Forgiveness 4 You

MY WORKSPACE ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR WAS A SMALL MEETING room next to the lavatories that shuddered every time someone flushed. I had a laminated wood table and three adjustable office chairs that I positioned so two of them faced each other. This reminded me of my years of Pre-Cana counseling, and I wondered if Madeline and Isaac had considered a couples rate for my forgiveness services: spouses who had, for instance, conspired to cheat a relative out of an inheritance. I started to say something, then remembered that I didn’t have a stake and shut my mouth.

“I know it’s not ideal,” Madeline said, adjusting the shade of the floor lamp that sat in a corner. “We’re looking at spaces a couple blocks away, in a building that has a lot of law offices and psychologists. But for now …”

“I’ll need to leave by one o’clock,” I said, more gruffly than I intended.

“No problem. We’ll cancel the appointment after this, and I’ll make sure there’s someone here to drive you. Oh, and I’d like you to take this.”

Madeline handed me the black phone she’d been juggling, which I’d assumed was hers.

“It’s a smartphone,” she said. “We need to be able to get in touch with you.”

“I know. But this one’s got all our numbers and email addresses programmed in. There’s a calendar function, which is how you’ll know when we’ve got you scheduled to see someone. We’ll send you text alerts. You text, right?”

I shook my head, and Madeline sighed. But there was some tiny part of her, I sensed, that was pleased.

“Don’t worry,” she said, though I hadn’t been. “One of us will show you later. It’s easy. Six-year-olds can do it, literally. But right now …” She grasped the phone I was holding and turned it so she could see the time. “Oh! We have to hurry. I’ll be right back. Please don’t leave.”

She disappeared for a moment while I wondered about that strange last request. She came back with a file folder that held several forms. I could see they were hastily drawn up and copied, providing me the most basic information. Sandra Nelson, age 51, married, resident of Winnetka. Even this felt like too much. My first “client” had become a two-dimensional cutout of a person before even walking into the room.

“Okay, I’m going to leave so you can do your magic.” Madeline was simultaneously checking her watch and backing out of the room.

“Wait.” I shut the folder and put it on the table, resolving never to look at another of those forms again. “I want to explain about Jem.”

“No.” I know how to project my voice, and this one syllable made her stop. “It’s important to me. She was here in Chicago, in my neighborhood, there was some mix-up with the place she was staying. All I did was give her a …”

“Gabe.” This time it was Madeline who halted me, but by uttering my name so softly that I had to strain forward to hear what she would say next. “It’s really. Not. My business. There’s nothing for you to explain. You’re an adult and so was your friend. End of story.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have showed up unannounced at your front door, and that won’t happen again. But beyond that, I like you. I think you should live your life.”

I yearned for the weeping Madeline I’d first met. This one, with her constantly changing looks and mood that ranged from steely to kittenish, only confused me. But I nodded as if we’d come to some resolution, and that’s when a portly woman with a platinum bob spoke up from the door. “I’m Sandy Nelson,” she said. “Am I too early?”

“Not at all!” Madeline stuck her hand out, and the two women shook. “You’re right on time. And we’re delighted that you’re Gabe’s very first client. Congratulations!”

This made me it sound as if I’d been won in a grocery store raffle, but I shook Sandy’s hand as well and gestured for her to sit. She cleared her throat as Madeline closed the door.

“I’m here to talk about my friend, Carol,” Sandy began abruptly. “I’ve known her since sixth grade. She has MS.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Like the sacrament of confession, this forum felt bloodless to me: people presenting only their sins without any context that I could use. I realized with a start that one of the things I liked about the random bookstore or taxicab encounter was their feeling of intimacy. This arrangement pushed me backward. Now, if I wasn’t careful, I’d start muttering about Hail Marys. I resolved to engage with this brusque woman and made eye contact, but this only prompted her to blink rapidly, as if I’d turned on a bright interrogation light.

“We were very close for, um, I suppose thirty years.” Sandy was clutching her purse in her lap, as if she were sitting on a bus.

“Tell me,” I said, leaning back in my chair. This actually prompted her to relax and put her purse on the floor, which I counted as a small victory.

“Carol stood up for me at my wedding. She’s godmother to my oldest, and I’m godmother to hers. We were in the same book club together. Once, oh about ten years ago, Carol and her husband and Ron and I went on a cruise. To Alaska. It was spectacular. Have you ever been?”

“No. I haven’t.” Alaska did sound spectacular right now. I wondered if there was a market for me up there. Probably not. I read once that it was a state that already had too many men—not unlike the priesthood. “So you and Carol are very good friends.”

“Carol was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in ‘04. It was a shock! But Ron and I were right there for her. Every step of the way. I remember even the night they found out, we went over to the house and talked and talked …”

“That sounds very supportive,” I said. But I was beginning to worry. Something basic was missing; I felt nothing from this woman. Sandy could have been an actress sent by Isaac to test me. In fact, from what little I knew about him, this was something he might very well do.

“It was little things at first.” If she was acting, “Sandy” was pretty good. She played the frumpy woman with great skill, and her voice had that infuriating mosquito’s buzz of constant complaint. “Carol’s vision got blurry. She said her hands felt funny. Tingly, kind of. And she was tired. But we hung in and prayed a lot, thinking things would get better.”

“Better? I must admit, I don’t know much about multiple sclerosis but isn’t it … progressive? I mean, doesn’t it just get worse?”

“Exactly!” Sandy looked pleased for the first time since entering the room. “And in Carol’s case, it got worse so fast. Two years later, she was using a walker and even then, she’d get off balance and fall, so if you were out to lunch with her you had to be constantly worried about how she was sitting on her chair. You had to get up and leave your food and go to the ladies room with her.

“Then …” Sandy shifted her eyes so she was focused on the blank wall. Her face reddened. “The ladies room became a non-issue, because she lost all her bladder control. And the other one, too. You know …” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Bowel.”

“It was. Awful for Carol and, frankly, awful for whoever was with her and had to deal with it. I have changed more than my share of adult diapers, let me tell you.”

“You think so?” Sandy looked at me hopefully then shook her head. “Anyway, not anymore.”

We sat in uncomfortable silence until I remembered this was a timed session. Minutes were slipping away. “Did Carol die?” I asked, mustering as much care as I could.

Sandy seemed grateful I’d prompted her, so I kept going. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

“Nothing, really.” She took a breath, as if preparing for a high dive. “Nothing except her MS. And I just got to the point where I just couldn’t … take it … anymore.”

“You have to understand, I had kids at home. Well, my daughter. She was still in high school. My son had gone off to college. But there was my husband, too, and he’s a handful. We’ve been married for a long time, and we both work in the city, so by the time we get home it’s late and I have to make dinner, clean up, all that.”

“What …?” I was about to ask what this had to do with Carol, but Sandy just kept going.

“My parents are in Arizona, and my mother had a stroke last year. It turned out to be something small, thank God. It didn’t even cause damage, because Dad called 911 right away and they gave her that drug. You know? The one that stops strokes.” She looked at me, and I shook my head. “Never mind. Anyway, I flew out there to help my parents, and once I was away from Chicago, I realized how heavy this thing with Carol had become.”

There was a knock on the door, and a girlish voice I didn’t recognize said, “Five minutes, Father.”

“Well, that’s it,” she said, picking up her purse from the floor. “When I got back from Phoenix, I just never contacted Carol again. She called a few times, and I let the machine pick up, and I, um, never called her back. It needed to be done. The whole situation was just too much. But sometimes … I feel guilty. I have trouble sleeping. And I need you to help me put it, you know, in the past.”

Usually, I knew exactly what to say. With Madeline and Raj and even Chase, who were harder on themselves than any judgment they might seek, my part had been obvious. I hadn’t even had to think. Now I sat for thirty precious seconds reconstructing Sandy’s story in my head, looking for my role here and concluding, finally, that I had none.

“Yes.” Sandy sounded wary. “But I’ve heard through the grapevine that she’s gotten very bad. She’s in a wheelchair now. Mostly confined to home.”

“I think you should go see her,” I blurted. Three minutes and counting. “You’re asking for forgiveness from the wrong person. The source of your guilt is, well, ongoing. She’s sick and probably very scared. You can go to her and spend an afternoon, give her your friendship, admit your mistakes.” I paused and took a breath. How to wrap this up?

Sandy appraised me with cool, unblinking eyes. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I’m not comfortable doing that,” she said. “It would be too awkward. We haven’t spoken in, oh, ten months, and I think I’m just going to leave well enough alone.”

She waited, pointedly, like a customer who had not yet been handed her dry cleaning. I swallowed and wished I’d brought a bottle of water into this little room. “I’m sorry,” I told her for the second time. “But I can’t offer you anything. I understand your dilemma is difficult, but it’s not …” The temperature in the room, or in my head, had risen at least five degrees. “Look, you still have a chance to make this right, and I sincerely encourage you to do so. But I cannot absolve you of a sin you have the power to change.”

“A sin?” This syllable cut the air between us like a blade. “I would hardly call it a sin! I’m not even Catholic.”

I closed my eyes, briefly, wondering where my timekeeper had gone and why she wasn’t pounding on the door insisting we stop. At precisely that moment, a vibration started in my front pocket where I’d stowed the phone Madeline gave me. The sensation it produced in my groin further threw me off my game.

“Perhaps that was a poor choice of words.” I said, rubbing my forehead and promising myself glasses of water—whole pitchers full—once I was out of this room. “But I just …” The knock finally came, more timid this time than before, but I nearly dropped to my knees in thanks. “I’m afraid I cannot give you what you want. Please see whoever you paid for this, uh, meeting and tell them I said you should get a full refund.”

“Fine.” Sandy rose, clutching her purse to her body, shaky on her low heels. I reached a hand out to steady her, but she moved quickly away and to the side. “I think this is a very poor way to run a business,” she said. I ached when I heard the thick tears in her voice.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” I wanted more than anything to stay in my chair staring at the carpet’s green nap. But she was a woman, standing and poised to leave the room. So I rose and held out my hand. I was surprised when she took it.

“I wish you all the best, Mrs. Nelson,” I said. Then the high voice came again from the other side of the door.

“Hey, Father Gabe? I’m sorry to keep bugging you. But you’re, like, going to be late for work?”

Scott—

I just had the best idea! At least, I think it’s a great idea, but I’d love your expert opinion. Here’s the story:

While I was eating lunch with Candy, Madeline came up and asked if I would use her car to drive Father Gabe to some bookstore where he works down south. I’m afraid even to drive that way, but of course I said yes. She was in a big rush and really rattled—which is unusual for Madeline. I think she has a crush on Father Gabe. She doesn’t stand a chance with him: She’s way too old, and there are hordes of younger, more attractive women that think he’s hot (Candy said she’d do him in a minute). Not me, of course. You don’t have to worry But Madeline’s smart, and I think she senses that I’m not going to compete with her. So anyway, she told me to go up to Floor 8 and knock on this random door at exactly 12:45 on the dot, then give him five minutes to finish what he was doing and knock again.

So I did that. I knocked. And I gave him the five-minute warning, but he didn’t come out. So finally I knocked again, and then this lady came, I swear, running out of the room like he’d done something terrible to her. I looked inside, and there was Father Gabe, all sweaty and holding on to the table like he was going to have a heart attack. He asked me for some water and I got him some, and after he drank it I felt better because he didn’t look so much like he was going to keel over.

So we went down to the garage and got in the car (and I start driving toward this place that is honest to God in gangland), and I asked him about the woman—if she was okay. He said he hoped so, but it had been a “difficult” meeting. He was really stressed so I tried to distract him. I told him about my parents and their church and how they’re waiting to hear about the new pope, how we all hope it’ll be someone who lets people use birth control and says women can be priests. And he actually smiled when I said that! So we started talking for real, and he said he’s hoping this pope will go back to supporting “service,” though I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But I acted like I did, and he told me about his old church where they used to feed homeless people and how he could make a Thanksgiving dinner for 500 people.

He was inspiring, Scott. There are all sorts of things we don’t know about Father Gabe, such as the fact that he used to go out and save homeless people in the middle of winter. He’s like some hero who comes out in secret or at night. And you wouldn’t believe how he gets when he’s talking about stuff like this. He’s actually kind of cute! (Not as cute as you, of course ;)) But he has a really nice smile, and I started picturing him in his robes. With a great haircut and some funky glasses, I think he’d have a ton of social media appeal. There’s something very Clark Kent about him.

So here’s my idea: We should set up a Facebook fan page for Father Gabe and build a whole campaign around making him look like a superhero. It can be subtle: just the way he stands and maybe even a phone booth in the background. It’s a little bit funny but it’s also a little bit true, you know? Like his superpower is coming in to take away people’s guilt and suffering and cure their lives.

Ted already has a Facebook page and a “like” badge started for the business, and that’s great. But I think this should be like the fan page for Justin Bieber or Michelle Obama. We could run little video clips of Father Gabe standing like Superman while saying quotable things and I bet anything they’d go wild on YouTube.

So what do you think? Isn’t that a great idea? And what are we doing on Friday? I can totally get rid of my roommate if you want to come to my place.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

Joy

Hi Ted—

I had this idea last nite as I was going to sleep. What if we made a Facebook fan page for Fr Gabe and made him look a little bit like a superhero? It can be subtle: just the way he stands and maybe even a phone booth in the background. It’s a little bit funny but it’s also a little bit true, you know? Like his superpower is coming in to take away people’s guilt and suffering and cure their lives.

He’s not a bad-looking guy when Madeline gets him cleeaned up and we could dress him up in those preist robes and make some YouTubes of him blessing people and stuff. I think making him like som rock star online mght be the way to go.

Sorry if I’m stepping on your toes. I just thougt it was a good idea that I shd really share.

Scott

I have to admit, that’s a pretty brilliant idea, and I like to think I would have come up with it myself eventually. We’ll need to get Father Gabe in here soon for a photo shoot. I’ll need budget for that (would you maybe put in a good word with Madeline?). Plus, it would be really funny if we add a mash-up; nothing too outrageous, maybe Gregorian chant with DMX’s “Lord Give Me a Sign”. I’m going to get on this right away.

Thanks, Scott. I’m sorry I jumped all over you about the What Not to Wear thing. Glad we were able to start fresh.

Ted

@MMM: Hey, did you see the email Scott sent Ted? It’s a really great idea! Surprised that idiot thought of it.

@IBeck: Yeah. But he’s a slimy motherfucker. You see he bcc’d us? And I’m pretty sure he stole it. There was a section in the middle that wasn’t misspelled. Cut and paste job.

@MMM: Let’s pretend we never got the email and give Ted credit. Drive him crazy.

@IBeck: Sounds like fun. But we’ve got other things to worry about.

@MMM: Whaaaaattttt?

@IBeck: I got a vm from Sandy Nelson this a.m. She was angry. Something strange happened w/Fr. Gabe yesterday.

@MMM: Bad?

@IBeck: Apparently. He refused to forgive her. Offered her a refund instead.

@MMM: Why?

@IBeck: No clue.

@MMM: U going to refund Sandy the $$?

@IBeck: If she tells me what happened.

@MMM: Hmmmm. Not good PR for 1st time.

@MMM: I’ll talk 2 Gabe. Maybe we set some ground rules?

@IBeck: Like?

@MMM: Customer’s always right? No, that won’t work. What if he gets a murder confession? Or a pedophile???

@IBeck: Now you’re just making up bad shit. Relax.

@MMM: K. I guess that can wait. But I’m putting our other beta clients on hold, til we work this out.

@IBeck: Sounds good. You on board with the superhero motif?

@MMM: Love it. Set it up. But remember, ALL TED’S IDEA.

@IBeck: U R an evil woman.

@MMM: I know …

I could not believe it when I got the memo from Ted this morning saying he was going to make a FB fan page for Father Gabe where he comes off like a superhero. I honestly believed that we had both come up with this great idea at exactly the same time because THAT’S HOW STUPID I AM.

But I went to talk to him, to see if I could help and maybe give him some of my other ideas from yesterday. And when I told him I thought of this, too, he looked at me like “oh you poor thing,” and he asked if I’d told anyone. I almost said no, because you’ve got me trained to protect your farce of a marriage. But I said yes, that I mentioned the idea to you. And then he showed me your email. Scott, you are such a fucking asshole (literally) and I can’t believe I let you do that to me the other week. For the record, I hated every second of it and spent the whole time praying for you to be done.

I told Ted there’s no way you’ll let him take all the credit. For sure, you let Madeline and her gay boyfriend know about this somehow. Forget about your surprise on Friday. I never want to see you again. And be prepared for all your work on Forgiveness4You to tank. It’s a shame that other people have to suffer, too. But I’ve never been comfortable with this whole campaign, and I think it might be time to do the right thing.

By the way, I was looking through your phone log the other night. I have your wife’s cell number, and if you breathe a word to anyone at Mason & Zeus about me not being on board with F4Y, I’ll call and tell her everything.

Mommy—

It’s me. I’m writing to you on a Hotmail account I set up for private stuff and this definitely qualifies.

Scott, that guy I was sort of seeing, turned out to be a jerk just like you said he would … Okay, you didn’t actually say it, but I could tell you were thinking it and you were right. He’s still married and even if his wife is a shrew and a total shopaholic (which I’m not sure I believe any more) it was wrong of me to get involved with him and I know that now. It’s over and I promise I won’t make that mistake ever again.

And Forgiveness4You, which I not only named but thought of a huge, great idea to market, is about to launch. But I’m streaming the pope election on CNN, and it’s really getting to me! I see why you and Daddy have stuck with the church even if some of the priests turned out to be molesters. Because there’s something really beautiful and historic, and I’m thinking now that maybe we shouldn’t be turning confession into a business. Because it’s really only for true believers, right? And it’s not about money. I don’t care what Madeline and Isaac say.

I’m sure I’ll say this over and over throughout my lifetime, but you were right about everything and I’m so glad I have a mom like you.

Love,

Joy

Hi Sweetheart—

I only have a minute because I volunteer today at the Somali refugee center.

I’m glad you’re done with the married man. Those things always end badly for the woman—believe me, I know. Someday we’ll talk.

As for the priest project, I think you should do what you know in your heart is right. But remember, we all have to make compromises to survive. For instance, your dad hated representing Monsanto in that big class-action suit a couple years ago, but he did it because it was his job and we had a daughter (you!) in an expensive college. So sometimes you have to weigh a lot of factors …

Must run. I’m in charge of opening up the food pantry, and there was a bit of a panic last time our ladies showed up and the doors were closed.

Love,

Mom