by Tonya Hurley
“Before he came to you, he slept here.”
Perpetua stepped aside and Lucy entered. Slowly. She could feel Sebastian’s presence, as if he were still there. She walked to the bed and sat on it gently, running her hands along the coarse and tightly tucked military style blanket beneath her. She stared out at the shaded, fertile garden and imagined Sebastian sitting in the same place.
“How long was he here?” Lucy asked.
“Not long.”
“Did you know him well?”
“We took him in when his grandmother died. He stayed with us. Until Father Piazza moved him on the doctor’s advice.
“To Perpetual Help?”
“Yes,” Perpetua said sadly. “We weren’t permitted to visit him or communicate in any way. When he escaped from that madman, he came here.”
Lucy wasn’t surprised. Despite the Spartan quality of the room, Perpetua’s home was welcoming and hospitable. Safe. Comfortable. Quiet. A place, she imagined, where love and loyalty were prized above all else. A world with which she regrettably had far too little experience, as had Sebastian, to hear Perpetua tell it. What must he have been thinking, lying in this bed, knowing that Frey and the cops were out to find him? To take away either his freedom or his soul. Or both. It was almost too much for Lucy to bear.
“I can’t stand that his death will have been in vain.”
“It wasn’t. He did what he set out to do. There are the three of you,” Perpetua said.
“He was so young. Just a boy.”
Perpetua held Lucy in her arms, comforting her as she had that night on the red carpet. “You don’t need to mourn for him. His life was short, but complete. You understand?”
“I’m not sure I do anymore.”
“He did what he was meant to do. Fulfilled.”
Lucy wasn’t so sure about that.
“Something terrible has happened,” she blurted out, distressed.
“Tell me,” Perpetua said, sitting next to the anguished girl and taking her hand once more.
“We’ve been looking for something that was stolen. My friend was given this address and was told we might get help finding it here.”
“What are you seeking?”
“I can’t even bring myself to speak the words to you.”
“You can speak freely to me.”
Lucy took a breath. “I have dreams. I think that Dr. Frey . . .” Lucy paused, her words catching in her throat at the thought. “I think he stole Sebastian’s heart from the morgue.”
Lucy was shaking, and Perpetua placed her hands on the girl’s flushed face, holding it still.
“Faccia bella,” the woman said, praising Lucy’s beauty. “Dr. Frey didn’t steal the heart.”
Lucy was shocked. “How do you know?” she said, half fearing the answer.
“Because it is with us.”
“What is with us?”
“What you are looking for. He is here.”
Lucy was confused. “I don’t mean Sebastian is with us. Inside us.”
“Nor do I. It is here.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Seeing is believing,” Perpetua responded.
Perpetua stood and took a few short steps to the closet door. She opened it and revealed a tiny altar with a gold kneeler padded with a garnet crushed-velvet cushion in front of it. Perpetua struck a match and lit a myrrh-scented votive before the golden jeweled box with two side-by-side doors in front. The flame from the candle illuminated it, throwing beams of light outward. Lucy almost felt the need to cover her eyes. Perpetua reached for the clasp on the casement door, unfastened it, and pulled the doors open. Behind a glass pane, it was revealed.
A heart.
A human heart.
Whole.
Incorrupt.
Lucy approached the shrine as if in a trance. “Oh my God. Frey didn’t take it. You did,” Lucy murmured in astonishment. “Why would you do something like this? Why?”
“Calm yourself,” the woman said. “Like the relics of the past, it will inspire many.”
Lucy took hold of the milagro dangling from her wrist and fell to her knees and sobbed. “I felt him here. This is him.”
“This is your faith, your legacy,” Perpetua said. “And your burden.”
Lucy bent over and brought her face to rest on the floor, heaving tears.
“Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.” Over and over she cried out his name in joy and sorrow.
Jesse heard her shouts and ran down the hallway to the room. “Lucy!”
He stopped in the doorway, shocked and awed by the beautiful, grisly scene.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, grabbing his phone and snapping a few pictures of Lucy kneeling before the organ, proof to himself or evidence for others, if it came to that. “Unbelievable.”
Perpetua held up her hand, signaling him to come no further, and Jesse complied. After a while, Lucy’s weeping subsided, and the woman reached down to lift her up. But it wasn’t her hands Lucy felt. It was a grasp she remembered from her first moments at Precious Blood. Sebastian’s grasp.
“Do not be afraid,” the woman said.
The words were from Perpetua’s mouth, but Lucy heard only Sebastian’s voice.
“I’m not afraid,” Lucy said.
“This is why I knew you would come.”
“I have to tell Cecilia and Agnes. Will you keep it here?”
“It is safe with us for now,” Perpetua said. “Out of the control of the Ciphers who covet it. Until it can be safely returned to Precious Blood and restore the church.”
“Lucy,” Jesse said, turning pale as a ghost, “this is creeping me out. Let’s go.”
“Does Frey know you have it?”
“I don’t know, but he is aware that it’s gone.”
“Anyone else?”
“No,” Perpetua reassured her. “Nobody knows outside our small circle, and it is a secret they would not reveal on pain of death.”
“He’ll find it.”
“And we will guard it, with our last breath.”
“And with ours,” Lucy said, taking her hand.
3 Agnes was hanging at her locker, lost in thought. A gentle whisper broke her concentration.
“Agnes, right?”
She turned. “Finn?”
“I didn’t mean to be rude yesterday,” he said apologetically. “It’s just hard for me to know who to trust around here.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Can I walk you to your next class?”
“No,” Agnes blurted.
“No?” Finn asked.
“I mean, no, this is lunch for me,” Agnes explained, holding her brown bag up and wiggling it. “We can talk in the courtyard if you want.”
They headed silently out the back exit and sat down at a shaded wooden picnic table on the grass. Dogwoods flowered all around them, a few of the blossoms dotting the tabletop.
“This is my favorite tree,” she said randomly. “It’s peaceful here. Not like inside the building.”
“Or inside my head.” He smiled.
Agnes wasn’t sure how much she should tell him she’d heard from Hazel, but looking at the pained face of the boy across from her, she decided to jump right in.
“I heard you were at Perpetual Help?”
Finn was slow to reply. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I heard you were too.”
“Yeah.”
Finn saw Agnes’s expression change. Darken. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, it’s fine. We can talk about it if it will help you.”
“I don’t know if anything will help.”
Agnes moved in closer, and the closer she got, the more relaxed he became.
“What happened?” she asked. “Don’t worry, I won’t judge you.”
Finn looked away and closed his eyes tightly, his lids fluttering nervously as if he were in a deep sleep, reliving the past couple of months, years, maybe even his entire life. He b
egan to speak in fragments.
“You know? My parents. They . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “They have certain expectations of me.”
“You feel you’ve disappointed them in some way?”
“Yes, you get it,” he said relieved. “By not living up to what they expect of me.”
“I do get it,” she said.
“Do you . . . do you ever worry they don’t love you?” he asked.
“I believe my mother loves me,” Agnes confessed. “But I don’t believe she likes me.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But doesn’t that mean we’re more like obligations?”
“So you took it upon yourself to rid them of their obligation?”
“Yes. Pills. Unsuccessfully.” His eyes reddened with guilt. And shame. And sadness.
Agnes pulled up the sleeves of her lamb’s-wool sweater and bore her scars to the boy. “A lot messier,” she said. “And just as unsuccessful.”
“Lucky thing,” he said, looking away awkwardly.
“For both of us,” Agnes added.
“Who knows where I’d be without Dr. Frey,” Finn continued. “He saved me.”
Agnes bit her lip. It suddenly occurred to her that he was “away” when everything went down at Precious Blood and knew nothing about it. He might have been the only person she’d met in the last few months who didn’t.
“Yes, he has quite a reputation,” Agnes said.
“Did you know him? Did he treat you?”
“Not really.”
“Then how did you get better?” Finn asked. “You seem so together.”
Agnes allowed herself to be flattered. It felt good for a change. She had to be so defensive about herself since Precious Blood. Even to her closest friends and family.
“Believe it or not, there was another patient from the ward that helped me. I owe it all to him.”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t that dude Sebastian,” Finn said. “I heard he was totally insane.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Dr. Frey.”
Agnes was shaken, but kept her cool. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Finn. You of all people should understand that.”
“Well, I don’t know why anyone would need to escape,” Finn said. “Frey is getting patients released in droves now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, to the Born Again halfway house on Bond Street. No one dangerous of course.”
“Of course,” she said.
Agnes imagined an army of Sicariuses, a legion of hardcore sociopathic murderers controlled by Frey, let loose on brownstone Brooklyn. Or in local clubs, she thought, her mind now wandering to the night of CeCe’s gig.
“The day I was released, the police commissioner and the mayor were up on the ward taking pictures with him for winning some community award.”
Agnes checked the time on her phone. “I’ve got to get to class.”
“Thanks for taking the time, Agnes. I know you don’t know me at all.”
“I know you better than you think, Finn.”
“Maybe we can get a coffee after school sometime? Hang out?”
Agnes picked up her books and smiled. “Maybe.”
13 There was no memorial service for Bill.
No next of kin that could be located.
The only contact number the city could find was Cecilia’s. She received a voice message from the homeless shelter administrator’s office giving her a location at which she could claim his ashes if she chose to do so. She was informed that she had two weeks or they would be disposed of. She knew where to go. She’d been there before. Recently. The souvenir from her trip now worn proudly on her tattooed wrist.
Cecilia arrived at the morgue dressed in a short black skirt, black velvet platform pumps framed in studs, dainty matching black crosses painted lightly on each shin, and a tank top with a delicate chain link bra over the top. She walked in, gave her name, and an open cardboard box with a small metal can inside, too inelegant to be called an urn, was handed over to her. No waiting. No fuss.
“Sorry for your loss,” the clerk said in a thick New York accent, barely looking her in the face.
She was amazed at how light the box felt. A grown person reduced to a handful of powder; dehydrated like those food rations they used to take to outer space or sell in candy stores. An entire life—hopes, dreams, struggles, triumphs—all of it boiled down to its essence. Bill would have appreciated it, she thought. At least the writer in him would have.
She was hoping they might have some of his personal effects to transfer as well, but Cecilia knew the greatest likelihood was that his stuff had been stolen. She was right.
“That’s it,” the person behind the desk said. “All except for this hat.”
Cecilia put the old, dapper fedora on her head, took a deep breath, and headed to the subway. It was a long ride home, but she had little sense of time passing. Like an athlete waiting for the game to begin, she was in the zone and ready, come what may.
As she escorted Bill’s cremains up the steps to her Red Hook loft, she spied another box in front of her door. The address was written large in a shaky hand, but a hand she recognized even from down the hall.
To: Cecilia Trent
From: Bill
3 Agnes navigated the hallway, hugging the lockers along the wall, trying her best to avoid her classmates and ignore their nasty chatter.
“Oh, look! It’s Carrie!” one girl shouted, flapping her arms in faux fright and running away.
“Saw your soul sister preaching on TV again,” another mocked about Lucy’s interview.
“Hey, Agnes,” a boy cracked, his back turned to her. “Check it out, I’m like you.” He turned, slowly revealing a piece of tire rubber wrapped around his head like a head band with darts sticking into it, creating a fanned headpiece.
A firm but sweet voice called from an office doorway behind her. “Agnes?”
Before Agnes could process what the boy was doing, and the crowd that was gathering around them, she stopped and poked her head in the door. “Hi, Sister.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Ah, sure?” Agnes stepped in and closed the door, shutting out the abusive, gossipy noise from outside.
“I saw your friend Lucy on Fourth Wall.”
“Hasn’t everybody?” Agnes sighed.
“Don’t listen to them Agnes,” Sister Dorothea said.
“It’s hard to turn the other cheek, Sister.”
“It’s supposed to be hard.”
Agnes looked out the classroom door and saw the strangest thing. She saw herself getting mocked outside in the hallway. Agnes closed her eyes tight and opened them again. The image of herself was gone.
“I feel like I have a disease, you know? Funny, but that’s how Frey described it,” Agnes said.
“Well, I don’t agree with him about much, but he might be on to something.”
“What?”
Agnes was surprised that the sister would claim to have anything in common with the psychiatrist.
“Recent behavioral studies show there is such a thing as cognitive vulnerability,” Dorothea explained. “That depression and perhaps other mental illness may actually be contagious.”
“Faith is a communicable?”
“In a sense. And some, like Frey, think those that suffer from it, to use an analogy, need to be quarantined, isolated. Managed until they are cured or die off.”
Agnes’s thoughts flew to the penthouse floor of Perpetual Help, imagining Dr. Frey’s domain more as petri dish than psych ward.
“Confine and eliminate the infection at the source.”
“Yes, or the message spreads, the movement grows, virally, by words, by deeds, over the airwaves and the Internet, and takes hold, until it can no longer be contained.”
“So Sebastian was like patient zero?”
“Yes, and now there is the three of you. And Jude.”
The discussion was bringing
a new clarity to Agnes and the threat they represented to the Ciphers.
“How do you know so much about this?”
“The cult of Saint Agnes is an old and devoted one. I believe in you,” Sister Dorothea said humbly.
Sister Dorothea pulled the necklace from under her dress, revealing a sacred heart milagro dangling from it, one identical to Agnes’s.
“Agnes? Are you okay?” the sister asked.
“No,” Agnes answered. “No, I’m not okay.”
“I know this seems impossible, but it isn’t.”
“Thing are happening,” Agnes said. “Things I don’t understand and probably will never understand.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I do know something about how you’re being treated. When I made my decision to go into the convent, I heard the snickers too. The ridicule. I got the looks. From my own family, mind you.”
“Really?”
“You know the joke I’m sure. ‘Nun today, none tomorrow.’”
Agnes tried to contain herself but burst out laughing instead. “That’s a good one.”
“I know,” the nun said, joining her in an uncontrollable giggle. “But don’t tell anyone.”
“We are misfits,” Sister Dorothea said. “You, even more so. If it’s true, if you are destined to be a saint, and I believe you are, then you really don’t fit in on this earth or in the heavens. Saints are the biggest misfits of them all.”
“I saw Jude,” Agnes said.
The nun smiled. “I know. What you did for that family was wonderful.”
“I don’t know. Is that it? Is that what all this is for? What Sebastian chose us for?”
“What could be more important than to offer solace and compassion at the hour of death?” Sister Dorothea said, coming around her desk to take Agnes by the wrist, revealing her chaplet. “She had no need for gifts, or medicine. All she needed was what you brought. Peace. That comes from the power of belief.”
“It’s all projected onto us. How can others believe in me when I don’t even believe in myself?”
“Don’t worry, you will.”
“When?” Agnes asked, sobbing.
