Read Online My Grape Escape by Laura Bradbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Bradbury
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seats were polished and scarred with centuries of use. He sat me down, and pointed to the inscription carved deep into the wood in front of me. “Look at that.”
“F. Germain,” I read, surprised. “Was that carved in there for your ancestors?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think so but who knows, really? If it is, it’s farther back than even Mémé can remember. Strange though, isn’t it?”
But it wasn’t really. Of course Franck’s name was carved in an old church bench. It had always been clear to Franck, and to me, that he was protected by a higher power. Franck was convinced that no matter what stupid things he did in life, like driving his friend’s mobilette under a truck on the highway when he was fourteen, he was shielded from harm. How I envied that conviction.
The fact that my husband didn’t agree with the Pope’s position on birth control or gay marriage or a myriad of other things didn’t shake his faith one iota. Some of his best memories of his youth came from his stint as an altar boy. It was the best way to meet new girls from other villages, he had explained to me, not to mention there was never a lack of excellent sacramental wine to enjoy. I envied his freedom to take what he wanted from his religion and leave the rest.
Beside me, Franck bowed his head and closed his eyes. I had become used to his praying whenever we were in a church. I could almost see the young altar boy he had been, complete with an angelic white robe and a heavy wooden cross the size of a pain au chocolat around his neck, transposed onto the man he was now.
Part of me wanted to pray for strength while I waited for tomorrow’s phone call. Instead I stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary in the stone alcove in front of us. Much of her paint had worn off, but her eyes were still visible. The carver had made them very kind. They were the eyes of someone I wanted to talk to – the eyes of someone who wouldn’t laugh at the grief I felt over losing the house in Marey or the ridiculousness of someone as privileged as me drowning in anxiety much of the time. Tears filled my eyes. Without opening my mouth or closing my eyes, I found my thoughts projecting out to her.
I know you’re the Virgin Mary and you probably have better things to worry about, like that little Baby Jesus in your arms for example, but I need help. I have been so miserable over the past few months – no, truthfully, over the past two years. I know I must be on the right path but could you please make me feel happier on it? The expression in her eyes seemed to change in the shadows, becoming even more compassionate as she took in every one of my tormented thoughts. Can you please make this horrible fear that makes me feel like sometimes I can’t even take one more breath, and that is eating away at who I am, disappear? Could you give me a sign to let me know that things are going to get better, that I will one day start to feel happy with my life and what I’m doing? I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I am so ungrateful. Help me. Show me the way. Je t’en supplie.
I could have sworn she blinked slowly in response. I felt calmer than I had in a long time. It made no sense, of course, but I still couldn’t break away from the understanding in her eyes.
Franck’s hand slipped into mine and we waited for a few moments more, neither of us wanting to break the peace that seemed to flow around us both. We didn’t speak until we had made our way back out into the sunshine. I closed the carved wooden door behind us feeling as though I was also closing it on my troubles; I had left them inside in excellent hands.
I blinked until the peeling white shutters of the ramshackle house across the street came into focus.
“What did you pray for?” I asked Franck. We began walking back up the hill towards the vineyards and Villers-la-Faye. “Or is it like a wish and if you say it won’t come true?”
“I prayed that you hear what you want to
“F. Germain,” I read, surprised. “Was that carved in there for your ancestors?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think so but who knows, really? If it is, it’s farther back than even Mémé can remember. Strange though, isn’t it?”
But it wasn’t really. Of course Franck’s name was carved in an old church bench. It had always been clear to Franck, and to me, that he was protected by a higher power. Franck was convinced that no matter what stupid things he did in life, like driving his friend’s mobilette under a truck on the highway when he was fourteen, he was shielded from harm. How I envied that conviction.
The fact that my husband didn’t agree with the Pope’s position on birth control or gay marriage or a myriad of other things didn’t shake his faith one iota. Some of his best memories of his youth came from his stint as an altar boy. It was the best way to meet new girls from other villages, he had explained to me, not to mention there was never a lack of excellent sacramental wine to enjoy. I envied his freedom to take what he wanted from his religion and leave the rest.
Beside me, Franck bowed his head and closed his eyes. I had become used to his praying whenever we were in a church. I could almost see the young altar boy he had been, complete with an angelic white robe and a heavy wooden cross the size of a pain au chocolat around his neck, transposed onto the man he was now.
Part of me wanted to pray for strength while I waited for tomorrow’s phone call. Instead I stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary in the stone alcove in front of us. Much of her paint had worn off, but her eyes were still visible. The carver had made them very kind. They were the eyes of someone I wanted to talk to – the eyes of someone who wouldn’t laugh at the grief I felt over losing the house in Marey or the ridiculousness of someone as privileged as me drowning in anxiety much of the time. Tears filled my eyes. Without opening my mouth or closing my eyes, I found my thoughts projecting out to her.
I know you’re the Virgin Mary and you probably have better things to worry about, like that little Baby Jesus in your arms for example, but I need help. I have been so miserable over the past few months – no, truthfully, over the past two years. I know I must be on the right path but could you please make me feel happier on it? The expression in her eyes seemed to change in the shadows, becoming even more compassionate as she took in every one of my tormented thoughts. Can you please make this horrible fear that makes me feel like sometimes I can’t even take one more breath, and that is eating away at who I am, disappear? Could you give me a sign to let me know that things are going to get better, that I will one day start to feel happy with my life and what I’m doing? I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I am so ungrateful. Help me. Show me the way. Je t’en supplie.
I could have sworn she blinked slowly in response. I felt calmer than I had in a long time. It made no sense, of course, but I still couldn’t break away from the understanding in her eyes.
Franck’s hand slipped into mine and we waited for a few moments more, neither of us wanting to break the peace that seemed to flow around us both. We didn’t speak until we had made our way back out into the sunshine. I closed the carved wooden door behind us feeling as though I was also closing it on my troubles; I had left them inside in excellent hands.
I blinked until the peeling white shutters of the ramshackle house across the street came into focus.
“What did you pray for?” I asked Franck. We began walking back up the hill towards the vineyards and Villers-la-Faye. “Or is it like a wish and if you say it won’t come true?”
“I prayed that you hear what you want to
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