Deciding that he had devoted more than enough time to Abigail Elizabeth Hargaves and the mystery set of Rosary beads that bore her initials, Thomas poured himself into his work. The next few weeks were entirely uneventful. The workdays were routine, as were the after-work get-togethers at the bars. Christmas lights, wreaths, and fake candles were out in full force, along with the tired playlists of Christmas songs that filled the elevators and the coffee shops.
Thomas and his father had a standing, albeit implicit, arrangement that saw Thomas driving home each year for a visit the weekend before Christmas. True to form, Thomas arrived at the house early on a Friday evening. It was empty. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge, wandered into the family room, and began looking at the photos that lined the wall along the stairs up to the second floor. He homed in on a family portrait from his childhood. His dad, a high-priced attorney, wore a tailored three-piece suit; Thomas mused that he dressed for family portraits the same way he dressed for work. His mom wore a pink blouse tucked into a blue pleated skirt. She was the picture of health in this photo—the cancer wouldn’t begin its assault on her body for another year or two.
Thomas’s eyes shifted to the four-year-old version of himself. He looked happy enough. He still had both parents, and his mom doted on him constantly. He began thinking about how the cancer had taken her. He thought back to the funeral and the way that his relatives had tried to console him. The memories of his mother had faded over the years, but he recalled with perfect clarity the confusion he felt at that funeral, not understanding why his mother was gone and would never come back. Over time, that confusion turned to anger as he saw other kids’ moms chaperoning school field trips, bringing snacks to baseball games, and hosting elaborate birthday parties for his friends. Up until a few days ago, he had not set foot in a church since his mother died.
Thomas moved slowly up the stairs, sporadically taking a pull from his bottle as he looked from one picture to the next. And then, about halfway up the stairs, he stopped. He walked back down a few steps and looked again at the family portrait. At that moment, he heard the sound of his father’s car pulling into the driveway, and he waited for what seemed an eternity as his father gathered his briefcase and suit jacket before walking inside.
“Hello, Thomas.” As was always the case, there was a businesslike tone in his father’s voice, but Thomas had little interest in nuance at the moment.
“Dad,” he said, “What’s this?” He was pointing at the family portrait.
Thomas’s father was caught off guard by the brusqueness of the reply, but he walked over and looked at the photograph.
“What does Mom have wrapped around her right wrist?”
Thomas noticed a subtle change in his father’s expression. “Those were her Rosary beads. She took them with her everywhere.” He paused for a moment. “She got them when she was in college—a semester abroad trip to Rome. She loved that set, even had her initials engraved on the back of the crucifix.”
Thomas quickly interjected, his mind running in several directions at once: “A.H.H.?”
“No,” his father laughed. “She got them before we were married. Her middle name was Emily. Agatha Emily Harper.” Thomas struggled to maintain his focus as his father continued talking. “We never spoke about this much, you and I. Your mother was a devout, holy woman. Even before the cancer diagnosis, she was always at Mass, always praying. The beads on that Rosary were worn down by the time she died. She wasn’t afraid to die. The only thing that upset her was that she wouldn’t be here for you as you were growing up. That made her sad.”
The ticking sound from the second hand on Thomas’s watch filled the room.
“Those Rosary beads …” said Thomas’s father. “I never mentioned this to you, I guess because I felt so bad about it, but I found out some time after she died that she wanted you to have them. Her sister—your Aunt Claire—told me.”
Thomas took a generous swig from his beer bottle. “What happened?” he asked. “Did you lose them?”
“No, not at all. I know exactly where they are.”
***
“She was buried with them.” Thomas spoke from the front pew of Immaculate Conception Chapel, having performed the requisite contortions that allowed him to face the old priest directly. “My dad had the undertaker wrap them around her right hand and wrist. It was the way he wanted to remember her. He said he was the last one to look upon her body at the funeral home before they closed the casket.”
The priest, seemingly looking at nothing in particular, nodded in acknowledgement.
“He told me that she had her initials engraved on the back of the crucifix. Agatha Emily Harper—that was her name before they got married. He mentioned that the beads were worn, and that one of them had been replaced. Apparently she dropped them once and the bead shattered. Everything that he could remember about them,” said Thomas, holding the beads up, “describes this set.”
There was another nod from the priest.
Thomas felt an agitation welling up inside. Maybe this priest isn’t so sharp witted as he initially surmised. He didn’t seem at all surprised or taken aback. There was no shock, no amazement. Thomas broke the silence.
“This is ridiculous!” he said, his frustration echoing throughout the chapel. “Tell me—How is this possible?”
“Possible!” There was a cynical, almost mocking tone in the old priest’s reply that caught Thomas off guard. The priest closed his eyes for a moment, breathed in heavily, and slowly exhaled. “You’re asking the wrong question, son.”
“Okay. What is the right question?” The exasperation in Thomas’s voice suggested that it was only by way of a heroic exercise of restraint that he omitted the address “Smarty Pants” at the end of his query.
“Why?”
“Because I want to know! What is the right question?”
The old priest smiled softly and shook his head. “That’s the question you should be asking: Why?”
Thomas said nothing.
“Let me ask you something, son.” His voice was a case study in disciplined patience. “Suppose that three weeks ago I had suggested to you that the ghost of Abigail Hargraves haunted this chapel. You’d have thought me a sorry old fool. And yet, just two weeks ago, you were asking me whether I knew of any credible sightings of her ghost. Now, suppose that you never discovered those Rosary beads in your coat pocket. You’d have never come here and asked me that question. You would have never had that conversation with your father, and you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me right now. Why do you think you have those Rosary beads?”
“My mother wanted me to …” Thomas’s voice trailed off, and he raised his hands in surrender.
“You’re on the right track, son,” said the old priest, gently. “She wanted you to know that everything you experienced when you walked over here that night really happened. Everything that caused you, even if only for a split second, to question your basic assumptions about everything. It was all real.”
He paused for a moment, more for Thomas’s benefit than his own.
“A mother doesn’t stop praying for her kids when she dies,” said the old priest. “It’s a bit tricky, because there’s no time up there.” He gave a subtle upward gesture with his eyes. “But the answers to those prayers come at the right time—down here.”
At the start of their conversation, Thomas had been sitting bolt upright—there was almost an urgency to his posture. He now looked like a crumpled heap.
“I wish I could stay,” said the old priest, “but my work here is finished. It’s time for someone else to take over. I hope you’ll think about everything I’ve said. I’ll be praying for you, son. Merry Christmas.” With a reassuring smile and a wink of the eye, he pushed himself up out of the pew, shuffled to the back of the chapel, and disappeared into a confessional.
