Confessor
"Let
us pray," the Reverend said, and he bent his head and hid the dark
wells of his eye sockets from the dim light of the small, unadorned
room. He sat on a chair next to the bed I was laid upon, and I could
catch every third word or so as he spoke, his words rising as static
sound that crackled just loud enough to be audible. I could hear his
lips moving, his eyelids squeezing together, and I bent my mind towards
a prayer that I had been taught by my mother when I was small, but came
up short. I reasoned that the Reverend had the prayer angle adequately
covered, anyway.
Minutes
passed, and the Reverend’s amen floated softly as a sigh in the
stillness of that room. He didn’t raise his head immediately, he sat
with his hands clasped together and no doubt continued his praise of
the Lord internally, which was fine with me. I had no thoughts on God,
for or against, and I found the pious man’s concern touching. Both of
my hands had been wrapped with fresh gauze, each finger individually,
and then all wrapped together like a mitten, so I was denied the
dexterity of my fingers. My arms to both of my shoulders had been
bandaged, and my lower extremities had been tended to as well. The
nurse who had most recently changed my bandages spoke of the tissue
underneath and its scabrous nature. I had guessed as much, by my
limited movements. The burns had been extensive.
I
could hear eyelids open; feel the vibrations as the Reverend rolled his
wedding ring on his finger. His breathing was even, but I could hear
him snapping his toes in his dark leather shoes like he would snap his
fingers. "I know the light hurts your eyes," he said, "but the dark has
always made me uncomfortable." He patted my mitten, and raised his
head, his face looking gaunt in the light. He was clean-shaven and his
lips were pressed firmly together. He opened his mouth to speak again,
but stopped himself. His teeth were white and straight, and his hair
was combed to the side, neatly oiled to keep it from falling out of
place, though it had a dull sheen to it.
"I
am sorry," he said at last. He put a hand to his face, his wedding ring
glowing as he massaged his chin. There wasn’t much to be sorry about, I
thought, but his job was salvation and my jaw was wired shut. I could
feel pity welling up in me for the man, who I thought might have been
something of a failure. He had a workmanlike attitude, but he bore no
physical scars; he looked as though he needed someone to tell him what
to do next, but hadn’t gotten any help for years. Maybe the darkness
had brought him to the brink of his doubts, and sitting here by my
bedside, he felt he could unload his worries as though I were his
confessor. My being here was enough, he didn’t have to speak his fears
or ask me his questions, but he could be weak here in the dark; let the
façade of pastoral wisdom crack enough to let the man out for a moment.
He
sat quietly for a long time. I dozed off and on, and each time I would
open my eyes, he would be sitting there, not appearing to have moved a
muscle. I coughed, and the sound startled him, rising as it did from
the depths of soft white cotton. I wheezed a little bit, catching my
breath, and he bent down close to my face thinking that I was
attempting to speak. His eyes had a sudden spark, and his face assumed
its normal consistency of strength and assurance. He whispered for me
to speak up, but I couldn’t then. My tongue clucked uselessly and he
sat back in his chair, sagging his shoulders and his very essence, and
we sat together until the sun began to open its eye on a brand new day.