Read Online When I Knew You by Desireé Prosapio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Desireé Prosapio
Tags: Blue Sage Mystery
Ads: Link
searching gaze.
"Is your name Katarina?"
Father Vincent stepped up on a stool and drew the curtains closed in his office as I sat down on the high-backed chair opposite the large wooden desk. Pictures in simple wooden frames covered one corner and more trailed around the walls of the room. Many were of young men and women around dilapidated houses. A few were of groups of teenagers with Father Vincent in the middle like a younger brother, his arms stretched wide as if presenting the group to the photographer. Other photos had nuns and priests gathered, plastic badges hanging from their necks, smiles broad, the tiny priest always a focal point.
The room smelled faintly of incense and dust motes floated in the rays of sunshine that still peeked between the curtains. Fatigue from the last few nights settled around my shoulders and I slumped back heavily.
"Long drive?" Father Vincent asked as he sat down in the chair behind his desk.
"Very. I usually like to drive, but it's been a ... rough couple of days."
He politely waited for me to elaborate, and a silence stretched out between us. He wasn't Father Henry, not the priest my mother told me to meet. My accident, the fire, the pounding in my head—I couldn't talk to him about it just because he wore the collar. An eavesdropping little person priest at that.
"You look a lot like her, you know," he said, breaking the silence. He reached down and I heard the creak of a drawer opening. He began rummaging around.
"Like who?"
He looked up, his brown eyes meeting mine for a moment. "Antonia. Your mother."
My breath caught as I held his gaze. No one had told me this before, but I'd spent hours before the mirror in our bathroom, searching for my mother's face in mine. Maybe if I could find it, I'd find some remnant of her, of the other mother who had huge books on law and philosophy on her nightstand and used to fix dinner every night. Sometimes I would see a flash of something that looked like Antonia, a curve, a shadow, but it was lost the moment I focused in on it, slipping away before I could embrace it. When I'd ask my grandmother who I looked like, she would just smile and send me off to my room saying "You looked like you."
Father Vincent placed a manila envelope on the desk and closed the drawer. His fingers, thick and worn, rested on top. He wasn't letting it go yet.
"Yes. You have her high cheekbones, her chin. Even her hair. She used to wear it like that, pulled back. Your eyes, though..." He gestured to the area below his eye and I remembered that both mine were still swollen from the accident. I probably looked like hell.
"It's hard to tell right now," I said, "but they don't look like hers. I was... in a car accident." I said, reaching for my own face, suddenly self-conscious and wishing for a decent bit of Beverly's concealer.
"Ah," he said, his face betraying the doubt.
I opted not to try to convince him I wasn't in some sort of domestic violence drama.
"So, my mother," I said, curious. "You knew her?" I tried to keep my tone level. Truth be told, I was ready to bleed him dry of information. Abuela never talked about the other Antonia and was impatient when I asked about her. It was as if by asking I was disloyal to the new Antonia. So I kept my curiosity tucked under a rock in my mind, along with the fragments of my own childhood memories, shredded by time into tiny slivers of the "other Antonia" or as I knew her then, Mom.
Father Vincent tried to smooth the envelope's creased corner. "I knew Antonia back in high school."
"Really?"
He laughed. "Don't look at me like that. Priests are allowed childhoods, you know. Even little priests."
"I always thought priests were grown right in the back behind the altar."
"Not since reformation," he said.
"Actually, I've..." I hesitated, weighing my words. "I've never met anyone who knew her back before the accident."
"The accident. So horrible. We all were in shock."
"Is your name Katarina?"
Father Vincent stepped up on a stool and drew the curtains closed in his office as I sat down on the high-backed chair opposite the large wooden desk. Pictures in simple wooden frames covered one corner and more trailed around the walls of the room. Many were of young men and women around dilapidated houses. A few were of groups of teenagers with Father Vincent in the middle like a younger brother, his arms stretched wide as if presenting the group to the photographer. Other photos had nuns and priests gathered, plastic badges hanging from their necks, smiles broad, the tiny priest always a focal point.
The room smelled faintly of incense and dust motes floated in the rays of sunshine that still peeked between the curtains. Fatigue from the last few nights settled around my shoulders and I slumped back heavily.
"Long drive?" Father Vincent asked as he sat down in the chair behind his desk.
"Very. I usually like to drive, but it's been a ... rough couple of days."
He politely waited for me to elaborate, and a silence stretched out between us. He wasn't Father Henry, not the priest my mother told me to meet. My accident, the fire, the pounding in my head—I couldn't talk to him about it just because he wore the collar. An eavesdropping little person priest at that.
"You look a lot like her, you know," he said, breaking the silence. He reached down and I heard the creak of a drawer opening. He began rummaging around.
"Like who?"
He looked up, his brown eyes meeting mine for a moment. "Antonia. Your mother."
My breath caught as I held his gaze. No one had told me this before, but I'd spent hours before the mirror in our bathroom, searching for my mother's face in mine. Maybe if I could find it, I'd find some remnant of her, of the other mother who had huge books on law and philosophy on her nightstand and used to fix dinner every night. Sometimes I would see a flash of something that looked like Antonia, a curve, a shadow, but it was lost the moment I focused in on it, slipping away before I could embrace it. When I'd ask my grandmother who I looked like, she would just smile and send me off to my room saying "You looked like you."
Father Vincent placed a manila envelope on the desk and closed the drawer. His fingers, thick and worn, rested on top. He wasn't letting it go yet.
"Yes. You have her high cheekbones, her chin. Even her hair. She used to wear it like that, pulled back. Your eyes, though..." He gestured to the area below his eye and I remembered that both mine were still swollen from the accident. I probably looked like hell.
"It's hard to tell right now," I said, "but they don't look like hers. I was... in a car accident." I said, reaching for my own face, suddenly self-conscious and wishing for a decent bit of Beverly's concealer.
"Ah," he said, his face betraying the doubt.
I opted not to try to convince him I wasn't in some sort of domestic violence drama.
"So, my mother," I said, curious. "You knew her?" I tried to keep my tone level. Truth be told, I was ready to bleed him dry of information. Abuela never talked about the other Antonia and was impatient when I asked about her. It was as if by asking I was disloyal to the new Antonia. So I kept my curiosity tucked under a rock in my mind, along with the fragments of my own childhood memories, shredded by time into tiny slivers of the "other Antonia" or as I knew her then, Mom.
Father Vincent tried to smooth the envelope's creased corner. "I knew Antonia back in high school."
"Really?"
He laughed. "Don't look at me like that. Priests are allowed childhoods, you know. Even little priests."
"I always thought priests were grown right in the back behind the altar."
"Not since reformation," he said.
"Actually, I've..." I hesitated, weighing my words. "I've never met anyone who knew her back before the accident."
"The accident. So horrible. We all were in shock."
Similar Books
