by Sharon Sala
When she was done, the silence in the apartment was uncomfortable. She heard an approaching siren and, out of habit, looked out the window. The cop car came and went, but she never saw it. What she did see, however, was the man beneath the streetlight.
Her heart sank, then began beating so rapidly that she broke out in a sweat.
It was him.
“Stop this!” she cried out. “Please leave me alone!”
She blinked, and he was gone.
It was, for her, the final straw. She didn’t know whether Mother Mary Theresa was right or not, but she was tired of living in a constant state of anxiety.
She grabbed her car keys and purse, and ran for the door. Minutes later, she was on her way to an all-night chapel that she’d visited many times before.
When she pulled into the church parking lot a short while later, her hands were shaking and she wanted to throw up, but this had to be done. The parking lot was well-lit, and to her relief, she saw other cars parked there, as well.
She grabbed her purse and got out, then made a run for the door. Inside, soft candlelight bathed the old Gothic edifice in a welcoming glow. She dipped her fingers in the holy water just inside the doorway, then genuflected as she made the sign of the cross.
So far, so good.
She was in God’s house.
Nothing bad could happen to her here.
She moved past a half-dozen other worshipers scattered throughout the pews to the altar at the front of the church. A statue of Christ crucified hung high upon the wall, his features contorted in eternal suffering.
She took a taper, then lit a candle before kneeling before the altar. As soon as her knees touched the floor, she closed her eyes and inhaled, and as she did, she knew she was not alone.
It wasn’t a presence she could pinpoint, but she felt no threat, so she didn’t try to look. It was enough that it was there.
She prayed, and then she listened, and then she prayed some more. And when there was nothing else to say and no other way to say it, she found herself speaking the words the old nun had left in her heart.
“Lord…I know you’ve already forgiven him. I can do no less. Forgive me for my weakness in harboring hate. Forgive me for wanting Jay Carpenter’s soul in hell. I pray that he’s found his peace.”
She felt what could only be described as a breath against her cheek, but when she opened her eyes, there was no one there.
She stood up, and as she turned around, she thought she saw a man standing in the shadows near the door at the end of the aisle.
She started toward him, needing to know that she’d done the right thing, praying that if it was indeed Jay Carpenter’s ghost, that it had been put to rest.
But when she got there, the vestibule was empty. Shrugging off the vision as the result of nothing more than a guilty conscience and an overactive imagination, she stepped out of the church, then paused at the top of the steps.
The sky was clear and full of stars, deceptive beauty in a world that was no longer safe. She scanned the parking lot for lurkers before quickly moving toward her car.
As she started down the steps, something blew across her line of vision.
A bit of paper on the ground.
Probably nothing but trash.
Still, she paused, watching until it caught in some shrubs. Curious, she ran down and picked it up before it could blow away, then stuck it in her pocket as she dashed to her car.
By the time she drove home, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. It didn’t matter now if she saw Jay Carpenter’s ghost around every corner. She’d released her hold on the hatred she’d felt.
When she got inside, she realized she was hungry. She made herself a sandwich, poured a glass of soda and then settled down to eat at the bar in the kitchen. She was almost finished before she remembered the piece of paper.
She felt silly as she went to get it, telling herself it was probably part of a candy wrapper, and that the inside of her pocket would most likely be sticky, which she deserved for being so melodramatic.
She got her jacket and took out the paper, then carried it back to the kitchen, to the light. As she laid it down on the counter, she could tell there was writing on the other side. Definitely no candy wrapper.
Then she turned it over.
Part of the paper had been torn away, but she read what was there and began to cry.
Through whatever power that had been with her, her prayer had been answered.
Awed by the power of God, she stared down at the words, written in a faint, shaky script: “…as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
Her heart was pounding, her hands trembling, as she heard the front door open.
It was Ben.
She heard him calling her name, and tried to find the breath to answer.
“Honey…it’s me! Did you save me some dinner?” he yelled.
January’s fingers curled around the paper.
Then she wadded it up and stuffed it into her pocket as she turned toward the sound of his voice.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2901-7
THE CHOSEN
Copyright © 2005 by Sharon Sala.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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