The Clairvoyant

Chapter Fifteen: Mary's Sins

  P.G. Anne had insisted that Mary and Thomas spend the night. Needless to say, both of them were very confused by their hostess. Mary was, in addition to her confusion, disappointed that her hero, the woman she had for so long looked up to, appeared to be more of a crazy old cat lady then an inspiring, wise clairvoyant.

    Now, it was exactly one in the morning, and being unable to sleep, she chose to go out for a stroll through the immense, surprisingly symmetrical garden.  Most of the reason she couldn't sleep had to do with the painful thought of having to bare her soul to Thomas, the sweet, innocent man who only tagged along on her wild misadventures because he wanted to help people. He wanted to be kind and he wanted to care. Mary had long ago scorned pure kindness and caring, forcing herself to become distant and cynical, sarcastic and unfeeling. Yet Thomas had drilled his way into her feelings and she now found herself hating the idea of telling him her past more than telling someone her past, in general. She'd done things he couldn't forgive or forget, or even look past. She had sinned so much in her life. What she did to her mother... it was as bad as what she did at that mental institute.

    Her hand reached out to brush gently across the soft rose petals of a bush of Knockout Roses, but her fingers came away bleeding. Every rose head was attached to a stem of thorns.

    She felt Thomas before she heard him.

   "Mary?" He called quietly from the house. She touched her fingers to her lips, sucking at the wounds before burying her hand in her flannel shirt.

    "Thomas," she called back.

   He stumbled sleepily from the house, to her side. "I woke up and you were gone."

    P. G. Anne seemed to think it would be funny to make them share a room, and Thomas had insisted on taking the floor.

    "I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I disturb a lot of people," Mary's hushed voice echoed her thoughts.

     "You didn't disturb me, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. What are you doing with your hand?" He reached out, extracting her limb, covering it in his own. "That doesn't look like a very friendly wound," he mumbled, taking a tissue from the pocket of his button down night shirt.

   Since when are wounds ever friendly? The bitter, cruel part of Mary spat. But she couldn't help thinking, if he were not a priest, sworn to stay away from women, and if she were a normal girl... she'd find him, the kind of man to keep bandaids in his wallet and tissues in his pockets, standing before her, tender and giving a damn about her hand, with sleep mussed hair and funny looking green pajamas, she might just have found him cute. If she were a silly girl. Sadly she was not and never would be. And of course, he was a priest.

   "God must give all beautiful things some protection, must he not? Otherwise all the misguided in the word would taint the beautiful to the point of where it was no longer beautiful."

   And am I one of the beautiful or the misguided?

   Thomas released her hand a moment later, and her skin instantly missed his warmth.

   She turned away from him. "I think I need a priest to confess to." Why waste any more time? The sooner he hated her the better. This was something to get over with.

   Thomas immediately grew alert. At last, something he knew about and could help her with with a knowledgable mind.

   "Let's go sit on that bench over there," he pointed out a small, moss covered bench hidden between the chrysanthemums and the gardenias.

    Mary sighed, trying to prepare herself for his eventual disgust.

    "I just want you to know, that I understand if you don't want to try to free the Greenville House after this. But I either way, I need to tell you what I've done."