MARIEL

26~What's the Feeling?~

The next morning, when Mariel awoke on the hospital cot, his father was awake and a nurse was tending to him. He sat up, sore from the discomfort of the cot, which had been much too short for him. Rubbing his eyes, he watched as the nurse conversed with his dad. Fr. Jerome looked healthy, even healthier than he had looked before the accident. His skin was glowing. His eyes sparkled and his laugh was joyous. If the old man contained any stress, he hid it well, for he looked as if he had lost all the cares in the world. He looked younger.

Mariel smiled. "Morning, Dad."

Fr. Jerome turned his eyes to his son and gestured for him. Quickly, Mariel came towards the bed and hugged him. The priest's arms circled Mariel's neck and he whispered, softly, "I need to tell you something."

Mariel withdrew, looked down at his father with grim concern. "What is it?"

Fr. Jerome closed his eyes, sighed, and then opened them. "I don't know how to tell you."

"Just tell me."

The priest whispered, "You smell. Bad. When did you shower last?"

Mariel threw his head back and laughed, the first real laugh he had experienced in a long time. Both men laughed until tears welled in their eyes. When they had recovered, Mariel pulled a chair next to Fr. Jerome's bed. He took his hand, his face serious. "Dad, I was a wreck. I didn't think I'd see you again."

Steadily, Fr. Jerome looked at him. "You ready to talk?"

Mariel nodded.

Fr. Jerome looked at the television, which played a black and white film. "Mariel, I want to make sure I am not crazy, and that my brain was just recovering from the trauma. Has Phil done anything...strange lately? Be honest."

Mariel's heart rate increased. His face went hot. "What makes you ask that?" He tried to laugh off the question. "Dad, Phil is always doing strange things."

"Mariel. Be serious."

The tone of authority in Fr. Jerome's voice startled him. Mariel bent his head, squeezed his father's hand, and looked up again. "No. He hasn't done anything strange." Mariel watched as his father's eyes turned to him. He read that look in Fr. Jerome's eyes, that look of disappointment whenever he lied.

"Then, what was he doing in my room? By my bed? Hands outstretched? I find that strange, Mariel."

Mariel sat back in his chair. "Dad, he came to visit. He felt bad about what happened between you two before the accident. He was just going to give you a hug or something."

Fr. Jerome turned his eyes back to the television. "I think it was the 'or something'."

Mariel remained silent. He had promised Phil he would not reveal this so-called gift, and he had not even stopped to think that it would mean lying to Fr. Jerome. He hated this. In all honesty, he still had not fully accepted what he had seen the night he broke Phil's fingers. He had left the house, feeling cold, uncaring, and no remorse for what he had done. He wanted to care, wanted to feel remorse because -

-to feel is to be human-

-but he could not feel for that bastard. He had broken the man's fingers, one by one, and each time he had felt a ripple of pleasure through his gut. It felt so good that the eagerness to do it again was frightening him. He had prayed against the feeling, reconciling it to the stress regarding his father's condition, but somehow he felt that it would not go away.

"Dad," he said softly, "I need you to trust me. And let's not talk about Phil. Let's celebrate your recovery."

A small corner of his mouth crept into a slight smile. "Go shower first."