Silent Night, Holy Night

Silent Night, Holy Night

A puff of snow follows me in through the heavy church door. I brush the flakes off my trench coat as I make my way up the aisle. It’s between services and a couple people sit in the pews praying, no doubt taking advantage of the lull. My wet shoes squeak against the shiny tile floor and I try hard to avoid looking directly at the Jesus hanging off the wall in front of me. No disrespect but a hippie in a diaper nailed to the wall is weird. My shoe squeaks and a kneeling woman, head on hands, cuts me a look.

I flutter a smile and mouth, “Sorry.”

The two confessionals are both occupied as I walk up. Damn. I go to check my watch and stare at my bare wrist instead. It’s a habit I haven’t been able to shake since Hannah left and I ditched the Rolex she gave me for our two-year anniversary. The hairs that rubbed off with wear haven't grown back yet.

I hover outside the wooden box of shame and check my phone. I’ve missed about a hundred notifications from work. The workday is technically over but the demand for my time never ends.

I blow out a breath, clear my throat as a courtesy, and tap a knuckle against the confessional. “Uh, hey, I think your time is up.”

The muffled talking from inside stops and I wait for acknowledgement.

Nothing.

I pace a little and stop. With a harder knock, I say, “Did you hear me? People are waiting, so let's wrap this up.” My hand is poised to knock again. There’s more muffled talking and with an abrupt push the door opens. I step back as a guy comes out.

He sizes me up and slings his coat on. With an aggressive zip, he says, “You’re a real piece of work. You know that?”

“That’s rich coming from a time thief. It’s disrespectful and that’s kinda hypocritical considering where we’re standing. Don’t you think?”

The guy's beady eyes narrow as he wraps a knitted scarf around his neck. He steps closer to me. Pauses a for a beat and says, “I see you buddy. You could spend all day in there and it’s not gonna help you.” With that, he walks off, stopping to do the ‘spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch’ thing at diaper Jesus before heading toward the door.

"Yeah, well, I see you too. Asshole." I mumble that last part because God.

Finally, it’s my turn. I duck in and close the door.

The whole experience is very cloak and dagger with all the shadowy dark wood and faceless silhouette on the other side of the screen, but that’s why I like it. So much of my day is sitting across the table from people under cold corporate fluorescent lighting.

My leg starts bouncing as an image of Hannah, skirt up around her hips, and legs wrapped around—

I hold my watch-free wrist because there I was staring at my brother and my fiance fucking each others brains out under all that cold corporate fluorescent lighting.

I lean into the partition. “Psst. Father, are you in there?”

The little window slides open.

“Uh, bless me Father blah, blah, blah. It's been two-ish weeks since my last confession.”

The priest heaves a heavy sigh. “Nicholas.”

“Hey, Father.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“No, don’t kick me out. I promise I’ll be quick. Unlike some people, I respect your time.”

“I won’t kick you out but we’ve established that you’re not a member of Saint Catherine’s. You confessed that you’re an atheist, so I’m just not sure how this serves you?”

“It’s cheaper than therapy?”

“Nicholas, that is not the purpose of confession.”

The tips of my fingers hook into the holes in the screen and I pull myself even closer. “No, I know, but shits dark—sorry.” I deflate. “I don’t have anyone else to talk to. And I tried getting in with my actual therapist but she broke up with me. Said it was a conflict of interest to continue to see me as long as she was seeing Hannah, too. We were doing this couples therapy where you role play as the other person and I swear Dr. Phelps only liked me when I was pretending to be Hannah. And the other day my mom, my own mother, okay? She ended our call so she could take a call from Hannah because she’s having lunch with the two of them. Them being my ex-fiance and my brother. My brother!” I haven’t talked to him since I caught them together. The look on his face in that moment...

I swear it was relief. Like he was actually relieved I’d done the heavy lifting and they’d been found out. “That absolute rat bastard.”

There’s a little cough behind the screen like maybe the priest is shocked by my colorful language.

“Sorry, Father. Jake was my only—I don’t have a lot of friends. Trust isn’t easy for me.” Fuck. The hot sting behind my eyes pisses me off. I don’t want to get emotional about this. To curb the feeling, I push my pointer finger and thumb into my tear ducts, pinch it, and squeeze my eyes shut. With a stuttering deep breath, I say, “They’re like an official couple now, I guess. And I feel like I’m in a Black Mirror episode where nothing makes, like, any sense. You probably don’t get that reference because—are priests allowed to watch Netflix?”

“We can watch TV.”

“Oh, cool…” Without thinking, I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through the pictures of me and Hannah I haven’t deleted yet. I stop on one of the two of us at her company’s picnic last summer. “I thought we were happy.” I zoom in on her face until all that fills the screen is her glossy smile. People can smile through a lot of shit. She was already sleeping with my brother in this picture.

It’s quiet on the other side and I wouldn’t even blame Father—shit. I don’t know the guy's last name. Well, I wouldn’t blame Father what’s-his-name for bailing on me, too. This is all so pathetic. “Are you still over there, Father?” I close one eye and try to peer through to the other side.

“I’m here.”

“No one will tell me what I did wrong?” My screen goes black and I tuck my phone away. “How can I be better if—I always invite constructive criticism and she knew that. Performance reviews aren’t just for the office. All relationships benefit from an actionable items list. Ways to improve. I’m sure it’s like that with you and God, right?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You’re not going to give up on God just because you might be going through a rough patch. If you’re not happy with God, I’m sure you would talk to him about it. Work through your issues together. You wouldn’t sneak around behind God’s back and start sleeping with Jesus—or wait, he’s God’s son?”

“I’m sorry, Nicholas, but are you God in this scenario?”

“Uh, I guess so, but I don’t have a God complex. I swear. I’m fully aware that I’m just this average, completely mortal guy.”

“Nicholas, sometimes relationships don’t work out and, if we’re lucky, we learn something from it, move on, and become better versions of ourselves. Getting stuck in the ‘why’ of it all—”

“Wow. I can’t believe this.”

“Are you alright?”

I reach down and pick up a gum wrapper off the floor. “Are you aware that people are treating these confessionals like trash cans? And we’re supposed to be the superior species? It was the guy before me wasn’t it? I definitely smelled mint on his breath and I think his confession privileges should be revoked until he learns how to respect common spaces.”

With another heavy sigh, the Father says, “Noted and I think we should leave it there.”

“Wait, but, I don’t feel any better. I want to be absolved or whatever of all the negativity in my life. Shake my Etch-A-Sketch, make it all go away. Please.”

“Uh, Fine." His words are rushed when he says, "God the Father the mercies, through the death and resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and poured out the holy spirit for the forgiveness of sins—”

“Hang on, hang on, I didn’t confess any sins.”

There’s some rustling of clothes and movement on the other side. “In a way you did.”

“What does that mean?”

“I read between the lines.” There’s more rustling and after a moment I hear the other door open.

I come out from side and Father what’s-his-name is there waiting.

He says, "Walk with me.”

“Sure. Let me just…” I duck over to a trash can and throw the gum wrapper away. Father smiles as I walk back over. “So, what’s your name?”

We walk together into the main room of the church.

“Father Murphy.”

“Murphy. Classic.” I smile and look over.

The pews are empty now and the church glows all warm from the flickering prayer candles.

Father Murphy says, “I can tell that you’re in pain and God is always here to offer comfort, but—”

“But?”

We stop at the door.

“I think maybe this is a moment when stillness and quiet reflection are going to help you.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. Corinthians 4:18.” With a warm grin, he gives my shoulder another pat then adds, “And maybe find a new therapist.”

He leaves me with that and I’m too busy sifting through his religious riddles to say more than, “Thanks.” I reach for the door and look back. “So, same time next week?”

“Therapist!” he says without turning back.

I pull the door open and get smacked in the face by an icy wind. The snow is really coming down now and the thick flakes land heavy on my shoulders.

It’s hypnotic. The way it's coming down in a tunnel against the dark sky. Holding my arms out, I tip my head back and stare into the snowy night. It’s stupid, but I hope and wait for absolution. Like the snow dissolving against my face will wash away all the shit, but it doesn’t. All the things I don't want to think about still cloud my brain.

I drop my arms and glance back at the church. Scuffing my shoe into the accumulating snow like I’m stalling, I take my phone out. It opens to the picture of me and Hannah. My thumb hovers over the delete button. On a quick exhale, I delete the picture, pocket my phone, and pull my coat tight. As I make my way down the sidewalk, I try to get comfortable in the quiet and stillness of the night.

The End