THEO
THE SECOND LETTER was my resignation letter to Bishop Doyle.
I spoke with Andréa on the telephone last night while standing in my window, and she, across the street, standing in hers. Soft rain fell on Manzanita as we spoke and watched one another. I was elated just seeing her there—the Bouvre house no longer dark and cold. She said we could talk about what happened, years ago. She said she wanted to know all about my last six years, and wanted to tell me about hers. “Our divergent journeys have led us back to one another,” she said as she placed her hand on the steaming window; I did the same and felt our eternal touch. Perhaps one season had ended and a new one could begin.
Clearly Teddy was my son, but not much else mattered anymore—not the past, decisions made, regrets, nothing. Just her, him, and me, if they’d have me.
But the past did need to be tidied up, starting with mine. There was only one way to purify my wound and exorcise my demons, so with the letters bound again by that bloody string, I climbed Neahkahnie to Destiny’s Perch for the first time in years.
***
Pulled by the mystic gravity of Neahkahnie’s bluff, I switch-backed through the tall grasses of the lower meadow and headed into the evergreen archways that overlooked Devil’s Cauldron and Smuggler’s Cove. Sun set on Neahkahnie’s ancient rain forest with floors of fallen needles, the sweet smell of spruce, and ocean air. I climbed to the overlook that Andréa and I named Destiny’s Perch, where the southern slope of the mountain spilled down to the beach. There, I built a bonfire, then read each letter; I finally let my tears fall. I honored that wonderful nun, Sister, and her Sisters of Mercy. Then each of the precious orphans, saying their names one at a time to the Great Grandfather, asking for blessings for them. Asking for their forgiveness.
In reading those letters I realized two things. First, I did do everything humanly possible to protect them. And second, the letters were never meant for Andréa’s innocent eyes, but for mine and mine alone. Until now I hadn’t been ready. Mrs. B was right, they’d been a container for my grief as much as Pearl’s cup for James and Imogene’s candles and garden.
For Andréa to have read all those ominous details would have caused her great distress, frightened her needlessly, and shown her a glimpse into war she need never see. No, those letters were returned to sender by divine grace. God’s hand was in the returning of the letters to their rightful owner, not Andréa’s disapproving father.
As the flames devoured the letters, I whispered Andréa’s name, asked her for forgiveness, also. “Great Grandfather,” I said lifting my arms to the midnight sky. “Release me from this agony. In the same way that bullet was purged from my body, free me from the crippling guilt and shame. I’ve been selfish, careless. Forgive me. Let Andréa forgive me for breaking our sacred contract. Now I know we have a son, a new sacred contract, and this bond will never be broken. Thank you, Father.”
A cool mist settled on my skin. I looked across the flickering waters and then along the shoreline; the surface of the earth was neither completely lit nor completely dark. As the fire crackled, sparks flew to the sky, and I settled on a fallen log to watch the world wake. Sunlight filtered through the sapphire clouds, then that illusive light from the upper atmosphere burst through and scattered toward earth—a gift from the vaults of heaven.
It was twilight. Andréa’s sacred blue hour. Sunlight radiated, illuminating the lower atmosphere with an ambient light, just like she described it. It covered half the globe as far as anybody could see. I stood from the fallen log and watched as the eternal light of God divided day from night, turned the shadow of death into the morning, and cleansed my blemished soul.
THE END