TWENTY-ONE

July 29, 2012

7:29 a.m.

Mathieu thought he’d heard a knock, glanced at the clock on the night table, decided it was too early and he’d imagined the noise. He’d had a horrible sleep, waking almost every hour, disoriented and anxious until it came back to him that he was sleeping in his childhood bed. After the events of yesterday, he wasn’t surprised his subconscious had had to psychoanalyze every minute detail. What he wasn’t looking forward to was for some doctor or psychologist to do the same.

That wasn’t happening right now, so no point dreading it. He turned over and tried to fall back to sleep. But the knock came again and he glared over his shoulder at the bedroom door.

“Get up,” Grandpa said.

“It’s only seven thirty.”

“We’re going to the nine o’clock service.”

“The what?” Mathieu sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You’re kidding?”

“I never kid about church. Best way to start Sunday.”

Mathieu fell back on the mattress and closed his eyes. Another hour of sleep would be so nice, thirty minutes, ten?

“I can still drag your butt out of bed if I have to,” Grandpa said. “I’ve never missed Sunday mass and I’m not missing it today. Won’t hurt you to come along and pray to your daughter and grandmother. Sure your parents won’t mind either.”

Mathieu had no desire to go to church, today, or ever. “Why don’t I just stay here while you go?”

“You’re coming,” Grandpa said, opening the door and poking his head in. “Think of it as part of your therapy.”

Annoyance began to simmer inside his gut. “I’m not in therapy.”

“You will be before the end of the week. Remember what I said yesterday. We’re getting you some help and there’s none better then God’s help.”

Mathieu glowered at his grandfather but knew better than to argue. He grunted and dragged himself to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, cleaned, shaved, and feeling somewhat alive, he came out of the bathroom. “I have nothing to wear.”

Grandpa stepped into the doorway, dressed in khakis and a red collared shirt.

“You’re not wearing a suit?”

Grandpa shook his head. “Most people dress fairly casually these days. Some even go in jeans and a t-shirt. God doesn’t really care how you dress.”

Having left his long pants at home, Mathieu stepped into a pair of shorts and slipped a plain t-shirt over his head, and then he and his grandfather headed off to mass.

* * *

Mathieu hadn’t been in Saint-Remi’s church in probably twenty years or more. The small parking lot was almost full but he managed to find a spot and pulled his grandfather’s Buick into it. He stepped out of the car and took a long look at the old church. Built in the 1960s it had been modern then but looked its age now. He remembered being dragged here every Sunday until he’d decided when he turned eighteen that he wasn’t going to attend anymore. The disappointment in his grandparents had almost made him relent, but he was an adult now and could decide what he did or didn’t do.

At eighteen, Mathieu had still been angry with God about killing his parents and that feeling had been revived when God had taken his daughter and grandmother. Standing in the parking lot and looking at the church, Mathieu felt his stomach close like a tight fist. His grandfather had saved him yesterday, and Mathieu understood why Grandpa had insisted he come to mass, but it didn’t make him a believer.

It didn’t make him forgive God.

Mathieu followed his grandfather who said hello and shook hands with people who had known Flore. He overheard words about his grandmother and what a fine woman she’d been. Mathieu thought he recognized some from her funeral but that day had been a bit of a blur, a bitter reminder that God kept taking the people he loved.

At the entrance, the priest, le curé Albert as he was introduced by his grandfather, welcomed Mathieu to the parish and invited him to come back again next Sunday. Mathieu smiled and thanked le curé Albert but didn’t commit to returning. His grandfather had ambushed him into coming and he just wanted to get through the service. He followed Grandpa and they found a couple seats in the second-to-last row on the right side of the church.

Mathieu’s gaze drifted to Jesus crucified on the cross.

The fist in his gut clenched a little tighter.

He looked away and didn’t see anyone he’d known as a child, or if he did, they’d changed so much he didn’t recognize them. His only memory of mass back then was that it was long, boring, and cut into his playing time. How many times had he sat here between his grandparents while some old priest droned on?

Mathieu shifted in his seat. The pews were still as uncomfortable as he remembered. The stagnant air was hot and sticky, barely moving under the three large ceiling fans. He was glad he’d worn shorts.

Le curé Albert came in from the back and the congregation stood. Mathieu, feeling out of his element, copied what his grandfather did. Soon his thoughts wandered to how much work waited for them when they got back to the house. It was just like when he was a kid. Mass was still boring.

But something happened that surprised him: le curé Albert didn’t speak in a monotone but with cadence and spirit. Mathieu found himself actually listening to the sermon, words that touched the parts of him that he’d been trying to protect, words that explored love and family loss, faith and being tested, words that resonated as if they’d been written to help him heal. He knew the sermon wasn’t aimed at him, but whenever le curé Albert looked his way, it was like he was speaking just to Mathieu, a tête-à-tête with God. Despite his resistance, Mathieu started to question his anger. He felt ashamed for the pain he’d caused Lori-Anne and embarrassed for the suicide thoughts he’d entertained as his only way out.

After mass, Mathieu waited awhile as his grandfather met more people who knew him and Grandma. The majority of parishioners were older, but there were several young families as well. Maybe this was something that should have played a bigger part in his life, and something that Nadia should have been exposed to. Not that he had any plans of actually coming every Sunday, but—

He’d think about it.

Why not?

As part of his therapy, like Grandpa had said. He could come for a while, until he was better. Maybe.

Finally, Grandpa made his way to the car and they both climbed in.

“Le curé Albert wasn’t bad,” Mathieu said.

“He does have a way with words.”

Mathieu turned to his grandfather. “He did seem to. Maybe the new generation of priests are more grounded in the real world.”

Grandpa smiled. “That could be. Young people don’t want to hear the same old thing they can’t relate to. Even old folks. I like him. He’s refreshing and your grandmother enjoyed his sermons. Some of the more traditional folks don’t like him, but sometimes we need a change.”

“How come Grandma’s service wasn’t here?”

“Most people we know don’t speak French.”

Mathieu nodded and started the car. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

“We better just get it to go. We’ve got a lot of sorting and packing to do.”

Mathieu pulled in the first Tim Hortons he saw and went through the drive-thru where he ordered two coffees and three hot breakfast sandwiches. He handed one to his grandfather and wolfed down his two.

“Hungry?” Grandpa said.

Mathieu, mouth full, nodded, then took a sip of coffee. He eased the car into traffic and headed back to his grandfather’s home.

“Sure you’re doing this?” Mathieu said.

Grandpa got out of the car and stretched. “It’s what I need to do.”

* * *

Monday morning, under Grandpa’s scrutinizing eye, Mathieu made an appointment with his doctor for the next day. Grandpa went with him but waited in the waiting room. Mathieu tiptoed around why he was here until Dr. Steinbach figured it out and after a long talk he prescribed Cymbalta and urged Mathieu to go see Dr. Gilmour.

“So?” Grandpa said once they were outside.

Mathieu held the prescription paper between his fingers, waving it like a white flag in surrender. “I have to get this filled and come back in a month to see how I’m doing.”

“Good. And?”

“He gave me the number of a psychologist, a Dr. Melinda Gilmour. He said she’s really good at helping people who . . .”

Grandpa gave a reassuring nod. “It’s okay son.”

“I hope you’re right, because nothing feels okay. What if these damn pills don’t help or Dr. Gilmour can’t help?”

“You love your daughter?”

Mathieu felt scrap metal slicing and cutting as it fell to the bottom of his gut. “What sort of question is that?”

“Put your faith in her and everything will be okay.”

Faith wasn’t something he had, but if somehow his beautiful daughter could help him come to terms with her death, maybe then he’d start believing in miracles. “I’ll give this a try, for Nadia.”

Grandpa gave him a gentle slap on the back. “Your grandmother would be pleased.”