I’m moving. After Twenty-Seven years in the Midwest, I’ve packed my bags and accepted a job on the West Coast. Aside from the regular bullshit that decides to randomly appear out of thin air when making a massive, life-changing decision, things have been going okay! My goodbye party is planned, the large-scale items are packed, and I’m hitting ten-thousand steps a day pretty easily with all my trips out to the dumpster. There’s one thing I couldn’t throw out, though. My photo albums.
My family is big into ancestral document-keeping. I can tell you where my great-grandpa was on D-Day, or I can give you the rambling of how an even greater grandpa fucked us out of a fortune. Long story short, this gets told at every drunken family gathering. Needless to say, things such as photos are important to us. I was on facetime with my mom looking through the section labeled, “Catholic School Years,” and something caught my eye. I didn’t recognize the priest in the picture of my first communion.
For those of you who aren’t Catholics or don’t know about the religion, your first communion is an act of ceremony of accepting the body and blood of Christ. Or something like that. Honestly, I stopped practicing the religion when I turned Fifteen. My parents were never too pushy on it, anyway. It was always about being part of that community. The Catholics (according to my parents) held good morals, were outstanding citizens, a safe community to be around. And that’s really it. Church a few times every few months and that’s all practicing we had to do. Aside from Catholic School.
“Who’s that next to Father Paul?” I asked my mom.
She paused, taking a deep look at the picture on facetime. She squinted.
“I can’t really see it, there’s a glare or a connection issue or something.” She replied.
I sent her the picture over a text. I watched her study it over facetime. And then she answered.
“Of course! Sorry, it’s been so long. That’s Father John. You don’t remember him?”
“I don’t.” I replied.
The call went on, she quickly switched the subject. It’s not so weird to not recognize a priest in a communion picture you took nearly two decades ago, right? But something about that picture turned something in my stomach.
To paint the picture, it’s little eight-year-old me, donning a fresh polo shirt and khaki pants. To my right, Father Paul stands stone-faced, a good few feet away from me. He gave sermons that you’re most devout Catholic grandmother would doze off during. This supposed Father John, he stood over me, his hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight, smiling a big smile. He was young, by the looks of it. In his thirty’s, clean-shaven. The smile was what threw me off. It was so big, yet so… manufactured.
I ended the call with my mom, took the picture out of the album, and went back to packing. But I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I called my school-grade friend, Matthew, the next day. One of those friends you meet when you’re a kid and you always keep in touch with, no matter what. His mom was a secretary at the school back in the day. She did it to keep a closer eye on her son, God knows they didn’t need the money. His mom was part of all the event-planning with the church and the school. If anyone knew, it’d be Matthew. And by extension, his mom.
He showed his mom the picture. Granted, she hasn’t worked there in a decade or so. But she didn’t recognize him. Neither did Matthew. They asked if it was some other event I had confused my first communion with, but no, the date on the back of the picture is clear: May 11th, 2003. I cross-reference it with both Matthew and his mom. They agreed, that’s the date.
“Maybe another priest was there just to help out. It’s not that weird for another priest to be present during a first communion, dude.” Matthew tried to talk me down. He was right. By all accounts, there’s no reason for me to be so obsessed with this picture. But something about just doesn’t sit right with me.
Matthew told me his mom is going to do some digging in the meantime.
I started to look through old, digitized newspaper clippings, the church website, I scanned and reverse-image searched the picture. Anything to find any proof of this “Father John.” I came up with nothing. I decided I can’t go on a manhunt when I’m in the middle of a move. I’m already stressed enough. That twist in my stomach is probably from all the stress and anxiety. I said fuck it, I’ll move on.
I finished packing all those historical documents and pictures I’ve been left to take care of. It took everything in me, but I even threw the picture of Father John in there. Pack it away and move on. West Coast me can figure that out when he opens it. That night wasn’t about Father John or some hysteria surrounding a picture. It was about getting drunk with my friends and family. It was my goodbye party.
We met at the local brewery in the middle of the afternoon. It was going be an all-day event. The older family members would come in and say hi, then leave. The younger members could come later in the night and join the party. Things were going fine, even if my mom was acting a little stranger to me than normal. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was going to miss her baby boy or if it was because of our phone call. My dad didn’t miss a beat, though. We shared drinks and stories all through the afternoon. More tears and cheers than I could count. Then, the real party started.
Things were in full-gear. Shots were flowing, some locals I hadn’t seen in forever stopped by to wish me good luck. I was surrounded by friends and family. Hell, I was shoe-in to get laid. In the middle of a conversation with Blonde Ashley, uniquely known for placing first in name-drops in my middle school journal, Matthew pulled me aside.
“Dude, Blonde Ashley’s into me tonight.” I told him.
“That’s awesome, but-“ He hesitated.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t want to ruin your night, man.”
“You can’t say that and not tell me what you’ve gotta-“
He pulled out a picture. It was me and him, dressed in matching shirts and ties. Giving a thumbs up to the camera, our mom’s seen in the reflection of the glass behind us.
“Ah, dude. This picture is hilarious.” I told him. Based on his expression, I missed the point.
“This was first communion.” He said.
“Uh, no. Mine was clearly marked. May 11th, 2003.” I told him.
He flipped the picture. Same date.
“I’m fucked up. I’ve taken more shots than I can count. What the fuck does this mean?” I blurted, probably a bit too loud. A few family members looked over, mumbling among themselves.
My cousin, C.J. fell into me. He was hammered. I stepped back, falling into the wall behind me, dropping the picture. He picked it up, look me up and down.
“How fuckin’ cute you used to be.” He said.
I snatched the picture out of his hands.
“Fuck off, C.J-“ I started.
He grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me to the bar, demanding I do shots with him. Matthew followed.
“Time to do a shot with your boy, C.J. before you get too blitzed! I’m not buying more than one, though. Ay, Matthew. You heard how our great, great, great, great, great grandfather fucked us out of being rich?” C.J. yelled.
“Don’t worry too much about the picture, man. Let’s just get fucked up and worry about it tomorrow.” Matthew whispered to me.
And in that moment, I agreed. Drink, have a good time, talk to Blonde Ashley. Hungover me can deal with it the next day. And he did.
I woke up to an alarm I had set for 9am. Dumb decision, but a rule for myself so I don’t sleep these precious few days I have left in my hometown away. I grabbed a Powerade, some cold pizza I had left on the kitchen counter, and sat myself on my couch, checking my phone for any recollection from the night before. After that shot with my cousin, the night went black.
My phone consisted of a bunch of tags on Instagram stories, texts, pictures and videos. Nothing notable. Well, I decided there was nothing notable as I skipped past any video or picture that had even the smallest chance of being embarrassing.
And then the phone rang. It was Matthew’s mom. I didn’t want to answer, but figured she’d only call in an emergency.
“Hey, Matthew didn’t come home last night. Do you know where he is?” She asked.
I checked my phone. We shared each other’s location, so I could surely find him. My assumption is that he ended up at some girl’s house and his phone died. But the location said he was still at the brewery. That idiot, I assumed. He left his phone at the brewery, left with a girl, leaving his mom worried sick.
I came up with a lie and told her I thought I saw him leave with a, “friend.” No need to explicitly tell his mom he was going home with a girl. I lied, I’ll make up for it later when he asks for a ride to the brewery to retrieve his phone.
She thanked me, hanging up. And then I heard a bang in my backyard.
My house is modest. It’s small with a backyard and a small garage. Nothing special, but certainly more space than I need. When I looked through the back, through the rain that had just started drizzle down, I saw the interior of my garage flicker on and off. Thinking it was an electrical issue, I ran out.
Too hungover to throw on a jacket or grab an umbrella, I ran out barefoot, crashing into the garage. Matthew was in there, flipping the light switch.
“Dude, your mom is worried-“ I said, before he cut me off.
“Don’t. Speak.” He said, coming closer.
He looked tired. He jumped when I ran into the garage. He was shaking. His feet were muddy, and his arms were bruised all over. He turned the light off.
From our point in the garage, there was enough space between my house and my neighbor’s to see into the front yard. I saw a car pull up. And then a call. C.J.
“Hello,” I answered.
He gave me a bullshit ramble about the night before and how fun it was. And then-
“You seen your friend Matthew? Dude was fucked up and I tried to give him a ride home last night. He left his phone with me.” C.J. said through my speaker.
Matthew’s eyes, lit by my phone screen, widened. He shook his head violently.
“I haven’t seen him.” I replied.
“You mind if I come in? I got breakfast for ya’.”
Matthew went silent.
“Man, I’m sick and miserable. This is a top five hangover of all time. We can grab some lunch later. I’m literally puking my guts out right now.” I said.
There was a long pause. The car drove away, and C.J. told me he’d see me later. He hung up.
We turned the garage light back on.
Matthew grabbed me by the shoulders.
“We’ve gotta get to my mom’s. Now.” He said.
“Why?”
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the desperation that leaked out from him.
“She’s not safe. Your family. I-“ Matthew was shaking violently. He couldn’t say another word. I don’t know what happened, but it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to get anything out of him until I took him to his mother.
We drove in silence. While I’ve waited for him, I’ve typed this out to you. It’s been a while now, I wanted to give him his time and space, but he hasn’t come out and his mom isn’t answering the phone. I’ll update when I can.