by Keri Lake
Hairs on the back of my neck bristle with the cold breath of a memory brushing across it. I look back to the closet, where the box sits on the top shelf. I’ve refused to look inside it for years, but perhaps the unexpected attraction I experienced today, along with my act of retribution, means I’ve begun to heal and move on.
As I make my way into the closet, my stomach churns a reminder that everything in that box represents a small piece of my pain, and pulling it apart, going through all those memories, will be no different than cracking open my ribs and tearing away at my heart.
But ten years is long enough to carry such an unrelenting ache. Instead of seeing their lifeless faces over and over inside my mind, I need to hear the laughter, and remember what it feels like to love something more than oneself. In the wake of having rescued a young girl from unfathomable horrors, I need to remember why. Why, even at the risk of damning my own soul, it was important to pull her out of that cage and return her to her mother.
Only Isabella can possibly make me remember.
Hands trembling, I slide the box off the shelf, careful not to drop anything. I don’t even bother to look inside until I’m out of the closet and have set the box on the floor of my bedroom. Kicking back a long swig of beer is a weak attempt to settle my nerves, and I wipe my arm across my mouth. This is a part of my life I keep locked away from everyone. My congregation. Father Ruiz. Bishop McDonnell. After the murders, I changed my name, and essentially killed off my old life by completely disappearing. Never looked back, and as far as I know, nobody’s bothered to come looking for me. Not even my own father.
As if everyone’s forgotten the tragedy that continues to thrive inside of me like a cancer.
Philippe jumps into my lap, settling himself across my folded legs, as if he knows I need comforting for this. With a solemn smile, I scratch behind his ear and sigh. “Bet you miss her petting you behind your ears, don’t you, buddy?”
Finally, I lean over Philippe and peer inside the box, at a teddy bear sitting atop a stack of pictures and papers, and whatever else is beneath. At the first sting of tears, I slam the lid of the box, closing out the quickly surfacing memory of my daughter lying in bed with her teddy bear. My head battles the image, and sirens blare a warning inside of me to put the box back on the shelf, but I won’t. I can’t shelve their memories forever, so I open it again and allow myself to get swept up in the hurricane of pain.
“Daddy? Do you think God is mad at me?” Isabella clutches her teddy bear, while I tuck her into bed.
“Why would he be mad at you, baby?”
“Because He gave me cancer.”
It’s a struggle to hold back the tears, but I do it for her sake, because I don’t want a single shred of doubt to taint my words. “I think he gave you cancer because he knew you were strong enough to beat it. And you did.”
“What if it comes back? What if I don’t beat it next time? Does that mean God hates me?”
“No, sweetheart.”
I don’t tell her its because God hates me. For all the wrongs I’ve committed. For all the people I’ve hurt. This is my penance, not hers.
Through the distorted view of tears, I set the bear beside the box and reach for a book from beneath. The Little Prince. The bookmark inside carries a quote, perhaps one of my favorites: “The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”
Tears slip down my cheeks, my heart so full of anguish, it feels as if might burst through my chest, and I set the book aside for a stack of pictures: Val squeezing Isabella while standing in front of the ocean; the three of us at Disneyland when Bella was only three years old, her little Minnie Mouse ears making me smile, in spite of the blur of new tears. I wipe them with the heel of my palm and flip to the next picture, of Isabella sitting on the kitchen floor with her mother’s favorite tube of lipstick painted all over face and body, as well as her doll’s. A burst of laughter breaks free at the memory, how much Val wanted to be angry with her, but couldn’t stop giggling.
Against the inner wall of the box is the rosary I gave to Isabella in the hospital, springing forth the memory of showing her how to make the sign of the cross and explaining how each bead represented a different prayer. Everyday she spent at the hospital, the two of us prayed Apostles Creed, Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, all the prayers my own mother insisted I learn when I was a kid, back when I found it to be nothing more than a chore, a means to appease a woman whose faith outweighed her own unhappiness. But with my little girl lying sick on a bed, with tubes sticking out of her and an unnatural paleness to her face, suddenly it meant more to me than it ever had before. Even if I never believed in prayer before then, I swore I’d reaffirm my faith if it meant keeping my Bella a little longer. And when the hospital finally discharged her home, Isabella made a point to pray every day after, to keep from having to go back.
It wasn’t until after the funeral that I denounced God, going so far as to try to cut the cross tattoo from my own skin, one night after too much whiskey. I ended up with stitches and round the clock suicide watch for my efforts. Wasn’t long after that, I stumbled into church, screaming profanities at the altar, my vitriol echoing through a mostly empty nave. I expected to be kicked out of the church, or taken into custody by police. Instead, Father Thomas Cannes sat beside me, wordlessly listening as I cursed the heavens, until I finally broke down.
We talked for an hour, maybe longer, in my drunken tirade about God and faith, and in spite of my refusal, he said a prayer for me. Not that I’d one day find my faith again, or to pardon my blasphemy. He prayed that my suffering would end. That I would find some purpose in it and come to know peace again. It took a long time for his words to penetrate the steel that guarded my heart. Even today, I can’t say that my suffering ever truly came to an end, but I did find purpose in it.
I lift Val’s old cellphone out of the box, and something falls from it onto the carpeting. I turn the stiff, white card over to find a name: Richard Rosenberg of Goldman and Rosenberg Law Firm. I don’t recognize the name, or the firm, but as I flip the phone over, it appears the card might’ve been tucked inside the case. On the backside, written in her handwriting, is The Palms Hotel, room number one thirty-three. Curiosity swirls inside my head, at what reason Val would meet with a lawyer. At a hotel, no less. Bankruptcy? The business wasn’t exactly thriving, but we weren’t on the verge of losing our home, or anything. She knew that better than anyone, having worked as my bookkeeper. That's how we met, after all, was through my father, when he hired her to keep his financial dealings in order, which were far more convoluted than our own. Divorce? She never seemed unhappy. In fact, she spoke frequently about trying for a second baby. Infidelity? Having been cheated on herself, she’d always expressed a sincere hatred for that kind of betrayal.
I plug the phone into a charger, hoping I’ll maybe find something on it that might shed some light on the lawyer. Maybe a phone conversation, or an undeleted message. With the phone charging on the nightstand, I continue rummaging through the box.
There’s a father’s day card, written in crayon, that says “Best Daddy In The Whole Wide Wide World”, and a picture Isabella drew to go with it, of our family and the kitten she asked Santa for that year.
Scratching Philippe again, I smile down at the drawing. “Remember she used to call you her baby brother?”
There’s a picture of all three of us on her last day of chemo, and by the time I reach the bottom of the box, the pain is bearable—there, as it always will be, but not as crushing as I imagined. With as much sadness as these relics bring me, I feel light, too. Lost in the memories of those days. I feel the sun on my face, the happiness in my heart, the gratitude for the small amount of time God gave me with these two amazing creatures.
I shove the box back onto the shelf and slide beneath the covers of my bed. Staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drift to Ivy’s visit earlier in the day, and I cringe at the thought of not offering more hel
p for her situation. At the very least, I could’ve grabbed one of the many pamphlets we have on domestic abuse, though it seems that might’ve been a slap in her face, after all the resources she’s already exhausted. Who is this guy who has so many connections with the authorities? Part of the mafia? A cartel?
Maybe she mentioned his association with them, but I was too caught up in staring at her body, like some kind of predator sizing up its next meal.
I could’ve offered her a place here at the church, maybe even one of the extra rooms in the rectory, as sanctuary from her situation. Of course, she’d have to sleep in the upper level, far away from me, because the mere scent of the woman seems to put me into a chase. I don’t even want to think about her occupying the next room, so I screw my eyes shut and focus on the benign topics I wanted to address in an email to Bishop McDonnell tomorrow, and that alone sends me into the blackness.
11
DAMON
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”
There’s something hypocritical about standing in front of the congregation, saying those words. Even if I prepared the homily well before this morning’s mass, before I slaughtered another human being without mercy, I can’t help but feel like a fraud, preaching to them about righteousness, when I failed to embody it myself.
“For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you.”
I originally wrote it in response to the upheaval over a homeless man, who was beaten to within an inch of his life for stealing a woman’s designer purse from where she’d left it by a fountain during her lunchbreak. Turns out, he stole the money to buy food for his pack of stray dogs, but when a group of Good Samaritans tracked him down, they didn’t exactly find his act to be one of selflessness, and took it upon themselves to punish him before returning the purse.
The accompanying homily discussed the virtues of seeing beyond a man’s sin, of understanding his tribulations before casting judgment. Had I done the same, I might’ve taken into account that Chuck was abused himself as a young boy, beaten for his curiosities that might’ve been curbed with care and guidance. But I can never forgive what he did to those young girls, so if that makes me a merciless bastard, so be it.
“The Gospel of Matthew tells us not to judge, lest we’ll be judged,” I keep on. “Seems almost cliché in this day and age, but incidents like these prove we’ve not moved past the need to castigate that which we don’t understand. I’m not telling you that anyone has the right to steal from another, no matter what his intentions may be. It was wrong of him to take from her, and he should have been held accountable by the proper authorities. But this man now lies in a hospital bed, with his face mangled in what some are calling an act of justice. Righteousness.” I shake my head, gripping tight to the edges of the lectern, as I recalled Chuck’s limp body falling into the hole in the ground. “There is nothing righteous, or pious, in the deliberate wrath against one who sins. Let’s not forget that Jesus did not come for the righteous, he came for the sinners. Because no one is truly righteous. We all sin.” I look out over the congregation, who sit quietly, staring up at me as if I have any right to talk of righteousness and sin. “All of us.”
Afterward, I stand in the narthex, greeting everyone as they exit the church, and when Ivy walks up to me, I take her hand and lean forward. “Please come to my office after,” I whisper.
Without looking up at me, she smiles and continues on, exiting with the others. When everyone has gone, she strolls back in and follows me, past the Sanctuary, to the offices toward the back of the church. We pass the Sacristy on the right, and I quickly remove my vestments while she waits in the hallway. Once finished, we continue on, and as she enters the office, I signal for her to close the door. Taking a seat at my desk, I wait for her to sit, as well, noting the way she bows her head, as though she’s been called into the principal’s office.
“I want to apologize for yesterday. Twice now, my preoccupations have gotten in the way of being attentive to your needs.”
“I found your homily to be … interesting, Father. Is that what you believe? That those who mean us harm should be given mercy?”
“You have an exceptional situation, Ivy.”
“How so?”
Ignoring her question, I huff and sit back in my chair, gripping the arms of it. “I called you in here to offer sanctuary to you, should you need it. We can set up a cot here at the church, or I can ask Father Ruiz about allowing you to stay in the rectory.”
Something flickers in her eyes with far too much intrigue. “In the rectory? Is that where you sleep?”
“You would sleep in the upper level. There are a number of extra rooms there.”
Clearing her throat, she shifts in the chair and sets her hands in her lap. “Is that typical? I mean, do priests invite parishioners to stay there?”
“No. Not as a general rule, but as I said before, you’re something of an exception.”
“How so?”
Entwining my fingers, I search her face for any sign that she might be playing me right now, with all these seemingly innocent questions. “You have few options, according to what you told me the other day. I’m merely trying to offer a safe place for you to go, should you feel you’re in danger at any point.”
“And you would be there to comfort me.”
Comfort isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind, as the visuals of what having her stay at the rectory might mean for me toy with my thoughts. “Ivy, I’m not sure what, exactly, you’re asking of me, but I can assure you, the rectory is nothing but a safe place to sleep should you feel helpless.”
Sinking back into her chair, she crosses her legs, and I have to fight the urge to stare there. She knows this, evident in the amused look on her grotesquely beautiful face. “Don’t worry, Father. I’m not going to spend the night at the rectory.”
“Very well. I just wanted to offer. As a solution.”
A buzzing sound interrupts our meeting, and when she looks down, her brows furrow, face morphing from the wily smile of a moment ago to something more sobering.
“Is everything okay?”
Fingers threaded through her hair, the look of worry intensifies. “I have to go.”
“Ivy, I don’t want you to walk out of here feeling alone. Please tell me you know you have options.”
“Look, if you think I’m going to dive off Suicide Bridge, or something, I’m not. I just need to hurry before the next rail arrives.”
“The train? I’ll give you a ride home.”
After a beat of silence, as though she’s considering my offer, she shakes her head. “It’s okay, Father. I know you’re busy, and I’ve already taken up quite a bit of your time.”
“It’s no trouble. Besides, I could use a drive. Clear my mind.”
The smile returns, stretching those ruby red lips enough to reveal her white teeth beneath. “Well, in that case, I could use a break from public transportation.”
Nabbing my keys, I stuff my cellphone into my slacks, and I follow her out of the office and back through the church. Once outside, I open the car door for her, waiting for her to sit down into the seat, and close it.
“Chivalry isn’t dead,” she says, as I plop into the driver’s seat.
“Perhaps you’ve opted for too many frogs over princes.”
With a sigh, she rests her head against the window. “Perhaps you’re right. But it seems like all the princes are either taken, or celibate for life.”
Shaking my head, I fire up the vehicle and pull out onto the main road. “I could’ve sworn you were shy.”
“Don’t worry, Father. I’m all talk. Mostly.” She points toward the windshield. “Stay on this road for a couple miles.”
“So, tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”
“I never said he was my boyfriend. He’s a nuisance.”
“Is there a difference?”
Chuckling, she shakes her head, and
I catch a glimpse of her staring back at me. “My, aren’t we chippy today?”
“Tell me about your nuisance.”
“What do you want to know? I met him when I was young and naïve. And broke. He’s been like a raging case of hemorrhoids ever since.”
I frown. “What does he want from you?”
“To own me. What else?” She looks toward the window, her gaze cast from me. “I know what you’re thinking. Of all the women in Los Angeles, what’s so special about you, Ivy?”
I shoot her another glance. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.”
“Well, I think it everyday. Only, I don’t ponder what makes me special. I ponder what I did in a past life.”
“You’re talking to a man who doesn’t believe in reincarnation. So my guess is, it’s something you did in this life.”
“Damn,” she says, shaking her head again. “You’re right full of it, Father Damon.”
“Seriously, though. If I were you, I’d keep a journal, or something. Document as much as you can. Just in case.”
“In case … he kills me?”
Brow cocked in earnestness, I tip my head in a bid to guide her eyes to mine, to be sure she can see the sincerity on my face. “Ivy, I would hope that if you feel threatened to that extent, you’d take me up on my offer. You’d be safe at the church.”
“Right.”
“I’m being serious.”
“No, turn right. My apartment is on the left.”
I slow the car to a stop in front of a retro-looking building that somehow seems fitting for her. Seems to match her vintage style.
Leaning forward, she stares upward as though looking for something.
“Would you like me to walk you up?”
Shaking her head, she leans back into the seat. “You don’t have to do that.”
