by Tonya Hurley
Never feeling so alive, she uttered her final word.
“Sebastian.”
3 Agnes was sick.
And scared.
She was afraid of the dark and always had been. It was irrational; she knew that. Hadn’t really slept alone until she was fourteen, and even then only with a nightlight and the bedroom door cracked open. That was probably one of the reasons why her mother felt so justified in interfering with her life. At sixteen, she was not just young, but still very much a child in her mother’s eyes. She was stubborn, but not independent.
Lucy and Cecilia were asleep in the pews around her. Sebastian had yet to return. She felt surrounded, but alone. “Swallowed” described the sensation of being enveloped by the darkened nave. The reality of what she was doing began to pour in like the rain through the leaky church roof.
Her mom was going to freak when she came into her room to get her up for school and found the bedroom empty and the bed made, comforter pulled over the top, and sheets tucked tightly. What would she do next? Call all her friends most definitely to drum up support, and attention for herself, but then panic would certainly set in. She was her mother’s life.
The thought of her mother’s angst brought out her own neuroses even further, and she began picking obliviously at the tape holding her bandages on, when the sound of a few footfalls behind her and a hand on her shoulder sent a shockwave through her entire body.
“Are you okay?” Sebastian whispered.
Deep in thought, Agnes was startled, frightened. Instead of pulling away, he leaned in waiting for her response.
“Yes,” she said, but her eyes told another story. “I just can’t sleep.”
Sebastian reached for the bare skin on her arms and then brushed his hand along her forehead. She was burning up.
“Do they hurt?” he asked, sliding his hand from her shoulder down along her arm.
“No,” she said again, this time with more conviction, but quickly reversed herself when she saw the skepticism in his eye. “Yes.”
“Come with me.” Sebastian reached out his hand and gently helped her up. Agnes was in her bare feet, wearing a soggy Hippie Gypsy crinkled tiered peasant skirt that went down to her milky white ankles—each tier a different shade, resembling a snowfall in the city—the first tier was pure white, the middle tiers were degrees of gray, until eventually the bottom tier, which was the soft black color of soot.
He led her down the side aisle toward the front of the church, through a door and into a small room behind the altar. It was cool and the air was heavy with the aroma of sandalwood, balsam, and rose. Agnes had a good nose for aromas and prided herself on her ability to pick out even the most obscure scents for the personalized fragrances and soaps she made for her friends as birthday gifts. The one scent she did not pick up, which permeated the rest of the building, was the odor of her own decay.
Sebastian struck a match, lit a taper, and stood before a large wooden cabinet with drawers and double closets, one on each side. It was traditionally styled, antique, though it was hard to see completely in the dim light. The sort of oversize piece that Agnes and her friends might scour the Park Slope flea markets for ages to find. He turned the candle sideways so that some wax would drip from the wick and form a molten puddle on the wooden countertop. He forced the bottom of the taper into the hot wax and held it for a few seconds while it fixed itself, holding the candle upright.
For the first time she was able to see the room they’d entered. A large gold crucifix hung above the cabinet and colorful robes of purple, green, and white were suspended from hooks behind the door. There was a kneeler and several ornately carved chairs with deep burgundy velvet seat covers. She noticed two doors, a larger one next to the cabinet that led to a small bathroom and a smaller black one in the back wall. Strewn across the top of the cabinet were boxes of taper candles, votive candles, brass snuffers, incense packets, and chained bronze urns, glass and ceramic casters, gold cups and plates unlike anything she’d seen before. A bookstand with a leather-bound and gilt-paged prayer book, open, with multicolored satin bookmarks dangling from select pages. Agnes was awed and more than a little uncomfortable.
“Where are we?” Agnes asked.
“It’s called a sacristy. Like a man cave for priests.”
“Looks more like an operating room, I think,” Agnes said, eyeing all the tools of the Episcopal trade on display.
“Speaking of which . . . ” Sebastian grabbed for the closet door and pulled it open.
The aromas wafted upward and became even more intense, almost overwhelming to her. He reached for a glass cruet from among several on a shelf, stood up, turned toward her, and removed the stopper.
Agnes turned effortlessly toward him like a delicate figurine inside a music box.
“Give me your arms,” he said tenderly.
“Why?”
“It’s okay,” he said, smiling concernedly, and held out his hand to receive hers. “I won’t hurt you.”
She raised her slender limbs and held them straight outward, wrists facing up, almost offering her wounds to him. Sebastian’s eyes fixed on her chaplet.
“He gave this to me,” Agnes said. “Just like you asked.”
“He’s a good boy,” Sebastian said as he gently pulled at the wrapping on her wrists. Slowly, he removed the tape and then unwound the protective gauze bandage until all that remained on each wrist was a rectangular absorbent pad, soaked through a brownish red with her blood. More concerning was the tinge of yellow on the pad.
“I think it’s getting infected,” she said, wincing.
Sebastian got as good a look as he could by candlelight. The wound was healing but still raw and inflamed. She’d cut deep and there were more stitches than he could count.
“I was supposed to go back to the doctor today,” she said nervously, “but I got into a fight with my mom and—”
“Do you get along with her?”
“We just see things very differently.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know.” Agnes hesitated. “Love? Life?”
“Is that all?”
She smiled.
“What about you?”
“I don’t have an family left,” he said. “Makes things easier, in a way.”
“And harder too?” Agnes observed, reaching gently for his arm.
Sebastian lowered his eyes.
“I’m sure your mom loves you,” he offered. “You don’t want to take that for granted.”
“I try not to, but everything she does is so planned out. She wants me to be like that, like her, but I can’t be.”
“You have to be true to yourself,” Sebastian said, getting right to the heart of the matter. “Always.”
“Yes!” Agnes said, almost with relief. “I’m so glad you understand. People make me feel like such an idiot sometimes. I’m almost starting to believe it, to tell you the truth.”
“Don’t,” he said.
“If I didn’t get out of there, I felt like I would have just lost myself completely.”
Agnes was getting teary, feeling the effects of sickness and sadness weighing on her.
“You’re here now,” he said, taking hold of her.
“She thinks I’m weak because I believe in true love. Like the world will chew me up and spit me out or something.”
“I don’t think there is anything more powerful. If you can change hearts, you can change minds.”
He was supportive. Open. Not much older, but so much wiser than the other guys she knew at school. Her friends weren’t much better. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel so alone.
“It’s like she wants to change me, change who I am.”
“You’re not the only one who’s felt this way. I’ve been there too,” Sebastian said, holding her hands tenderly in his. “You can’t let that happen.”
“I know. It would be worse than . . . ”
“Death?”
“Yes,” she gaspe
d in amazement that he’d completed her thought. “Death.”
Everything about him was comforting to her. Her anxiety and tension melted away. Her infection, unfortunately, remained.
He could see on her face that the conversation was taking a lot out of her and she didn’t look like she had much more to give.
“Let’s take care of you, okay?”
Sebastian turned the candle on the wall behind them and grabbed a stole from a hook, which he walked over to the bathroom sink and saturated with cold water. He wrung out the cloth and brought it to her, placing it over her gash and pressing down, first on one arm and then the other.
The cold and wet garment on her skin was more a relief than she would have imagined. She could almost feel the sliced and swollen tissue retract. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Sebastian reached for the open vessel of fragrant oil and poured some into his cupped hand, dipped his first two fingers in it and spread it across his fingertips.
He grabbed her wrist.
Held it firmly.
She tensed up.
“Relax,” he said. “Trust me.”
“I’m afraid,” she said.
“Close your eyes.”
Agnes closed her eyes slowly and took a deep breath.
She surrendered completely to him. She was at his mercy.
Sebastian wiped the oil from his fingers onto her wound.
He was inside of her.
Agnes quietly moaned.
He caressed her milky soft skin and held her hand while he worked on her. She was so delicate and . . . touchable.
“No,” she blurted out, pulling away slightly.
“It’s okay,” he said, trying to calm her. Stroking her hair. “This oil has antibacterial properties.” He applied the makeshift salve liberally over the wound and then massaged the inside of her forearms with the oil.
“This feels good.”
“It does.” Sebastian grabbed two clean white linen stoles and slowly, carefully rewrapped her wrists.
Agnes opened her eyes and watched him. His tender technique. He was focused, as if he had something very precious and fragile in his hands.
“Where was it that you got your degree again?” she asked, a little touch of sarcasm escaping her lips along with the smile.
“A joke?” he said with disbelief. “You must be feeling better or something.”
“Or something.”
Agnes smiled and her gaze turned to the small door at the back of the room. “Is that another way out?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you know?”
“I do.”
“But you won’t tell me.”
“No.”
“Lucy and Cecilia think you’re keeping something from us.”
“They’re right.”
Agnes was surprised.
“So, you lied to us?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t lied. I’ve told you what I can.”
Agnes eyed the door and then Sebastian once again. She could tell it meant something to him. Even in her weakened condition, her curiosity and stubbornness were getting the best of her. “What’s down there?”
“A chapel.”
She pressed him. “Is the answer down there?”
“See for yourself.”
“Okay, I will.”
Agnes walked over and reached gingerly for the doorknob and stopped. Her grip was weak and the door looked intimidating; she was worried she wouldn’t be able to muster any leverage at all from her forearms to turn the heavy knob. That it might hurt if she tried. “I hate locked doors.”
“How do you know it’s locked?”
She stepped back to the door and grabbed the knob this time. She paused, trying to focus all of her strength and willpower into her left wrist. She tried over and over to find the strength, but it was pointless. Sebastian was impressed by her determination. Agnes stopped and backed away again, the look of chagrin on her face like a corner-store gambler with a losing lottery ticket.
“I can’t open it,” she said, frustrated but still determined. “Yet.”
“Try again another time.”
“When?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Good advice for opening doors and hearts,” Agnes said.
Sebastian opened his arms to her for a comforting hug. Agnes balked but stepped slowly into his waiting grasp. She turned her head and pressed her check against his chest, her long, cascading hair the only chaperone between them. Agnes felt Sebastian’s heart beating. It was strong and steady, unlike hers, which seemed to be fast and skipping beats.
He tightened his arms around her and she squeezed around his waist, with strength she had failed to conjure for the doorknob. It might not have been true love yet, but this, she thought, is what love should feel like. Passion and peace, danger and safety, all at once.
“We shouldn’t,” she said, her head staying just a little bit ahead of her heart.
Sebastian didn’t budge and she didn’t really want him to.
Agnes straightened up and Sebastian fell to his knees. He looked up at Agnes, her long flowing hair falling on her bare shoulders down to her chest, her silk camisole clinging to her pallid skin. She looked statuesque.
Sebastian slowly took her hand.
“Ah, I think the others will be worried,” she said, reluctantly. “We should go.”
They separated slowly, eyes locked. After an uncomfortable second or two, Agnes tossed her long mane back behind her and cleared her throat. “May I thank you now?”
“You may,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist and formally gesturing toward the door.
As he bent back, he found himself face-to-face and eye-to-eye with her again.
“Thank you” barely escaped her lips.
He leaned in, slowly closing the distance between them. She leaned toward him expectantly, slowly closing her eyes again.
The pulsing storm outside providing the perfect underscore for forbidden romance.
A first kiss.
The kiss they both felt coming on was interrupted by an earth-shaking crack of thunder.
Like a warning finger wagging from above.
3 The phone rang. It was the principal. At least a reasonable facsimile.
“Due to the citywide weather emergency and out of concern for the safety of students and faculty . . . ”
A school cancellation robo call. Martha picked up the receiver, listened groggily, and hung up. Was a call really necessary? she thought.
“Agnes,” she called out. “Agnes!”
The wind blew hard against the windows, making it impossible to hear or to be sure she’d been heard.
“Damn this weather!” she said, sliding out of bed and heading down the hall to her daughter’s bedroom. “Will it ever end?”
Martha reached the door with the massive, rusted KEEP OUT wharf sign affixed to it that Agnes had dragged back on the train from last summer’s Montauk vacation. Martha resented it. She couldn’t help but take personally that Agnes would expend so much effort to broadcast her desire for privacy. Especially when it was just the two of them living there.
Come to think of it, the problems between them could be traced back to last summer and the beginning of her relationship with Sayer, that boy who Martha disapproved of so strongly. Mothers and daughters at each other’s throats. A tale as old as time. Agnes would come around and it would blow over. Eventually.
“Agnes, that was the school,” she said, rapping on the door to no response. “You can sleep in.”
The irony of waking Agnes up to tell her she could sleep later was not lost on her mother, and she smiled a little. Though she was a little surprised that Agnes was able to sleep through such an epic storm. Usually she’d wake to find the girl in bed next to her. Her mood and her tone softened considerably.
“C’mon, honey. You’re not still angry, are you?”
Martha re
ached for the knob and turned it, fully expecting the door to be locked, but it wasn’t. The door creaked open under its own weight and Martha noticed immediately the windswept curtains. The sill and the carpet below looked soaking wet, things had been blown off of shelves, and the room was freezing cold. She pushed at the door and it flew open wide, like her mouth. The bed was made, unslept in. Agnes’s desktop was still on, although toppled over, and her cell phone sat charging on her turquoise-painted bedside end table. Her clothes were left where they’d landed from the night before.
Martha grabbed the phone and scrolled through Agnes’s missed call list. She hit call on a contact name she recognized and moved over to the computer, checking her daughter’s e-mail, sent and received, which was still open on the screen.
“Hello, Hazel? This is Mrs. Fremont.”
She always used her married name, even though her marriage had long since ended. It was for Agnes’s sake. Having the same last name kept them connected in a way and looked better to strangers, however semidelusional it might have appeared to others who knew better.
“Oh, hi. I thought you were Agnes calling me.”
“Agnes isn’t with you?” Martha said, trying to hide the depth of her panic.
“She’s not at home?”
“No. Any idea where she might have gone?”
“I thought she might have gone to bed early to rest or whatever from her . . . you know . . . attempt.”
“Thanks,” Martha said worriedly, ignoring the lack of sensitivity. “If you hear anything . . . ”
“Don’t worry. She’s totally over Sayer. I’m sure she’ll be back later. She’s probably just trying to piss you off.”
“But the storm and her arms,” Martha complained. “It’s hideous outside; they say they are expecting a tornado. In Brooklyn! And she’s not in the right shape mentally or otherwise to be out there right now. Alone. In this.”
“I know. Can you believe it? We haven’t had power since last night. Trees are down everywhere. You can’t even get down the street.”
