From Sylvie’s place, the walk to St Maria Goretti Church takes about fifteen minutes. The church bells start to ring as Yonela and Sylvie cross the traffic lights and run up to the porch where a woman is handing out the parish newsletter.

“Here, write your name down in the visitor’s book,” she tells Sylvie as she hands her the newsletter. She is friendly and smiling.

The church is very full, and almost all the seats are occupied. Yonela and Sylvie squeeze themselves into a seat in the front.

Sylvie closes her eyes when the choir start to sing. The sound is beautiful and free. It soars like a bird. The blended low, medium and high pitched voices, and the organ, lift her spirits up. For a moment, Sylvie forgets her misery, feeling like she is breathing all the air of the earth, covered in a mantle of freedom. The priest is a jovial Indian man. His sermon is about sharing.

“This morning I have a joke for you,” he says looking around, taking in all the faces in the congregation, from the small children to the elderly. And Sylvie. He looks straight at her. She feels like he really sees her.

“There was once a woman,” he begins. The congregation goes quiet, listening. “She used to cook meat for her family.” Sylvie remembers she has not eaten meat for a long time. “As she cooked she did a lot of tasting. Every time she stirred, she would taste a bit of meat. Soon there was hardly any meat left in the stew.”

“O God! She reminds me of someone,” Sylvie finds herself muttering.

“When it came to dishing up, there were only vegetables left. Her children ate the stew and didn’t say anything, out of respect for her. However one day the bravest of her sons asked: ‘Where is the meat, mom?’ ‘It’s all in the stew. Sorry, I overcooked it. But, you know, meat is like vegetables. When you cook it, it shrinks and shrinks and shrinks.’

“The children looked at each other and burst out laughing. The bravest boy told his mother: ‘Interesting! The next time we cook meat, I want to watch that shrinking. I want to see how it happens.’ Then the mother replied, ‘No boys allowed in the kitchen, you know that!’”

What a pretender! Just like Maman Brigitte! Sylvie thinks. However, the part of the joke she fails to understand is that the woman in the priest’s story is being unkind to her own children. She does not get it. She does not waste her time solving this mystery though. What is on her mind again already is how to escape her misery.

At the end of mass, one of the visitors, a bald-headed deacon with very tiny eyes, announces:

“I greet you all in the name of Jesus. I came all this way from Worcester and I wish to meet all the youth in the church hall, after tea.”

Sylvie is wondering what good she can get out of this. She feels pain at the thought of seeing Maman Brigitte soon after church.

In the hall, the deacon asks, “We have a vibrant youth group in our parish. I want to know, how is the youth doing here at St Maria Goretti?”

“We get together from time to time and pray, watch videos or go hiking. Oh, I enjoy the hikes,” one boy says. Several others contribute too.

“Good. You are doing well. Keep it up.”

Sylvie listens to all this. But her mind is on her troubles. All she can think of is how she doesn’t want to go home to Maman Brigitte.

“Go speak to the deacon. He is interested in young people. He might be of some help,” Yonela whispers to Sylvie. Sylvie hesitates, thinks of Maman Brigitte, plucks up some courage.

“Can I speak to you in private, sir?”

“Ah! In priiiivate?” the boy who likes hiking shouts. All the children sneer.

“Now you are getting nasty. Leave her alone,” the deacon says, ushering Sylvie out of the hall. They go and sit on a bench in the small parish garden.

“You don’t look happy, my child. But first, what’s your name?” the deacon begins the conversation.

“Sylvie.”

“Nice name, nice name. Do you have a problem Sylvie?”

“It’s my stepmother – my uncle’s wife. I am an orphan and, oh, she hates me. I’m the one doing all the chores in the house. I had to stop going to school in Grade 10 and I was the top of my class!” She is in tears as she says this.

“Let me think… Let me think…” He scratches his bald head. “If you can send me your Grade 10 marks, there might be a chance. There is a Catholic high school near my church. They have a few bursaries for promising students. Do you have an email address? A cellphone number?”

“Yes, I do.” Feeling a spark of hope warming her heart, she takes a piece of paper out of her bag and writes down her phone number. She hands it to the deacon. “I can get my emails only when I get time off,” she tells him. He writes down his address so that she can post her report.

“Be strong, my child,” he says, patting her on the shoulder before they part. “There is hope.”

When she goes back into the hall, she finds that Yonela has finished drinking tea and had also had some biscuits. Sylvie begs her to wait while she also drinks some tea because nothing has touched her mouth since the morning. Yonela is curious to know the outcome of Sylvie’s conversation with the deacon.

“You looked so romantic, sitting together out there,” Yonela jokes.

“I hope you are not jealous,” Sylvie jokes back, then tells her what the pastor said. “I might end up going to a boarding school. I’m so excited!”

“Really? Where? Worcester? Anyway, be careful Sylvie. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Yonela warns.

But Sylvie’s heart is flying. She feels like she can breathe. Like a hole has been ripped open in that suffocating sack and she can see the blue sky.

***

Tell us what you think: Can Sylvie really trust the deacon?