by Katy Regnery
Oh. Oh, my God. Oh.
“My brother-in-law!” I cry, realizing like a bolt of lightning my mistake. I have never told anyone at Blessed Virgin that Tig is my biological mother. Not even Father Joseph, whom I love. “I misspoke, Father! I meant my . . . my brother-in-law!”
There is movement in the box beside me, and Father Joseph stands up. A moment later, the door opens and slams shut. Inside the confessional, I am frozen. I don’t know what to do.
“Miss Ellis, come out of the confessional.”
On shaking legs, I stand up. By telling the truth, I have exposed my lies. In church. To Father Joseph. Turning the doorknob slowly, I step outside, into the small chapel, keeping my eyes down.
“Look at me, miss.”
Clenching my jaw, I raise my eyes and look at him, my nerves fraying by the second.
“We appear to have some confusion. You referred to the man married to your late sister as your stepfather with some conviction.”
“No.” I gulp. “F-Father Jo—”
“Yes. ‘My mother’s husband.’ That’s what you said. You were very clear a moment ago.” His light blue eyes bore into mine. “Your sister’s widower is your brother-in-law. Your mother’s widower would be your stepfather. We cannot move forward in our conversation without transparency. So please tell me the truth: which is it?”
I stare at him with wide eyes, my jaw slack, my mouth dry. I can’t lie to him. I can’t.
Father Joseph takes a deep breath and sighs, nodding his head, his eyes shifting from suspicion to sympathy before my eyes.
“Miss Ellis,” he says, gesturing to a pew. “Sit down.”
On legs of jelly, I make my way to the pew and lower my body. For most of my life I have been forbidden to speak of Tig as my mother. My grandmother’s name is on my birth certificate. Gus knows the truth only because Tig told him one night a long, long time ago when she was higher than a kite. But no one else on earth knows.
Except now . . . someone does. And as he takes a seat in the pew in front of mine and turns around, propping his elbow on the back of the pew between us, I can see understanding in his brown eyes.
“We are formal in the confessional,” he says gently, “but I know it’s you when we speak on Wednesday mornings, Miss Ellis. You are the only student who comes to confession on Wednesdays, and, I confess, I greatly look forward to our conversations, to watching you grow and mature into a fine young woman.” He pauses, pursing his lips for a moment before continuing. “But you are also one lamb in a larger flock. My beloved flock. I know all of my students, and I pray for all of you regularly.” His eyes search mine. “I know, for instance, that your older sister recently passed from this life, Miss Ellis. I know that she, and her husband, were financially responsible for your tuition. Your parents, as I understand it, are Welsh, and chose to be little involved in the lives of their daughters.”
He knows the script of my life cold.
He cocks his head to the side. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that the information I have stated—that was written on your admission forms—is true.”
I can’t. I look away.
He sighs heavily. “Miss Ellis, you are a Catholic. I am a Catholic. Though times are changing, in some families, a child born out of wedlock is still considered a point of deep shame for those of our faith. In the confessional, you referred to your sister as your mother and mentioned a stepfather. I need to reiterate that, before we can continue, there must be transparency between us, or I will be unable to guide and counsel you. Was the woman you have identified for all of your life as your sister, actually your mother?”
The tears crowding my eyes slip onto my cheeks, scalding a path to my jawline.
“Yes,” I murmur, staring down at my lap, still unable to look Father Joseph in the eyes.
“I see.”
“I’m sorry I lied to you. I broke the Ninth Commandment.”
“Yes, you did,” he replies gently, “but you obeyed the Fourth by honoring your mother and her wishes to appear as your sister in the eyes of the world.”
I look up now because I am so grateful for his kindness, for the way he understands, for the way he takes my years of deception and forgives it in an instant.
“Thank you, Father,” I whisper.
“Are you an only child?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And your sister—I’m sorry—I mean, your mother was married several years before her passing, yes? To a man named Mosier Răumann. Your stepfather.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Now we can proceed. Please repeat what you told me in the confessional, Miss Ellis.”
Using the backs of my hands to wipe away my tears, I look up, meeting his eyes. “He . . . well, it appears that my stepfather has had a plan in mind for q-quite some time. He wants me to . . . I mean, he insists that I marry him after graduation.”
“Insists?” asks Father Joseph. “But marriage is a union of mutual consent.”
“He is very . . . forceful.”
Please help me, I silently pray. Please, Father, please help me.
Father Joseph winces, his eyes deeply troubled when he looks at me. “Aside from the fact that you do not appear to welcome his suit, he is considerably older than you.”
“Yes, Father. Over thirty years older.”
Father Joseph recoils, leaning away from me as I impart this information, though his eyes remain fixed on mine. Finally he raises his chin. “Miss Ellis, in the eyes of the church, a relationship between a stepfather and his stepdaughter is considered consanguinity. Incest. It is utterly forbidden.”
“He believes I am his sister-in-law.”
“Yes, of course.” Father Joseph nods. “And that is why you must tell him your true identity. Make it clear that you cannot marry him. It would, after all, be a mortal sin. Once he understands that you are actually his stepdaughter, he will withdraw his offer.”
I don’t care either way. I own you, cenuşă. I bought you. Your body is mine! Your virginity is mine! Your pussy is mine! Your womb is mine, and I will pump it full of—
A crazy, high-pitched sound escapes my lips. It’s an ugly laugh, and it echoes through the sacred space, eerie and all wrong.
“Miss Ellis?”
“Y-you don’t know him,” I say, my voice wavering. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, to no avail. “Father, believe me when I tell you: he will force me to be his wife. No matter what.”
“He would place your very soul in peril?”
In a heartbeat, I think. He doesn’t care about me or my heart or my soul. He feels that he owns me. He made that very clear. Feeling hopeless, I let my head fall forward and cover my face with my hands, fear and shame washing over me like cold rain.
A long silence lies heavy between us before Father Joseph speaks again. “Miss Ellis, perhaps your grandparents could speak to him? They could explain that your mother was very young when you were born and they stepped in as parent figures for you?”
My grandparents are already back in Wales, but I recall their faces across the conference table at my mother’s funeral, and I am more certain than ever that they knew of Mosier’s plans for me, but were persuaded to look the other way in exchange for a comfortable life. Or maybe they just hated me so much for existing that they didn’t care what happened to me. Or maybe they were glad that I’d be forced into marrying Mosier, thus damning my soul to hell. That’s possible too.
“They have left the country,” I say softly, “and won’t be returning.”
“Why not?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.
“My stepfather will only provide for them financially if they remain in Wales. I wasn’t sure at the time, but now I believe he deliberately got rid of them so that they couldn’t interfere with his plans to marry me.”
Father Joseph sighs deeply. “Your father? Is he in the picture at all?”
“I never knew him,” I say. “My mother never told me who he was.”
“I
am sorry,” says Father Joseph, his eyes sad, but ever kind. “Without family to intervene on your behalf, Miss Ellis, I will take it upon myself to contact your stepfather and explain—”
“No! Please no!” My eyes must be wild as I lurch forward in the pew. “He would come and get me. He would take me. I would be trapped with him. Please don’t say anything to anyone, Father. Please don’t call him!” I sob as I recall the terrifying crudeness of his plans, the dark ruthlessness in his eyes. “He was very clear about his . . . desires. He wants me to have many children for him and—”
He holds up a single palm to stop me. “I don’t require any further detail.”
“Don’t call him,” I say, my voice breaking in a sob.
“Calm yourself, my child.” He pats my hand gently two times. “You must see that he deserves to know the truth.”
“Please,” I beg him. “The moment he hears from you, he’ll come up here and take me. He’s powerful, Father. Determined. He’ll come and get me, and then I’ll be under his control. Indefinitely. Forever.”
“You’re distraught,” observes Father Joseph, looking at me closely. “I think you might benefit from a few days away, Miss Ellis. Your mother was only buried on Monday. You need a bit of time somewhere quiet to make peace with her loss.”
I consider this for a moment. Being sent away from Father Joseph and my school sounds scary on one hand, but on the other, the further I can get from Mosier, the better.
“While you are away, I will call your stepfather and explain everything to him.” He shifts in his seat. “Your grandparents are abroad, but do you have somewhere else to go? Just for a few days while this situation is sorted out?”
“No. There’s no one. I’m all alo—” La Belle Époque Galerie ~ 5900 Shelburne Road ~ Shelburne, VT ~ 05482. Of course. Gus. “Yes. There is someone. My mother’s best friend. My godfather.”
“Your godfather.” Father Joseph’s face relaxes. “Would he take you in for a few days? If you could spend a few days with him, it would give me an opportunity to speak to your stepfather on your behalf and iron this out.”
An instant plan materializes in my mind: if I could get to Gus, maybe, just maybe, I would be safe from Mosier. I could hide there with Gus for a while. Forever.
Gus. His name is a benediction in the fury of my mind. I remember the happy months I spent with him while Tig was in rehab, the welcome sight of his face at the funeral on Monday, and a warm feeling washes over me, my heart thundering with sudden hope.
“Would you like to use the phone in the rectory to make arrangements?”
“I don’t need to,” I say, wiping away the leftover tears on my cheeks. “I know I’m welcome.” At any hour, anytime.
“Very well. I’ll write out a pass for you. You can leave on Friday evening when you’ve finished your classes for the day. I will drive you to the train or bus station myself.”
“And you’ll contact Mosier?”
“Yes. Let me be very clear, Miss Ellis: I feel strongly that he deserves to know the truth. Seen in a certain light, he is as much a victim as you are, lied to by his spouse for the entirety of their union. I ask you, also, to search your own heart. Relationships between stepparents and stepchildren are often challenging, but perhaps he is not as bad as you fear. Perhaps his offer to marry you was just his misguided way of making sure you were cared for after your mother’s passing. But if he has Christ in his heart, he will understand that a marriage between you is impossible.”
Mosier’s face, furious and determined, appears in my head, and I shiver, reaching for Father Joseph’s hand. “He’s into . . . bad things, Father. I’m afraid for you.”
“What sorts of bad things?”
I don’t know how to answer—where to begin. When I flounder, he continues speaking, and the moment is lost.
“Come, now, Miss Ellis. I am a priest. God will protect me.” He pats my hand before releasing it. “But I am certain I won’t require protection. Your stepfather is a businessman, right?”
I nod slowly, wondering if Father Joseph can possibly understand the kind of sordid “business” in which Mosier deals.
“Then I’m sure he’s a reasonable man. I have complete faith that once he learns the truth, he will withdraw his offer. And then you can return to school and be reconciled with him.”
The way Father Joseph says all this, with such quiet conviction, makes me wonder if it’s actually possible. It’s not really that I want a relationship with Mosier and his sons after my graduation from school—in fact, now that a plan to connect with Gus has formed in my mind, I know exactly where I want to go when I finish school—but I would like to part with my stepfamily on good terms. We did have my mother in common, after all.
“I have no money to get to Gus.”
“Sister Agnes can prepare a picnic supper for your travels, and I will give you bus or train fare,” says Father Joseph, “so that you can get to where you need to go.”
I nod. “My godfather lives in Shelburne, Vermont, Father. Do you know where that is?”
“I don’t. But we can look for it on a map and figure out how to get you there.” For the first time since we started speaking, he smiles at me. “Mind you don’t get too comfortable in Vermont, now, Miss Ellis. I expect you’ll be back here with us by next week.”
Seen in a certain light, he is as much a victim as you are . . . Your stepfather is a businessman . . . a reasonable man . . . Perhaps his offer to marry you was just his misguided way of making sure you were cared for after your mother’s passing.
I mull over Father Joseph’s words, testing them out to see if they resonate with me. They don’t feel right, but then I have always been uncomfortable around Mosier because our life changed so drastically when we moved in with him. Perhaps Father Joseph has a point, and I am just too close to the situation to see it clearly.
Have I been unfair to Mosier? He is crass and crude, of course, and the security around his house has always made my mind spin stories of evildoing, but he also paid for my education and was financially responsible for my mother and me while they were married.
Confused by my charitable thoughts, I frown, very certain of one thing: “I think he’ll be very angry.”
“He has a right to anger,” says Father Joseph. “He was deceived by his wife for many years, and the revelations I share with him may be painful for him to process on several levels. But I have faith that once he has all the facts, he will realize that caring for you in the future cannot include marriage. Trust me, my child. Trust in God.”
Trust in God, I think, taking my first deep, clean breath in days and feeling all my bunched and aching muscles finally relax.
I brave a small smile for my savior and protector. “So I can just go stay with Gus for a while? Just like that?”
“You’ve completed all of the requirements for graduation, Miss Ellis. Besides, you’re eighteen. An adult. You’re free to go where you please. But, yes. I will write out a pass for you to take your leave of us for a week or so. The time away will do you good. I’m certain of it.” Father Joseph smiles back at me. “Meanwhile, I’ll sort things out with your stepfather, and you can return to school when you’re ready. How does that sound?”
With a sigh of intense relief, I nod, and my smile widens.
It’s a plan. A real plan. A good plan, with the best man in the world at the helm. I am so hopeful for its success, my shoulders slump, and tears of gratitude begin to fall. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I was so frightened, Father. So scared.”
“There is no need,” says Father Joseph, rising as the bell rings for breakfast. “What we have here, more than anything, is a misunderstanding, my child. I am positive that once we clear it up, all will be well.”
***
On Friday evening, while my classmates are summoned to supper by a herald of bells, Father Joseph drives me to the Poughkeepsie Amtrak station, and my eyes fill with tears as I wave good-bye to him from my window seat on the train.
As far as my friends and the sisters know, I am spending a few days off campus with a family friend, something that happens regularly among Blessed Virgin students. But my heart isn’t light like theirs would be. Since Wednesday morning, I have been deep in thought and prayer, and what I’m doing on this train can be summed up in one word: escape.
I am escaping.
Lying in my bed for the past two nights, staring up at the ceiling, I have replayed Mosier’s words in my head on an endless loop: I married her . . . for you. I own you, cenuşă. I bought you.
The past five years have been a waiting game for Mosier, which makes me wonder if it’s a coincidence that one month after my eighteenth birthday, my mother mysteriously dies. The timing is unsettling, to say the least.
As the train pulls away from the station, I wave to Father Joseph one final time, watching as he turns away from the platform and walks back to the parking lot. When I can’t see him anymore, I face front, wondering about his meeting with Mosier.
He promised not to call Mosier or set up the meeting until I had left town, more out of consideration for my feelings, I believe, than because he believes my stepfather capable of nefarious action. Even today, on the way to the train station, Father Joseph reaffirmed his belief that once Mosier understood the circumstances of my birth, he would withdraw his offer of marriage.
I wish I had Father Joseph’s faith in Mosier, but I don’t.
I have far more faith in Mosier’s hair-trigger temper and ruthless will to get what he wants. I think the revelation of my parentage will throw my stepfather into a fury, but I do not believe it will deter him from his plan to have me.
It’s a little after five o’clock, and this train will reach the station in Westport, New York, a little after nine, which leaves me several hours for reading. I take a deep breath. It’s time to face my demons again.
Leaning down, I tug my bag out from under the seat in front of me, unzip it, and find Tig’s journal.
