Lizzie

by Dawn Ius

  “I don’t want to talk about her,” Bridget says, pulling me back. She curls her lips in a sexy smile, and I can’t help but wonder how many others have been mesmerized by it. The low hum of jealousy thrums through me. “Or anyone else, really.” Her voice goes impossibly soft. “I like being here with just you, Lizzie.”

  My mouth goes dry, and I’m sure I’m imagining it when Bridget slides off the stool and steps toward me. “I like you,” she says. I blink, blink, blink, but she moves closer. Swipe. The tips of my fingers start to tingle. “You’re funny, and . . .” She puts her hand on my face, and her thumb brushes across the bruise on my cheek. “Kind.”

  I pinch my wrist, twisting the skin, willing myself to wake up from this delicious dream.

  Bridget isn’t gone.

  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” she whispers.

  I’m not, I think, but the words don’t come out. There’s no time. Bridget’s lips part and she tilts her head. I lose my breath when her mouth closes over mine. Her lips are cool, soft. My limbs stiffen in trepidation and confusion.

  This can’t be real.

  But then her tongue probes between my trembling lips, and she cups the back of my head to pull me close. Her fingers tangle in my hair to deepen the kiss. Tentative at first, and then with more urgency as my mouth yields to hers. My arms move clumsily around her back to settle on her hips.

  In all my fantasies, I could never have planned for this.

  This utter loss of control.

  I am breathless and floaty, trembling under her touch. My heart flutters so fast I’m sure it will—

  The oven timer buzzes. We pull apart, startled, and I flatten my hand against my chest.

  Bridget presses her fingers to her lips and giggles.

  I’m sure I’ve never heard a more beautiful sound.

  “You should get that,” she says.

  Carefully, I put on my oven mitts and pull the casserole out from the heat to set it on the stove. The aroma is overpowering, breathtaking even. Bridget’s warm breath feathers across the back of my neck, a light kiss against my tingling skin. Every cell in my body strains toward her touch, aches to rewind time and experience this “first” again and again.

  Bridget leans over the dish, holding her hair back with one hand to reveal her faded moon tattoo. I’m fascinated by the shades of gray that give it a three-dimensional appearance, like it might revolve right off her skin. She fans the steam toward her button nose and moans. A shiver of longing ripples down my spine. “You really should consider a professional career as a chef,” she says.

  My voice turns to a whisper. “I’d never be accepted in.”

  Her smile is luminescent, confident. “Of course you would,” she says, beaming. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  A million reasons should come to mind, but in this moment, none of them do.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Candlelight casts flickering shadows across the eager faces of the kids kneeling on the strip of carpet stretched out at the base of my lectern. They wait for my teachings, the words that I’ll speak from the gospel.

  I draw in a deep breath and look up, stalling.

  Light from the stained-glass windows dances across the colorful murals of Daniel fighting the lion, of animals boarding the ark, of His savior nailed to the cross. My eyes linger there a little too long.

  Four polished columns rise up beside me and form an arch. From it hangs a giant crucifix, Jesus’s finely sculptured form nailed to the wood. His gaze weighs heavy on my back, too. I used to believe he watched over me. I wonder now if he simply watches.

  Judges.

  One of the children shifts, kicking out her legs to point her stocking feet to the side. Her smile slips in apology for the disruption, but it’s not her quiet discomfort that has fresh anxiety nipping at my throat.

  My sister’s latest letter is tucked into the back of my Bible, the edges of the yellow paper poking out to reveal the swirl of her penmanship. The word “love” stands out among the blur of sentences that tell new stories of her life on campus. Her descriptions of Emerson College are so vivid, I can almost smell the rich pastries at DeLuca’s Market or taste the dumplings at some hole-in-the-wall in the nearby Chinatown.

  I’ve met someone. His name is Jesse—he’s the editor at the paper. I can’t wait for you to meet him.

  She’s happy, and I should be glad, but there’s a pit in my stomach that hasn’t moved since the morning she packed her bags, the grin on her face shattering my heart into tiny little pieces.

  You will visit someday, won’t you? I miss you, Izzy.

  The hole of grief inside me still throbs, the pain of it nearly taking my breath away. Emma’s first letters kept me grounded, but they also carved fresh wounds, and this one is no different. With her newfound freedom, our relationship has begun to erode like sandstone in the wind. I never believed it could be rebuilt, but now with Bridget, I’m wondering if maybe—

  Stop it.

  I duck my head with shame. I am not worthy of happiness.

  Even Father Buck would agree, if asked. My eyes sweep to the side of the room, where he sits, pretending to study his sermons, but listening to my teachings.

  Because for all its virtues, Catholicism is not a soothing religion. It’s painful. And I am a glutton for its punishment. I’ve kept secret my unrequited crushes, believing foolishly that if I didn’t acknowledge them, they couldn’t be true sins—not really. Sin is the act, not the thought, Father Buck would say. But Catholic guilt knows no such boundaries.

  My thoughts drift to Bridget, and I can almost feel her soft lips against mine. Hear the steady thump, thump, thump of her heart. My breath turns shallow with longing.

  I have not only crossed well over the line into sin, but I have disobeyed my father by carrying on a forbidden relationship right under his nose. No question he would have me institutionalized for such a betrayal. Perhaps I deserve such punishment.

  One of the children coughs, and I return my attention to the students. I grip the handout of Jonah and the Whale—it’s one of the stranger stories of the Bible, but oddly, one of my favorites. It teaches obedience to God’s commands, and tackling the impossible. Perfect for this group of six- to eight-year-olds, who act as though they’d never think of disobeying me. Perfect, perhaps, for the impossible life I know I can’t have.

  I can recite this story from memory, instinct drawing out the inflections of tone that will drive God’s message home. With other students, we have cut and colored pictures of whales. Laughed. Sung.

  I’m just not feeling it today. In truth, I’ve been distracted since Bridget first swept into the B and B, her every whisper, every touch, further chipping away at the foundation of my faith. What once brought me peace has become a source of turmoil. It shouldn’t be like this—should it?

  I’ve bragged about your cooking to Jesse. My throat swells at the memory of Emma’s generous praise. He’s looking forward to trying your meat loaf. You’re still making it, right, Izzy?

  I read between the lines. This is her subtle way of asking how much has changed in her absence, whether Father—or maybe Abigail—has finally broken my spirit. If I’ve given up my passion. The opposite is true. Being with Bridget adds fuel to it, motivating me to be more creative, more thorough. To strive for excellence.

  To go to culinary school?

  Every moan of Bridget’s approval is like a direct line to my soul, lifting it further from darkness.

  I smooth out the wrinkles in my new skirt. Silver and gold flecks glitter in the candlelight, like dancing stars. The material hugs a little close. It’s too showy for church. Too tight for even my small frame, no matter what Bridget whispered in my ear as I twirled like a ballerina in the bathroom mirror. I’m sure Father Buck was thinking all these things when he glared at me this morning—like an unfamiliar specimen he needed to classify, dissect, dismiss. As though I’d somehow offended God with my uncharacteristic—unworthy?—attire.<
br />
  Abigail has worn far more revealing clothes in this church, and Father Buck barely lifts an eyebrow. Why am I open for judgment while she is safe from His disapproval?

  My eyes flit to the lone wooden confessional rising up against the brick wall at the back of the church. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. But even I know that going to confession isn’t a free pass for sinners—not even me, for as willful a servant I have become. I will remain, forever trapped, under the crushing weight of guilt, another obstacle on the path to any freedom I might hope to someday find.

  A subtle cough pulls me back to my lesson.

  “ ‘This is what the Lord says,’ ” I say, deciding last minute to try a different sermon. “Jeremiah 29:10–11. ‘When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my good promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you.’ ”

  I reach for a glass of water and take a sip. The liquid coats my throat, thick like blood. I lick my lips, swiping clear a coppery scent so pungent it seems real, and swallow. “ ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’ ”

  My students remain silent as the last of my words trail off. Flickering candles pulse in tandem with my breath. I wait for questions. For commentary. For someone to tell me what I already know: this lesson is far too advanced for children of this age. What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t.

  My thoughts are erratic and distracted, always hovering around Bridget. I am frantic, consumed with the idea of being with her, of feeling her skin against mine, her fingertips tracing patterns across my flesh . . . Swipe. I wince against the gut wrench of shame, wishing I could just wear a cilice as an alternative to confession. I’d rather endure the pain of coarse sackcloth than admit my feelings for Bridget, leaving them open to scrutiny and judgment.

  A young girl, new to the church, to me, fidgets with the lace cuff on her pink dress. It’s the shade of Pepto-Bismol, and my throat immediately constricts. “What if I don’t like the future God has chosen for me?” she says.

  The question hits too close to home. Not long ago, I too believed the Lord had chosen me as His faithful servant, that I was destined to do great things, to remain good and chaste and obedient. But my path is less clear now, muddled by the emotions I should not—am not allowed—to have. The consequences of betraying my father, the church, Him are too much—and yet, I have already begun my walk down this dark path.

  A poignant, well-rehearsed answer to the girl’s question is severed from the tip of my tongue at the sound of the door swinging open at the back of the church. Bridget stumbles through the entrance, tripping on the upturned corner of the rug, the edge of her too-tall heel catching on the frayed fringe.

  I muster a welcoming smile and finger my necklace. I expect the cross to ignite with my sinful thoughts, but instead the metal is cool to the touch. Bridget responds with a hesitant wave, looking small and perfect in this cavernous room where she does not belong.

  Do I?

  My stomach is a tornado of conflicting emotion.

  Father Buck clears his throat, reminding me to focus on the unanswered question, alerting me also to the fact that he, like my parents, is never far from earshot, eyesight. Always watching. Listening. Seeing.

  Even after all the years I’ve spent volunteering in this church, teaching Sunday school, participating in youth retreats, it’s clear I still don’t measure up here. Will never measure up—

  Anywhere.

  Bridget slinks through the pews at the back of the room. Warmth rushes to my hands, leaving them tingling and numb. The words in my sister’s letter tap, tap, tap against my temples: I think about you every day, Izzy. Are you healthy? Happy?

  I don’t know how to respond.

  I’ve been acting like my growing feelings for Bridget are normal, but all the while inside I’m beginning to unravel, slowly, like a thread being pulled painstakingly from its spool. It seems impossible, but it’s as if my depression has begun to lift, replaced by a brightness that reflects from deep inside Bridget’s core.

  Seeing her here now makes my heart soar, and I smile despite the anxiety coiled around my chest. People can be happy and sad at the same time, I know—it’s just that sometimes the sad parts just spiral out of control.

  Would Emma accept this explanation?

  “Miss Borden?”

  I stare down at young Johnny, his cherub cheeks red from having spoken aloud.

  “What if God wants me to be a doctor—and I just want to play soccer? What if our plans don’t match up?”

  A sad smile tugs at my heart. I’ve barely heard this boy say more than a mumbled “Amen” after prayer, let alone brave a question of such significance. My mind feels like cotton. How can I respond when I’m no longer sure of the answer myself?

  I lift my gaze, focusing it on the image of another of God’s martyrs. Light and darkness form the DNA of my religion, but in this cathedral—despite the stained glass—shadows are everywhere. Ghosts of the past swirl from beneath the floor, bringing with them the cloying scents of the burial ground on which this ancient cathedral stands. I am surrounded by old spirits, slowly becoming crushed under the weight of their wispy limbs clawing toward me, desperate to drag me under with them. Away from Bridget.

  Far from sin.

  Swipe.

  Bridget finds a seat at the back of the room and crosses her long, slender legs. My students turn to follow my gaze, and Bridget gives them one of those “popular girl” finger waves that usually make me roll my eyes. Another, more increasingly common, feeling lingers there instead. An inexplicable giddiness that makes me flush and go cold at once.

  The students don’t acknowledge her—steadfast in their obedience to the church’s teachings—and turn back to me with questioning eyes.

  I silently beg Bridget to stay at the back, in the shadows and out of view from Father Buck’s curiosity. We’ve kept our relationship secret, stealing time when my parents aren’t home or have gone to bed. I help her clean. She watches me cook. In the evenings, we sip tea and scroll through her pictures, inching closer and closer until our skin just barely touches, while she shares tales of her adventures and we hold fast to dreams.

  Every night, before one of us tiptoes back to bed, she kisses the tip of my nose, each cheek, and then finally my lips, imprinting her cotton-candy scent on my skin. I cherish each of those moments in private—but they can never become public, never be fully out on display, especially not here, in my church, where the gory and bloody images of saints offer stark reminders of what can happen to those who sin.

  In my peripheral vision, I catch Father Buck as he raises a bushy eyebrow.

  I speed through the questions from my students, fast-track my closing remarks—assuring each young face with superficial sincerity that yes, God does have plans for them all, perhaps some that even involve soccer—and then usher them out with their parents, whose judgmental eyes zero in on my too-tight, too-short skirt.

  All except Johnny’s mother, who always takes time to thank me for sticking it out with her son. For not giving up. She folds my hand into hers. “You’re so kind.” Her fingers are like ice, and a shiver ripples down my spine. I put a smile on when all I want to do is pull away. Run. “So very kind.”

  I try to shrug it off, but she keeps thanking me and it’s awkward. I don’t deserve her compliments today. I’m off balance. Out of focus. Unsure in my faith.

  I’ve stopped going to church, Izzy. I’m sorry if that hurts you.

  Jealousy prickles against my flesh. Why was Emma allowed to leave, to explore the world, while I remain tethered not only to the church, but to my family? Bound to the expectations and responsibilities imposed on a child chosen by God.

  If I am the chosen one, as Father Buck suggests, why am I unable to do as I choose?

  “You’re very good,” Bridget says as I approach her, her voice a bird chirp in this giant cage with its open beams an
d intricate windows. She reaches out to hold my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “You almost made me a believer.”

  I glance over my shoulder, spotting Father Buck as he winds his way through the pews toward me. My pulse ratchets up. He can’t find Bridget. I pull my hands free and stare hard into her shimmering eyes, shocked to see pride. My voice catches. “You can’t be here.”

  Father Buck’s footsteps tap, tap, tap to signal his looming presence. Adrenaline rushes through my veins.

  Bridget’s face darkens. “Why?” She peers around me, craning her slender neck like a bird’s. “Because I’m not religious and your God wouldn’t approve of us? How about I have a chat with your priest right now?”

  My throat seizes with panic. Father Buck is the most perceptive man I have ever met, and with just one look, he will know what’s in my heart. “He’ll tell my father,” I whisper harshly.

  Bridget tilts her chin upward. Sunlight beams through the skylight and narrows in on her head, creating an incandescent halo around her hair. The freckles across her nose and cheeks twinkle like bright new stars. Please don’t fade.

  “You’re afraid,” she says softly.

  Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I squeeze her hand. “Go,” I say, my voice hushed. “Please. Before it’s too late.”

  “Lizbeth,” Father Buck says, his voice reverberating like the church bells out front.

  I turn around to face him, praying that I will block his view of Bridget, offering my most sincere smile, though my hands tremble with fear.

  His lips curve into a frown. “Is everything all right, my dear?”

  No. Unable to speak, I nod.

  He comes closer, piercing me with his stare, his eyes the color of the startling oceans in Bridget’s travel photographs. I long to be transported there now.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  My heart pounds like a gong. “I’m sorry?”

  Annoyance flickers across his weathered face. “I could swear you were talking to someone.”