“As do I.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not very good at speaking the heart’s truth.”
That must have been hard for you to say, thought Ian, but he could detect no sigh of resignation or irony in the admission. It sounded sincere. He waited for more disclosures.
“He and I have a lot in common. He’s a good man. Life is full of surprises. You think you know it all, and then you discover you don’t know very much at all. He came again last night, to say he was sorry to have missed your mother’s funeral. He had an emergency of his own to deal with.” A pause. “This is not easy for me to say…” He swallowed again. The hospital room was suddenly, it seemed, charged with expectancy, electric with anticipation. Ian waited. Then it came out in the form of an uncharacteristic admission.
“All I want to say is that there are times when we cannot do it all ourselves, and must let others carry our burdens for us. I used to think this a sign of weakness. It has taken me a long time to see it isn’t. Too long. I simply did not know. Did you know,” said George, apparently changing the subject, “that your Mr. Saint-Jean is a family counsellor?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Barney. Short for Barnabas, as in the saint. It was he who came to hear your mother’s confession.”
“You mean… he’s a priest as well?”
“Yes. “
“I never knew.”
“God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.”
“Yes.” More than you know, he thought.
“Visiting hours are now over,” sang out a cheery nurse leaning into the room. “We’re open again tomorrow.” She smiled.
Ian rose to go. He grasped his father’s arm. Roles were reversed, a great weight released, direction and purpose restored. His father’s grip was strong, and his own equally so.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” Ian stopped at the door. He smiled, and then mischievously, “What should I, um, you know, tell the Spartans?”
A pause.
“Go tell the Spartans,” responded George with a faint grin, “to bugger off.”
