Salome: Episode 35.
Goodbye.
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The day after the final burial, it was time to say goodbye. I dropped my shoulders as I moved into the private dining room, as though melancholy was simply a heavy cape that could be shrugged off. Everything was in order. I picked up one of the bags and took it into the hall.
“That is everything, I think.”
Father John stood in the doorway of the convent, his black fedora resting firmly atop his head. One of his hands was still bandaged up, and though a scar across his mouth was healing, the stark, red wound was uncomfortable to observe. I went back into the room and bent down, fastening Catherine’s cape for her. Taking her hand, I led her out to the entrance, where my sisters were already gathered at the foot of the main staircase. Battle-worn and tired, they made an effort to smile through wan faces, and dare I say I felt a flicker of hope. They’d said their goodbyes.
Now it was my turn.
The cab waited outside, the pink haze of the autumn morning glowing through the glass above the door, kaleidoscope hues of pink, blue and green painting the white walls. I inhaled the crisp, cold air, and felt an odd sense of comfort hearing the whirr of the sawmill across the street. No amount of personal battles—of this world or not—stopped life and its endless endurance.
“Rome is the best place for her,” he said as I placed Catherine’s hand in his.
“And she will be with you.”
“She will.”
I turned to look at my friend, the ghost of who she was looking through me. It had become more difficult with each passing day, but I still could not bear to let her go. “We have specialist practitioners who can help her,” Father John said, sensing my resistance. “And His Holiness has promised to oversee her care personally.” I wasn’t really listening. I threw my arms around her, inhaling her smell. Perhaps she could feel my embrace, somewhere. Perhaps she knew I would miss her terribly. I kissed her cheek.
He led her down the steps onto the pavement, her frail body leaning on him. I watched him help her into the cab, taking care to seat her comfortably. With a burst of impulse, I rushed down the steps to say goodbye to him.
“Your attaché will be here as soon as possible,” he said, turning to me. “But I am sure that you can handle things from here.” We both smiled. An understatement.
He had spoken only briefly of the terrors he endured at the hands of Francesco, but now it was a part of our history that we did not need to recount. The chasm between us refilled with the buried weapons of yesterday’s wars. I embraced him fiercely, feeling relief when he returned the affection.
By the time we would meet again, I hoped that I would be fluent in forgiveness.
I let him go, stepping back. Jethro, who had been waiting under the cab, scurried past me and into the house. I followed him with my eyes and found Muldoon coming down the steps with a suitcase in his good hand, his other in a sling, supporting a plastered arm.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
Father John quietly walked to the other side of the cab and climbed in.
I searched Muldoon’s face.
“Salome,” he finally said, a distant look in his eyes. “I have to go back to Rome.”
“Why?”
He handed the case to the driver, who strapped it onto the top with the other luggage.
What is it?
He stared at me blankly, the silence between us confirming what he couldn’t say. “Your powers?” I asked.
He nodded, his mouth twitching. “Gone.”
I didn’t understand. “But… it’s in our blood, it’s—”
He shook his head. “My thoughts ran along those lines too, but…” He looked up at the building, the roof as sturdy as it always had been, a black cloud of starlings expanding and contracting in the sky above it as they passed overhead. If one did not look too closely at the broken souls that remained, it would seem as though nothing had ever happened.
“Perhaps it just needs time,” I suggested, unable to stop myself even though we both knew no words I found would ever be the right ones.
“Aye. Perhaps.”
“I will pray for you.”
“Thanks… Oof, watch the arm!” he grunted when I threw myself at him, hugging him tightly.
“You will always have a home here,” I said, withdrawing. He struck me with a new grief. One I was not prepared for. “Now go away,” I said, trying not to cry again, “before I forget how irritating you are and I beg you to stay.”
He laughed, and tipped his hat with his good arm. I watched him open the door and disappear into the cab, breathing deeply as my face muscles continued with the threat of going into a mournful, sobbing spasm.
I did not linger to watch the cab roll away. I instead retreated back into the house and closed the door, leaning against it.
Sister Bridget was still standing at the foot of the stairs, holding the cat. She let him jump down. “In England,” she began, straightening her skirts, “we offer people a cup of tea in times like these.”
I followed her to the kitchen.
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