"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been..." Samantha gulped. "Two years since my last confession." The small, dark box was lined in mahogany, and there was a large crucifix carved into the back wall, which she faced, kneeling on a pale blue needlepoint cushion that the Altar Guild ladies had made so long ago that the woolen threads were coming unraveled in places, two worn patches, where thousands of knees had pressed.
"Indeed, my child? Why so long since you have sought absolution?" The priest's voice was warm and deep; curious about her long absence from the confessional booth, but not judgmental about it. That was one of the things that she loved about Father Davidson. He was old without being ossified. Catholic without being too uptight. He'd been called to the Priesthood later in life, after his wife had died of cancer and his children were grown, so he knew what life was about. He'd lived it.
"I... didn't think it was important, before now, I guess... I mean, I'm a pretty average teen-ager, all considered. All my sins are pretty venial, with one or two big ones like taking three pieces of pie for dessert, that's gluttony, and talking back to my father, or not honoring my parent, right? That's in the Big Ten thou-shalts."
Father Davidson chuckled. "What are the thou-shalts called?"
"Commandments."
"That's right. Not suggestions, are they?"
"No, Father."
"But if you confess these sins with an open heart, I'm sure God can find it in his heart to forgive you. What kind of pie was it?"
"Pumpkin." Sam grinned. "Last Thanksgiving. The year before, it was pecan."
"Well, then. Five Hail Marys for each extra piece over two. Thanksgiving, you're allowed two pieces of pie, especially if it's home-made, and warm. With ice cream or without?"
"Definitely with."
"Excellent. Good to hear that the traditions are being upheld in this manner. And five Our Fathers for talking back to your father. Did it turn out that he was right after all?"
"Yes, Father. He was right, in that case. Are the Our Fathers waived in cases where he's wrong?"
"Not in the slightest! One should always be properly respectful of one's parents. What I tell my own children every Father's Day. When we're right, we're right, but when we're wrong, one shouldn't rub it in. Very bad taste. Understood?"
"Crystal."
"Good." The Priest paused and fingered his stole. On his side of the divided box, it was equally dark as on the penitent's, to maintain the sense of anonymity, but he never forgot a voice. This young woman was two years more mature than the last time he'd heard her confession, true, but still recognizable. She and her father attended services occasionally. More than the twice-a-year lip service and "fallen" Catholics, but not every week like the more faithful, and frankly, elderly, members of his flock. Sometimes, she came alone. "Was there anything else, my child?"
Sam paused. Here's where the tricky part came in. "Is it a sin to do something bad, I mean, really bad, in a dream, Father?"
"In a dream? You mean, while you're asleep? Or a daydream?"
"Asleep."
"I see. Can you be a little more specific, perhaps?"
"I had a dream last night, that I killed someone. Not accidentally, either. I knew them. I'm not sure exactly who it was, but I knew I recognized them. And I hated them. I ran after them, and tripped them, so they went sprawling. They tried to fight me off, but I was too strong. I held them down and stabbed them right in the heart, and then I twisted the knife to make sure the wound would keep bleeding for a while... I watched her life drain out of her, and when she was almost, but not quite dead, I leaned down... and I drank her blood." Sam shuddered.
Father Davidson gasped, but then cleared his throat. "I... see."
"That's not all, Father." Sam whispered.
"No?"
"No. The worst part of it was... I liked it." Sam swallowed the lump that suddenly came up in her throat. "It was good. Sweet, like some kind of juice, like pears. And it quenched me. There was a burning inside, like part of my guts were missing, and her blood soothed that feeling. Made me whole again... When I woke up, I didn't know whether to be happy or disgusted with myself."
"Is that all of it, my child?"
"Yes, Father. That's everything." Or as close to everything that she could tell him.
"Tell me, this woman in your dream, was she by any chance, your mother?"
"No, Father. My mother was blonde, and tall like me. This person had dark hair, and she was... compact. Square-faced. With dark eyebrows." Sam knew the line of thought that the priest was following, Freudian. She'd looked it up. But this dream wasn't some kind of made-up fantasy. It had happened, a hundred and fifty years ago, to a Slayer named Patience, who'd lived in San Francisco. That was during the Gold Rush. Prime time for vampires, when thousands of people were on the move and no one cared if other prospectors went missing - more claims to jump for the ones who were left. Sam had told the entire dream to Drew the night before, and they'd found the records together. There was even a faded old photograph of her. Sam recognized her clothing, the shape of the buildings, also the name of a saloon on the corner that she could see from where poor Patience had ended her all-too-short tenure as Slayer. They were all too short.
Father Davidson hmmmed under his breath. "There are many theories that psychologists debate about dreams. That they are random electrical activity that keeps our brains lubricated while we sleep, or subconscious metaphors for unresolved issues that we deal with in waking life, or even expressions of sublimated desires. Let's deal with them in reverse order, shall we? You don't actually want to hunt somebody down and drink her blood, do you?"
"No, Father. Not at all!" Sam allowed herself to sound shocked. Hunt, yes. Kill, sort of. Does killing something that is already dead, count as killing? But no blood drinking. She wasn't going to go there, for sure. No way, José. That's what the enemy does.
"All right, then. What about a metaphor? You could pay a psychiatrist a hundred dollars an hour to talk about this stuff, or you can pray about it and let God help you figure it out. Like, just perhaps... the heart is linked to strong emotions, especially love, and its flip-side, hate. When you said that you hated this person, that was my first theory. Because, if the woman in your dream was a symbol of your mother, perhaps you are feeling some delayed anger and frustration at something she did long ago... Or you might feel the need for some mother-love... from some other source, perhaps, if your birth mother is unavailable."
His voice was so kind, so gentle. Tears pricked in Sam's eyes. He knew who she was. She could tell. They weren't supposed to know, just to listen and lift up the prayers and confessions to God. But this man's voice embraced her with empathy.
"...So, whether she's a relative, a teacher, or someone else in your life, maybe you just need to have a heart-to-heart talk with her, as it were. If you're feeling empty, like you said, something's missing? That could be what you need to fill the void."
"Yeah... Maybe so." Sam's voice caught on the lump in her throat, but she swallowed and went on. "Then, there's the random synapses theory, which means there is no meaning in it."
"There is that theory. But I, for one, truly believe that there is a time, and a purpose, for all things under heaven. Even dreams. God knows the dreams and thoughts of humankind. He knows all of them. And He is there to help and support us through all our trials, whether they come to us awake or asleep."
"Thank you, Father. I'll do my contrition prayers tonight before I go to bed."
"Very good. Now, is there anything else? If that's all your sinning in the last two years, we've got to nominate you for sainthood, right now!"
Sam laughed, and her tears evaporated. "Actually... I made a list... there is time to go through all of it?"
"Of course, my child. No one is impatient to get in here, that's for sure. Tell me your list, and we will tell God together."
"All right." Sam pulled out a folded sheet of notebook paper from her mother's little patent leather handbag that she'd brought to church. There was just barely enough room in it for her wallet, a travel-sized can of hairspray, a small box of strike-anywhere matches, and a single stake jammed in caty-corner, but it was enough to make her feel secure during daylight hours. Sam cleared her throat and started with, "Little white lies to my teachers about the lateness of my homework, probably about once a week, over two years, is a hundred and twenty-two lies, more or less. Similar lies to my father when I said I was at the library studying, when I was really hanging out with my friends. Granted, we were at the library most of the time, but not studying, most of the time, about fifty of those..."
It took about ten minutes to go through the whole thing. She had been deliberately thorough, and brutally honest. Although she left out any references to vampires, demons, giant insect-monsters, or anything that dissolved into green goo, she did include the lustful feelings she had for Drew when they held each other, and also her fears about an early death. But she didn't tell the priest why she was afraid. When he gently probed that area, she threw up a smokescreen of statistics on teenage deaths by auto accident and alcohol and drug overdoses. "Of course, I don't drink, and I don't to drugs, and I'm very careful when I drive, but you can't account for other drivers, or what if I'm at a party, and someone spikes my soda?"
Father Davidson made the appropriate responses, both to allay her fears and warn her not to go to parties such as those. When the list wound down, he took a deep breath. "Two years is a lot of time to live. You were right. Those are not soul-destroying sins, not all at one go, but you see how they build up? Little white lies, little gluttonies, little doubts and fears and mis-said words that hurt someone else's feelings, all these are like nicks and tears in the fabric of our being, until eventually, we become worn out, tired, weighed down by sins. Even the greatest whale in the sea cannot swim, if it is covered in remoras. And the best metaphors can only improve by mixing." He chuckled. "Do you understand what I'm saying, my child?"
Sam chuckled with him. "Yes, Father, I do. You're saying that I should not confess everything in one big lump, but a little bit all along. It won't take up so much of your precious time, or mine, and it's easier to keep track of everything."
"That is right. I have my regulars who come in once a week, like clockwork, and others who come in once a month, or bimonthly, or whenever their own personal list reaches a certain threshold where they feel the need to confess. Everybody sins, my child. Everybody needs confession and absolution on a regular basis. It's good for the soul, like brushing your teeth. You don't wait until you have a cavity before you scrape all the plaque off, do you?"
"No, Father."
"Indeed. So, in addition to the prayers that I've already given you, tonight, I want you to make a schedule for yourself. Something that feels comfortable. Something that you can stick with. You don't have to tell me what it is, but after a while, I'll figure it out." Even though there was a slatted screen in between them, Sam could almost see the wink he gave her. "Then, meditate for at least five minutes on how short life is, and how you can work to make your life more perfect, each moment, in God's eyes. When you have done so, do an appropriate act of contrition. Take that list you have written, and destroy it. You can tear it up and flush it down the toilet. You can burn it in the fireplace, I don't care how. Just make sure that it is gone, gone, never coming back. Because that is what God's love does for us. It washes away all of our sins, big and small, as long as we come back to Him and accept his love for us. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Father."
"Very good, my child. Go now, and sin no more."
"I'll try, Father."
"Good enough. If you slip up any time, or even if you don't and just want to talk, you know where to find me."
"Right... Oh, there was one more thing I wanted to ask you before I go. Not about sins, but about prayers. I have a little rosary that I received at my confirmation, but I was thinking about getting a new one. And maybe some candles, or holy water, to help me with my meditations. Do you know where I would go to buy such things?"
"Absolutely. Let's step outside, and I can give you the address." Father Davidson disappeared through the back door of his side of the confessional that led to the hallway beside the sacristy, and then to his office. A few minutes later, he emerged from another door farther up the aisle and came down to meet Sam where she sat at the end of a pew with her head bowed.
"Here you go, my dear. The Catholic Store up in Hoosic Falls is my favorite. Family run. Do give my regards to the Dorseys, Karen and Jim, when you go in. But don't waste your hard-earned money buying holy water from them."
"Why? Is it not as holy when you buy it?"
"No, it is still blessed, but it's supposed to be free. Here." He pressed a small, clear plastic bottle that held about six ounces of liquid into her hands. "If you need any more, just let me know. I hope it helps."
Sam looked up into his eyes, dark brown, beetle-browed, and kindly. "Thank you, Father. I do appreciate it."
"Not at all. Use it in good faith." He patted her hand gently before letting her go. "It's been many years since I had a young parishioner as devout as you."
"I'm... I wouldn't say devout." Sam blushed. "It's been a while. I'm a little rusty on my catechism."
"Rust and tarnish can be cleaned. The mettle beneath is pure." Father Davidson bowed his head slightly. "If you need anything else, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."
With that, he turned on one foot and retreated at a dignified pace toward the front of the church, paused to genuflect as he crossed the aisle, and disappeared behind a screen.