Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
Brónagh Cullen
Frankie felt sweat drip down the back of her neck as the plane gathered speed, and she felt her body tilt, releasing violent butterflies as they shot into the clouds. The Valium hadn’t kicked in like she thought it would. “God damn it, Rosie,” she whispered to herself. Last time she’ll be taking medical advice from that quack of a sister.
The plane was somewhat empty for an early morning flight across the pond, and she was thankful for the spare seat between her and the young priest beside her. She guessed he was a priest as the black clothing he donned looked more intentional than accidental. Frankie noticed he began tapping each finger one at a time, almost like he was saying the Rosary, which somewhat solidified her assumption.
He gave her a reassuring look during a mid-finger tap. He was annoyingly handsome. Wavy golden hair with more volume than hers on a good day, a square jaw, and deep eyes that suggested he knew things he definitely shouldn’t.
Frankie thought it was unfair that a priest should be that good-looking, and surely it was sacrilegious on some grounds.
His good looks distracted her as a cloud of black smoke darkened her window, followed by a deafening bang.
The plane dropped violently. Frankie’s stomach did too. Her hands clenched the seat so tightly her knuckles burned white, and tears spilt down her face, dragging mascara with them. Her body shook as panic took over.
A hand covered hers. The priest had moved into the empty seat beside her. He didn’t speak. She trusted his silence more than the screams of the air hostess, “Brace for impact!” and “Keep your head down!” none of which registered.
Before she knew it, words of “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned” were coming out of her mouth, and the stream of untold confessions began to flow.
The more she confessed, the more sins she thought of.
“I exaggerate on my tax returns, but only rounding up.”
“I ran over the family dog and let the neighbour take the blame.”
“My sister ruined my vintage leather jacket, so I slipped laxatives into her tea and let her think she had food poisoning. She deserved it. The jacket was vintage, Father.”
The confession came to an abrupt halt when the plane hit the tarmac with an unforgiving smack and Frankie and the priest bounced off each other. Frankie opened her eyes, and it took them a second to adjust to the light. For a moment, there was silence and then the announcement that we made an emergency landing back to Dublin Airport.
“It’s okay now,” the priest said softly. “We’ve landed.”
She looked at him properly and drank him in.”
His face was more appealing in the sunlight. Then shame and Catholic guilt flooded her. Partially for a lifetime of untold and un-absolved confessions, but more so for the emotional wreck that she was. The pulse of her heartbeat was so loud in her ears, she thought it might burst her eardrum.
“Father,” she began. “I’m so sorry. It’s been a while since my last confession, and I…” her voice trailed off.
He pressed a finger to her lips, then kissed her. “You’re safe, Frankie.” Then he blended into the line of departing passengers, leaving her frozen in her seat, heart racing, wondering how he knew her name when she was certain she’d never said it.
Her eyes began to feel heavy, and she could hear gentle snores before her eyelids shut. The Valium kicked in.
Brónagh Cullen is a member of Inklings, who meet on Tuesdays 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Visitors are welcome.