Page 39 of Thin Lives

Ashamed.

She hadn’t known what to do given the circumstances. She knew there would be no hiding what had happened between her and Calisto because of the pregnancy, and she was just scared.

Stupid, foolish, and scared.

Emma went to Father Day, needing a safe place to land as her emotions crashed and burned all in one fell swoop. He’d listened to her sins, mistakes, and fears. He let her tell the story, and how it all led into the predicament she found herself in.

Father Day never judged her.

He held her hand, and he’d wiped the tears away with a promise that she would find her path again someday, but it might take a while of walking before it showed up.

More than anything, Emma had needed those words in that moment.

Father Day had given her hope, no matter how small it was, at a point when she felt helpless. That was invaluable to Emma.

So, no. She couldn't imagine not saying goodbye to the man, or thanking him for the small thing he did for her.

At the foot of the altar, a few men in robes stood talking with a priest. A young altar boy directed Emma to a quiet room in the back where Father Day’s casket was waiting for those who wanted to view his body and say a private goodbye before the official funeral began.

Emma waited outside the doors of the private room while a couple and their two young children went in to pay their respects. She recognized the family as members of the congregation she attended, and that Father Day had preached to before his murder.

She expected Affonso to be back at her side before the couple exited the private room, but he wasn’t. Emma ended up going in alone.

The sight of the polished, gleaming black casket sitting in the private room made Emma’s steps stutter. A dull pain settled in her heart as she eyed the large arrangements of calla lilies resting on either side of the casket.

Candles burned on a small table just a few feet away. Even more unlit candles were waiting for guests to light them up, and say a prayer for the priest.

Emma skipped over the candles, not entirely sure what she would pray for. She approached the casket slowly, worried about what she might see. There had been rumors about how the priest died, and that it might be a closed casket.

It wasn’t.

Thankfully, Father Day looked only like he was resting in a deep sleep. And despite the paleness to his tone, as he had been olive-complexed, he looked at peace. His hands were folded together right under his breastbone, and a cross rested between his fingertips. They had dressed him in his robes with a high neckline and his white collar.

Just under his right ear, something caught Emma’s eye. It was a thin line of stitches that disappeared under the collar of Father Day’s black robe.

His throat had been cut.

A heaviness settled in her stomach at the sight of the injury, though it wasn’t exactly easy to see. It looked, by all means, that every attempt had been made to hide the injury. The clothing choice and makeup work done by the undertaker had clearly been a decision made to hide the way the priest had died.

A violent death, Emma thought.

He’d probably been terrified.

No one deserved to die like that—frightened and alone. But especially not a man like Father Day, who had seemed to want nothing more when alive than to care for his flock of lambs.

Chancing a glance over her shoulder, Emma found no one was waiting at the doors to come in and pay their respects. She took that opportunity to pull an item from the pocket of her trench coat, one she had been holding onto for a while.

The black rosary swung to and fro as she held it up, looking at the golden cross hanging off the strand of beads. After he had given it to her, Calisto had told her once that the rosary belonged to his priest, who gave it to him as a way of comfort. He then gave it to her, and she used it for her own comfort through the grief of losing her baby.

Emma didn’t want to let the rosary go—it was one of the very few pieces of Calisto that she had left to hold onto. One small piece of their puzzle that proved there had once been something, even if he couldn’t remember it, and that they were real.

Some days, it felt like Emma had just imagined it all.

Like maybe everything she had been with Calisto was just a dream.

Emma knew it was crazy—it was impossible to forget what she had shared with Calisto Donati. All their love, the stolen moments, their foulness together, and the beauty underneath it all were real.

They were real.