The facade of Our Lady of Sorrows was magnificent, and the interior didn't disappoint. Gold leaf, marble, ornate keystones, colorful tainted glass - the entire structure was a celebration of opulence. This was Anne's favorite part of roman catholic mass - there was a wealth of beauty to stare at.
Her least favorite part was the length of service. Two hours was an awfully long time to sit still - a sentiment which was shared by many in attendance. It wasn't only the number of bored faces that shocked her: old people falling asleep, mothers scolding wriggling children, men picking dirt from under their nails.
The organ started playing again, and Anne breathed in deeply. The music here rivaled the decorations in glory - nothing like the bare, white walls and simple hymns she'd become accustomed to. Everything she'd seen and heard today was beautiful, even the enormous cross up in front that held Jesus, carved out of some sort of glossy stone. The sculpture was complete with blood oozing from his wounds, a crown of thorns digging into his forehead and tears on his cheeks, and he was so thin that his skin stretched thinly over his ribs. It was morbid and splendid.
Rustling around her made her aware of the people surrounding her once again - they were standing from the pews and shuffling into the aisle. Apparently, mass was over. Dr. Lebrun, who'd been sitting at her right, inclined his head, and she followed him up to the front of the church, where the priest seemed to be giving instructions to a group of young men in navy blue and white robes. Anne and the doctor waited until the priest nodded and retreated, and the men dispersed. One spotted them, smiled and walked over.
"Pierre! It's good to see you," he said with a big smile and a warm hand to the shoulder. "Thank you for driving all the way up here."
"It was a beautiful service," said Dr. Lebrun. "Thank you for agreeing to see us - I know Sundays are quite busy for you."
The young man shook his head. "Only in the mornings. My afternoons are wide open, as you well know."
"How true. This is Thomas, by the way," the doctor said, turning to her. "Thomas, Anne."
"Pleased to meet you," the young Thomas said, flashing his radiant set of teeth her way, and that was when she realized that this man - no, not a man, a boy - was the deacon they'd come to see. What in the world had the doctor been thinking, setting her up with a child?
Unable to articulate a reply, Anne merely nodded. Seemingly unfazed by her rudeness, young Thomas deepened his smile and returned the nod, then turned back to Dr. Lebrun to make plans for tea later that afternoon. No older than twenty years old, Anne estimated, based on the smoothness of his dimpled cheeks (were deacons allowed to shave?). His jet black hair had sprung in glossy waves, and his pale blue eyes sparkled with the excitement of youth. The fact that he still carried a bit of puppy fat, as well as his height (or lack thereof) didn't do much to vouch for his maturity.
"...sounds just fine by me. Anne?"
Startled by the doctor's voice, she looked up to see both of them looking at her expectantly. What could she say?
"It's a good thing you're the verbal type, Thomas," teased the doctor. "You may find yourself doing most of the talking today."
"I'm sure we'll get along fine, then," the boy answered jovially. "We'll see you at the parlor when we're finished. Anne, shall we?"
After assuring Dr. Lebrun that she would be fine, Anne followed the deacon through an exit behind the altar, into what appeared to be an office. A magnificent purple velvet padded armchair behind a carved desk stood by a long window, and shelves that went wall-to-wall were packed with beautiful volumes of books. In each upper corner of the room hung four illuminated by tulip-shaped gas lamps, made of blown glass. A ready fire crackled in the inbuilt fireplace, casting a warm glow on the regal green carpet that covered the hard wood floor.
"Pretty neat, eh? Father Borden is letting us meet in his study as long as we need."
"Well, I can certainly understand why you'd want to become a priest," was all Anne could think of saying. Thomas threw his head back and guffawed like a child.
"The benefits are tantalising, yes, but outweighed by far by the burdens. Why don't we sit by the fire? It gets drafty in here."
She was surprised when he pulled a second, narrower armchair from the dark corner of the room, and even more surprised when he gestured her toward it, choosing to perch himself on the matching foot rest. "Thank you," she mumbled, finally recovering some of her manners.
He shrugged good naturedly, used a poker to rearrange the burning logs, then turned his full attention onto her. "Pierre mentioned that you had questions about doctrine."
Funny, after all this time, she'd never thought to ask the doctor for his first name. Still surprised by your selfishness? chided the nagging voice inside her head that refused to let her be at peace with herself. She ignored it and straightened in her seat. "Yes. Questions. I would like to learn- that is, in catholicism..."
The words she'd so carefully put together, the detached tone she'd practiced in front of the looking glass, the sentences and she'd rehearsed in her head incessantly on the long drive, were all erased from her mind in one clear swoop of panic. Anne took a long breath and ignored the quivering in her stomach.
"I would like to know," she began again in a slower and lower voice, "whether there are different types of sinners."
The boy cocked his head to the side, giving him the air of a young pup. "Types of sinners?"
"I know you have absolution, so that even non-catholics might be relieved of their trespasses before death, but what I'm asking is...for the souls that are more tarnished than others: do they need deeper forgiveness? Is there a limit? Is nothing unforgivable?"
Thomas fixed her with a stare so sharp, so deep and knowing, that Anne's heart seized in fear: she'd said too much, was too transparent. He could see through her, how dark and horrible she was.
Finally, he spoke: "You are asking whether graver sinners are in need of more forgiveness to be granted access to heaven." Anne gave him a quick nod. He breathed out. "It's not quite that simple. Receiving absolution is only one part of the process. To catholics, grace will be bestowed only upon the truly repentent souls."
"So there is a difference at birth?" she pressed on. "Or can one force a soul to be truly repentent?"
"Of course no soul can be forced into anything," said Thomas, his returning smile softening the boyish features of his face once again. "We do believe that all men are born equal, and so with an equal capacity for sin. God presents us each with several paths in life, it is up to us to choose which one to take. The further we deviate from the virtue, the steeper the path of redemption."
"But what if that path to redemption is too steep? What if it's impossible?"
"Then you ask for help. Which is where I come in, I'm guessing."
When she said nothing to confirm or deny his assumption, he spoke again, using his gentlest voice. "No sinner is beyond redemption, Anne."
"What god would forgive me, when I cannot forgive myself?"
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Thomas shuddered. The last time he'd seen anyone so desolate, their neck had ended up in a noose of their own making. He'd forgiven his mother in the end, but having witnessed at a young age how far one could be pushed by despair, he'd vowed to reach out to those in pain as much as possible. Religious dedication would allow him to do so at a large scale, and he devoted himself to the congregation, striving for selflessness and benevolence.
For the most part, it had been easy. He loved the church, looked up to his superiors, thrived when focusing on other people's problems. Feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, caring for the lonely, soothing the restless - he was fulfilling his christian duty.
Or so he thought. Now, with this woman on the verge of losing hope before him, he was brought back to a conversation he'd had with Father Borden when he'd expressed his desire to become a deacon. Priesthood will not benefit you,his role model had said gravely. What we do here, we do for others. As a surgeon cannot operate on himself, we cannot absolve ourselves. I have no doubt in your integrity, he hurried to say when Thomas opened his mouth to protest. Man is simply unable to be his own savior. Whatever demons haunt us, it will be up to someone else to save us.
At the time, he'd assured Father Borden that his motivations were altruistic. Now he understood: all these years of throwing himself at the service of desperate people had been a cloak, hiding his own despair. He hadn't been able to stop his mother from taking her own life, and so he'd tried to redeem himself. And of course, Father Borden had been right. He couldn't redeem himself, and priesthood would not bring him any closer to forgiveness.
As these terrifying realisations altered the core of his being, it occurred to him that this was the worst possible time to be stewing in an identity crisis. His mother was long gone, and the woman in front of him needed to be saved. So he did what he was trained to do, but for the first time, he did it in a truly selfless way.
"Anne," he said with a confidence bestowed upon him by his maker. "God will forgive you. All you need to do is confess."