not bang it shut in anger or sorrow or it will fly open again. No, close the door gently on the past. There may be a window in that door where we can look back on the past and perhaps remember something special there. But the door is closed, the past is behind us, we move forward.”
She squeezed his hand again. “Sorry Joe. I’ve talked too much.”
“No, Mum,” he answered quietly. “You have really helped me. You remember Dave who started off in our first year and left at the end of it? We’ve always kept contact, if only at Christmas. He is an up and coming psychologist. He’s booked me in at his clinic for some times next week. Now that you have helped me open that ‘locked door’, for the first time I can see a ray of hope.”
He took her hands and stroked them gently. “Thank you Mum. You have given me life once again.”
It was she who now needed to run before more emotions engulfed her.
“A mother’s call,” she smiled as she rose and turned toward the house. “Dad will be home for lunch soon.” Just as suddenly she turned back. He hugged her as her tears told of the love and care for her son as no words could convey.
Minutes later, as arm in arm they turned towards the kitchen, John appeared at the back door.
“Well, some people have a great life,” he laughed. “I’d say you two have been lazing around here, drinking coffee and doing nothing else!”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” Joe covered well. “Mum and I have had a lovely restful morning. Aren’t you jealous, Dad?” he added with a laugh.
“Sorry, John. We lost track of time. I’ll have your lunch ready soon.” Mary was now in control of her feelings.
“Don’t be sorry, love,” John interrupted. “It’s great to see you two having quality time together. And there’s no hurry for lunch – I’m finished for the day.”
The days flew past far too quickly for Joe’s family. For Joe, coming home and enjoying time with his family and extended family, including the many games with his nieces and nephews, would always be a special remembered time in his life.