Giving It Up

Bob couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church for anything besides tourist curiosity. Until his parents divorced, he and his brothers had had a fairly strict Irish Catholic upbringing, but since the divorce, the brothers four had been footloose and fancy free when it came to Sunday worship. Bob wasn’t sure why he’d decided to come to the cathedral instead of one of the more modern, friendly places up the street, but this was what he knew.

He was hesitant to even touch the holy water, but he genuflected anyway and slid into one of the pews. Then he bowed his head and began to pray.

"Admhaim do Dhia uilechumhachtach,
agus daoibhse, a bráithe,
gur pheacaigh mé go trom
le smaoineamh agus le briathar,
le ghiomh,
agus le faillí --"

“You still pray in Latin, child?”

Bob lifted his head and saw a priest standing over him. “Hello, Father. I - no. Our mother was raised Irish Catholic. She taught us to pray in...Irish.”

The priest studied him for a long moment. “I haven’t seen you before, my child.”

Bob ducked his head. “It’s been a long time for me, Father.”

“And yet you are so young.” The priest studied him some more. “You look familiar. Have you lived in this parish a long time?”

“On and off, over the years.” Bob wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to feel brave, and he needed to get this out in the open before he chickened out, but there was no way he could say any of what he wanted in front of the priest.

“Perhaps that’s why I remember you. I hope St. Mary’s brings you peace. Know that I am here to listen to anything you should wish to tell me.” And the priest drifted away in a whispering of cassocks and robes.

Bob felt guilty for the relief that washed over him, but he bowed his head, finished the prayer. Then he began to whisper, feeling foolish but too desperate to care.

“If you’re listening, I’m here to make a deal. I’ll be the best Catholic boy you could ever ask for - I’ll go to catechism and confirmation classes, get confirmed and everything. I’ll give up all my vices and be nicer to my brothers and step-mother and father and --” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give up music forever, or even give up --” Carolyn. No. He couldn’t. “Give up rhythm. My voice. Please - just let me live. Make the disease go away.” He closed his eyes and prayed, Our Father, three languages. Then he opened his eyes and was out of the church before the priest could come back.

***

At three a.m., when he was hanging over the bathroom sink spitting out blood, he closed his eyes and prayed for the last time.

Please. I’ll give her up. If that’s what it takes.

***

It was months before Shelley noticed that all of his pictures of Carolyn were gone.