I did, however, allow myself to briefly think about the abstract possibility of meeting my father and decided that if this were ever to happen, say, in a parallel universe or something, I should probably be mad at him for leaving us, especially the boy me, who was quite impressionable and likely suffered more without a father than he would have if he had had a father—even a subpar father—and definitely for not giving my mom the fairy tale, because she deserved it; if any woman ever did, it was Mom.
Maybe I should be as angry as Elizabeth was with her mother—theoretically speaking—because what was worse, abandoning your son or making your daughter eat her pet rabbits? A tough call.
But in the real world that is my life, I wasn’t mad.
How could I hate a stranger?
How could I be angry with a man I’d never met?
Max called our room and when I picked up the phone, he said, “We’re ready. What the fuck, hey? Fucking breakfast? My stomach is fucking screaming, hey.”
“Father McNamee is still sleeping,” I whispered.
“Let’s eat without him. There’s a comple-fucking-mentary breakfast downstairs. Muffins and other breakfast items of that fucking nature. But there’s a fucking time limit on that shit, hey. It says so in the fucking brochure they leave next to the bed. Time is of the essence when it comes to breakfast in Cana-fucking-da.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
I wrote Father a note, letting him know where we’d be, so he wouldn’t wake up and be confused, and then Elizabeth, Max, and I had coffee and muffins downstairs in the fancy hotel lobby, sitting on Canadian-red leather seats.
“Today is the big day,” Elizabeth said.
“Cat Fucking Parliament is the big day!” Max said. “Hey!”
I nodded, glanced at the clock hung on the wall, saw it was after ten, and said, “I better make sure Father McNamee is up.”
In the hallway, outside our room, I knocked on the door loudly to let Father know I was coming in, and maybe to wake him up if he hadn’t risen already. Then I entered.
He was still sleeping.
“Father?” I said. “Father, it’s getting late.”
He didn’t wake up, so I shook his shoulder gently—and then it felt like I was suffocating.
Father McNamee was frozen.
It was as if he had turned to rock in the middle of the night, because he was cold and stiff and whiter than the freshly fallen snow outside.
Immediately, the rational part of me knew he was dead.
Part of my brain was sober and straight and functioning just fine.
But the irrational part of me took control and started to shake him more violently, yelling, “Father McNamee, wake up! We’re going to Saint Joseph’s Oratory today! Remember? You promised I’d meet my father in front of Saint Brother André Bessette’s preserved heart! You promised me a miracle! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! This isn’t funny! Wake up! Father!”
But he didn’t wake up, and the rational part of my brain still knew he wouldn’t, but the problem was that the rational part was now losing to the irrational part of my mind, and it was beginning to seem like the battle was a lost cause. Rationality was getting slaughtered and was outnumbered ten irrational thoughts to one rational, at least. I began to shake and cry and feel as though I was going to black out and—
Then, Richard Gere, you materialized at that very moment, and I don’t think I would have been able to get through that situation if you hadn’t.
You came.
To rescue me from irrationality.
You came.
You were dressed in the red-and-yellow robe of a Buddhist monk, and your eyes twinkled extra hard.
Bartholomew, you, Richard Gere, said to me. It was Father McNamee’s time. This is the way of the universe. Our lives here on earth are transitory. This is all as it should be. Breathe. In. Out. Repeat. In. Out. Repeat.
You demonstrated good breathing techniques here, elongating your spine, but I was too upset to breathe correctly.
“He was supposed to introduce me to my father today! Why would God bring us all the way up here to Montreal with the intention of introducing me to my father if He knew Father McNamee was going to die the night before he was to complete that task? It doesn’t make any sense! This makes no sense whatsoever! Father McNamee must have left a note of some sort outlining what I’m supposed to do next. There must be a clue here that will explain everything.”
I began searching the hotel room.
You will find no note, because there is none, you said confidently.
“How do you know?”
Richard Gere knows everything about your life, Bartholomew, because Richard Gere lives at the heart of your mind, deep within, at the center of your consciousness.
“I don’t understand,” I said as I continued searching for a note from Father McNamee—going through his suitcase, the drawers of the desk and dresser, running my arms and hands under the bed—and found none. “I don’t understand! Why would God let Father die just a few hours before he was supposed to complete his mission? Before he was to introduce me to my real father? Why would God leave me all alone in Canada?”
You smiled the way Mom used to smile at me when I was a little boy and had asked her the type of question that puzzles children, but to which all adults know the answer—like, why do birds sing or why do trees look most beautiful when they are losing their leaves in the fall or why do we fight wars or why does eating ice cream give you a headache or why do people always laugh at me?
Are you alone? Are you not traveling with others?
I thought about what you were implying—that maybe it was all for a reason—but I didn’t say anything.