I also wondered what Father McNamee would have said if he were standing there at that moment with me, in front of Brother André’s heart—the place where he first heard his calling.
Would he have asked my forgiveness?
Would he have said he was sorry?
Would he have professed his love for me—his only son? Did he leave the church to finally claim me as a son and be my dad?
I’d never get the answers to these questions now, but standing there gazing at the heart of a miracle worker, I started to feel like it didn’t matter—that I was going to be okay somehow, in spite of how uprooted my life had become.
I found Max and Elizabeth on a large balcony of sorts, looking out over Montreal, which was breathtaking, and not just because it was cold outside—cold enough to freeze you from the inside of your lungs out to your fingers and toes.
“Thanks for coming here with me,” I said to Max and Elizabeth.
“No fucking problem,” Max said.
Elizabeth smiled politely.
Then we looked out over snow-covered Montreal for another few minutes as our breath slipped in and out of us.
It kind of felt like we were supposed to be there in that time and place—almost like it was predestined. It just felt right somehow.
I don’t know.
But maybe.
I thought about it and decided that I wasn’t going to attempt to answer life’s greater mysteries—especially given all I was dealing with presently—and so I figured it best to stick with the plan.
“Let’s go to Cat Parliament,” I said.
“Cat Fucking Parliament!” Max said, and then went back inside so he could exit the Oratory and hop into the Ford Focus.
“We can stay here as long as you’d like, Bartholomew,” Elizabeth said. “If you need more time—”
“I’m ready to go,” I said.
Elizabeth did something unexpected—she pulled a silver chain out of her coat pocket and put it around my neck.
“Another tektite necklace to protect me from aliens?” I asked.
“No. It’s a Saint Brother André medal I purchased in the gift shop,” she said, and then walked away.
I picked up the medal off my coat and studied it—Saint Brother André’s tiny wrinkled face etched in silver.
I missed Father McNamee, but I knew he’d want me to carry on the best I could—I was certain of that.
And maybe that good moment on the oratory balcony with Elizabeth was an inheritance of sorts.
It was a nice thought.
So I ran after Elizabeth—feeling more alive than I have ever felt in my whole life—and we headed for Ottawa in the Ford Focus.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
16
I UNDERSTOOD OUR FORTUNE COOKIE MESSAGES BETTER THAN I HAD ORIGINALLY THOUGHT
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
While sitting in the backseat of the Ford Focus, listening to the robotic woman navigate and watching the flat, white, empty land pass by, I became very tired—too tired to think about all that had happened, let alone try to make sense of any of it.
Somehow—even though Max kept yelling, “Cat Fucking Parliament!” intermittently—I fell asleep.
In my dream, I woke up and I was in my bedroom, in Mom’s house.
Mom and Father McNamee were standing next to my bed, holding hands.
“Is this a dream?” I said to them.
But they only smiled back, looking extremely proud.
“Are you two together in heaven?”
They just kept smiling.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I said. “Please. Say something. Let me know that you’re okay, at least. Give me a sign.”
Mom pulled Father McNamee in a little closer, they looked each other in the eyes, and then they simply blinked out of existence.
“Mom?” I yelled, and tried to get out of my bed, only to find that I couldn’t. The blanket was strapping me down, binding my torso, wrapping me like a giant anaconda—I couldn’t even free my arms. “Father?”
And then I was being shaken, so I opened my eyes and saw Max looking back at me from the passenger seat of the Ford Focus.
“What the fuck, hey?”
“You were dreaming,” Elizabeth said as she drove. “You were yelling.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and adjusted my seat belt.
“Elizabeth told me to fucking wake you up.”
“Thank you.”
No one said anything else, and I looked at my reflection in the window.
I felt so empty all of a sudden, so lonely—and I felt guilty, like maybe I hadn’t been a good enough son to Mom or Father McNamee, like I should have told them I loved them more when they were here, or I should have done more things—or maybe just one thing—to make them proud. And I wondered if my being a fat, unemployed, friendless man made them feel terrible about themselves, like their love had created this monster of a son who embarrassed them endlessly. The worst thought was this: Even if I managed to do something worthwhile with my life in the future, even if the miraculous occurred and I finally got my act together in some small way, Mom and Father McNamee were no longer around to see it. They had died knowing the Bartholomew of the past, and I was not happy with the Bartholomew of the past—not one bit.
Also, now that I knew Father McNamee’s first name was Richard, that I had misinterpreted Mom’s calling me by your first name, that Richard was an identity double entendre of sorts—at least in my life—I was finding it harder and harder to pretend that you, Richard Gere, were my friend and confidant. And so even though I am still writing you letters, I feel as though I am now writing to a dead person or a figment of my imagination—a fictional character—which also makes me feel like a gigantic moron.