Secrets

by Corinna Turner

  Phoebe huffed.

  Kiara and Caitlyn looked at each other. Kiara’s wide-eyed look said she wasn’t going first, so Caitlyn scooted forward, to the edge of the couch. “Okay, I will. What am I supposed to say? Something bad about myself?”

  “Say whatever you want.” Peter slid into the chair and draped a leg over the arm.

  Caitlyn took a breath, gathering her thoughts. “Well, everyone knows I come from a big family and we live in a little three-bedroom ranch. I love my siblings, but we do argue and fight over things, like the bathroom and the last piece of cake. And sometimes I argue with Mom, and I can be kind of mean when I argue.”

  “But . . .” Phoebe leaned past Kiara to peer at Caitlyn.

  “No ‘but.’ I love my family. I mean the chaos at home sometimes drives me crazy. But I also love it. It’s just . . . when I want to have friends over, it can be sort of . . .” Her gaze slid to Roland by accident. She remembered the day he and Peter had come over. She was babysitting and couldn’t go anywhere. Too embarrassed to invite them inside their messy house, she talked with them on the front porch. Unfortunately, she had food in her hair and didn’t find it until later. “Well, it’s always a disaster. I guess I wish we had a bigger house.”

  “Don’t you have any real woes?” Phoebe sneered.

  “Sorry.” Caitlyn scooted back and smoothed her skirt. What else could she say? Her life wasn’t perfect, but she liked it. And, no, she didn’t have any real woes. Her family got along for the most part. No deaths. No divorce. No major illnesses. No big problems. “I guess I’ll just shut up.”

  “You don’t have to shut up.” Kiara rubbed Caitlyn’s shoulder. “You don’t need to have major problems to share your story. Your story is important too. I mean, we all experience joys and trials and sorrows. You’re just as relevant as anyone else here.”

  Caitlyn smiled, appreciating her sweet, considerate friend. Kiara cared about everyone.

  “Okay, so what about you?” Phoebe said.

  “Me?” Kiara spun to Phoebe. “Oh, I—I guess I could go next.” She clasped her hands on her lap. With shy glances around the room, she shared the struggle she faced at home, how her mother was Catholic but her father wasn’t and how they often argued about the faith. She’d once told Caitlyn how sometimes their arguments got so heated Kiara worried they might separate, or worse—divorce.

  “I try to be the peacemaker at home,” Kiara said, “and everywhere else. I want everyone to get along. But sometimes I think I do it all wrong. I don’t want to make anyone sad or to hurt anyone’s feelings, so I don’t always say the things I should.” She stared at her hands and sighed, remorse coloring her expression. “I make compromises in my mind, and then I don’t speak up when it’s hard.”

  Caitlyn shifted in her seat. She did that sometimes too.

  Phoebe squeezed Kiara’s hand and smiled until Kiara looked at her. They hugged, Kiara sniffling and Caitlyn’s eyes tearing at Phoebe’s uncharacteristic display of sisterly love.

  Then Phoebe folded her arms and looked at the ceiling, her hard demeanor returning. She went next, admitting that she spoke too much and didn’t listen enough, that she’d been hard on people: her friends, her teachers, herself. She didn’t like how people labeled her, or anyone else. And how some people spread rumors or told absolute lies.

  Eyes cold, she shifted her gaze to Dominic.

  Dominic lifted his hands. “I never spread nothing about you.”

  Phoebe glared until he looked away. “Except for you guys, I don’t get along with many kids my own age. I don’t know why. Sometimes I find it easier to talk to adult friends.” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “My father’s mean to my mother,” she blurted, then she sucked in a deep breath.

  Everyone sat in silence, all eyes filled with compassion and locked on Phoebe as she poured out the details of her rough home life. Her mother never fought back. It bothered Phoebe, but she didn’t blame her because she didn’t know what her mom had gone through in the past.

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked toward the guys on the couch. “I will never be in that situation. I will always speak up, defend myself, fight back. And I’m not getting married until I’m absolutely sure about the guy.”

  Her heart breaking for Phoebe, Caitlyn barely breathed. How had she never realized any of this before? She’d never considered why Phoebe acted the way she did or what she went through at home.

  “I’m sorry,” Keefe whispered, saying what Caitlyn wished she’d said.

  Phoebe exhaled. “So what’s your story?”

  She probably didn’t know what to believe about the West brothers. They showed up at River Run High last year, and rumors followed. Ridiculous rumors. Cruel rumors.

  Caitlyn’s eyes teared again as her conscience reminded her that she’d inadvertently been responsible for gossiping about them. They’d lost their mother years ago and kids made up bizarre explanations for what had happened to her. Caitlyn had only meant to set the record straight when she’d blurted out what Roland had confided to her, that Mrs. West was dead. Unfortunately, Roland had heard her too.

  Running a hand through his short brown hair, Keefe took a moment to respond. “Rumors don’t bother me. Though sometimes I’d rather go through life unnoticed.” His gaze slid to Roland, who seemed to prefer solitude and anonymity more than anyone Caitlyn knew. “But I don’t care what people think of me. I care what God thinks of me.”

  “Here, here,” Dominic said. “Entendido. If God is for us, who can be against us?”

  “But I do care what people think of my brothers.” Keefe stared ahead, but everyone else looked at Dominic. Keefe’s twin brother, a wild sort, had a bad reputation.

  Maybe it wasn’t all true.

  “I get the feeling you’ve been keeping something from us, vato,” Dominic said. “And I am not asking so I can gossip about it. You’ve just been quieter than usual. You’ve got something going on, no?”

  Keefe opened and then closed his mouth, color sliding up his neck.

  “Drop it, Dominic.” Slouching in the armchair, Peter waved a hand at him. “It’s your turn to talk. What do you have to confess and who are your enemies?” He waved his hand again, faster. “Nah, forget your enemies. We don’t have time for that list.”

  Dominic laughed. Then he shared how, coming from a big, close-knit family with many traditions, he was Catholic by default. “Not that I don’t love my religion. I do. But I take it for granted, maybe don’t live it as deeply as I should. I need to change a few things.”

  Pausing, he shifted in his seat and his expression turned thoughtful. “It would not have surprised me if I had been the only one in the painting, the way I’ve handled things in my life.” Then he reminded everyone of how God had touched his life by healing him, a miracle they’d all witnessed last year. He realized, too, that he didn’t respond to the grace as well as he should’ve. He knew that God wanted him to change some things in his life. “I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about. I’m kind of a gossip.”

  Smiles and restrained giggles went around the room.

  “Some things are none of my business. I don’t know why I do it. I guess I like the way people come to me with things.” He shook his head the way he used to before the haircut, when his hair hung in his eyes. “I like to feel important. If I don’t have that, what do I have?”

  “You’ve got us, man.” Peter tugged a throw-pillow from behind him and tossed it at Dominic. “We know you can’t help it.”

  “He can help it,” Phoebe said, folding her arms.

  “Well, it sounds like he wants to change,” Kiara the peace-maker said. “That’s half the battle, right? None of us is perfect. We all have something to overcome.”

  Caitlyn never once considered that Dominic recognized he had a problem, or the reasons why he gossiped, or that he wanted to change.

  “Speaking of which . . .” Peter looked at Roland. “You’re next, Roland.”

  Roland j
erked back, panic in his eyes. “I don’t have anything to say. What are we accomplishing by this, anyway?”

  “You must have something to say. Everyone else said something.” Peter waved a hand.

  “You didn’t.”

  Peter laughed. “Okay, so I’ll go next.” He got up, glancing from face to face. “You’ve all shared some really personal things.” He stopped by Roland and kicked his boot. “Except for you. So I can try to dig deep, too.”

  Peter paced the floor, eyes on the painting when he faced that direction. “Who am I? What are my faults? What could anyone have against me?” He lifted a hand. “I like my games, my entertainment. And I have things I like to do—make gadgets and repair stuff—and I’m maybe a bit self-involved. I think I could be perfectly happy by myself. Not that I don’t like all of you.” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate them.

  The group responded with a few sarcastic comments.

  “And I don’t consider myself a loner.” Peter toed Roland’s boot again, Roland rolling his eyes. “But wouldn’t it be nice? No one to make me load the dishwasher and cut the grass, no one to tell me to watch my younger brother or to do schoolwork. But . . . I’m coming to see that I need people. My family. My friends. Maybe that’s a given to all of you, but I’m gradually starting to get it. God put all these people in my life, and some of them even need me. Like this one here who doesn’t like to speak.” He stood before Roland.

  Roland shook his head and gave a threatening look.

  “So let me tell you about Roland.”

  “No you don’t.” Roland jumped up and stood close to Peter.

  Peter grinned and shoved Roland back. “Roland came to River Run High last year and didn’t know anybody. Didn’t have any friends, a bit of a loner. But now we’re like best friends. Right?”

  Roland shook his head, his face turning crimson. “Not sure.”

  “I think he could’ve had a lot more friends, even in the beginning, but he had a hard time trusting and feeling accepted.”

  “Talk about yourself.”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Get there faster.” Roland shoved Peter.

  Grinning, Peter shoved back. “So, what makes a person feel left out?”

  “You’re not talking about me, right?” Body rigid, Roland pushed into Peter’s space.

  A strange guttural noise made Caitlyn turn her head. The janitor rushed into the room and squeezed between Roland and Peter, the three of them stumbling over each other’s feet. He shook his head and signed something, slicing the air, then crossing his arms, his hands fisted. He sliced the air again.

  “It’s okay, buddy.” Peter touched his shoulder. “We’re just messing around.”

  Roland returned to the couch and flopped down.

  The janitor nodded and backed up. He looked at Roland one last time and shuffled from the room.

  “Okay, I was trying to make a point. God puts people in our lives, in our families and our circles, because we need each other. But we don’t always appreciate that.” Peter gestured widely as he spoke.

  Peter had Caitlyn’s attention. Now, typically, whenever he spoke, he said something funny, sarcastic, or annoying. But this time, she agreed with him. And after hearing everyone share their problems, determination rose within her. She was going to be a better friend to every one of them. Each one was in her life for a reason!

  “Like my younger brother, Toby,” Peter continued. “He’s got autism and can be quite a pest, but I know he needs my attention. And I need him. He makes me more patient, caring, and humbled. I know it makes Toby sad when I don’t have time for him. He doesn’t feel like he’s important to me. Maybe he even knows he’s different, and he wishes he wasn’t. Maybe he feels that his differences—”

  Peter stepped back, stumbling on something. “—make him less . . .” He dropped his gaze to the floor, and his face drained of color. “. . . less important.”

  Moving in slow motion, he lifted his head and turned it to the door. Then he opened his mouth. A moment later, he spoke. “His differences make him feel like he’s less important. He’s about our age, and we don’t give him the time of day.”

  “What?” Phoebe said.

  “Is he still talking about Toby?” Kiara said.

  “Guys,” Peter said. “I think I know who our artist is. And I think I know what the painting means.” He stooped and picked up something from the floor.

  Caitlyn gasped. A paintbrush? The janitor must’ve dropped it when he’d tried to break up their fight.

  Her skin prickled and her conscience stirred as she turned to the door. Realization dawned on her. All this time . . . She’d seen him every time she came up for the Fire Starters meetings. He’d even tried communicating with her, hadn’t he? And he could’ve been about their age. Regardless . . . God put him in their life. How could she have been so thoughtless?

  “Oh, man,” Keefe said.

  Roland and Peter stood face to face again, sharing repentant expressions.

  “Wow, we messed up,” Phoebe said. Kiara nodded.

  “I guess we won’t be leaving the room in such a mess anymore,” Dominic said. “And maybe we should invite him—”

  Could we all learn sign language? Caitlyn wondered. Of course we could!

  But for now . . . Eyes welling with tears, Caitlyn ran from the room to find him.

  ###

  The characters in this short story are also in the West Brothers series. The West Brothers series is contemporary Catholic teen fiction about three teenage brothers who live in a castle-like house, complete with battlements and a secret passage. In the first book, they are new to River Run High School. This is a problem for Roland, who is incredibly shy. But it's not a problem at all for his older twin brothers, who exude confidence. The three brothers don't always know the right thing to do but they grow and change over the years, finding answers to life's questions in the treasure of the Faith. Two books in this series won awards from the Catholic Press Association, but Theresa Linden’s favorite "award" comes from reluctant readers who can relate to the characters, love the books, and encourage her to write more in this series.

  ~~†~~

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THERESA LINDEN is the author of the Chasing Liberty dystopian trilogy and the West Brothers series, including Catholic Press Association award-winners Roland West, Loner and Battle for His Soul. She resides in Ohio with her husband and their three teen sons. A Secular Franciscan and a member of the Catholic Writers Guild, her faith inspires the belief that there is no greater adventure than the realities we can’t see, the spiritual side of life. She hopes that her stories will spark her readers’ imaginations and awaken them to the power of faith and grace. Learn more about her and find her social media links at www.TheresaLinden.com.

  Historical

  4

  ON THE BRINK OF HELL

  by Susan Peek

  16th Century Italy

  White-hot pain exploded through Dario with every bounce and jolt of the makeshift stretcher. Try as he might, he couldn't stop tears of agony from sliding down his cheeks as the four soldiers jogged along as fast as they dared with their awkward burden. They shoved their way through the crowd, swerving his stretcher around horses and wagons and noisy market stalls, cursing and jostling people aside as they ran.

  “Move! Move! Out of our way!”

  A woman in a dyed green cloak carrying a basket got stuck in their path. She veered one way then the other, not knowing which way to go. When she saw Dario, she recoiled, aghast, and her basket crashed to the ground. Fruit spilled into the rutted street, nearly tripping up the soldiers. The stretcher tipped dangerously.

  The woman grabbed the little girl beside her, trying to jerk her back. She wasn't quick enough.

  “His legs! Mama! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! That man's legs are missing!”

  “Sweetheart, don't look! Don't—”

  “Out of the way! Move it, move it!”

  Dario's c
hest constricted with fear as his comrades righted the stretcher and flew past the horror-stricken pair. Were . . . were his legs . . . gone? Terror bolted through him. There had been so much blood when they hauled him off the battlefield and bundled him into the cart. Blood had run everywhere, saturating his clothes, soaking the planks beneath him. He'd assumed it was from the deep gashes in his chest and stomach. Now he realized with horror why the soldiers kept pushing him down every time he'd tried to sit up during the ride into Rome. Had the cannonball blown off his legs? Dear God, no. Please no. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting panic. Both legs? Bile rose in his throat. He was going to be sick.

  “I keep telling you, he's not gonna make it,” one of the soldiers said above the stretcher, as if Dario couldn't hear him. Maybe they thought he'd lost consciousness. He kept slipping in and out.

  “Orders are orders. The commander said to get him to a hospital.”

  The stretcher bounced up and down, Dario's stomach with it.

  “Which commander?”

  “That young one. Recently promoted. Can't think of his name.”

  “Antoni?”

  “Yep, sounds right. Apparently they're friends.”

  Another soldier said, “Where's the blasted hospital?”

  “Should be close.”

  “I see it! That's San Giacomo, there on the left.”

  The stretcher lurched wildly as the four soldiers broke into a run. Every motion jarred Dario with a fresh blast of torture.

  Then, thank God, darkness finally swallowed him again.

  “Shh. Just lie still. He's nearly done.” A male voice, hushed and comforting, nudged its way through the blackness and pain.

  Dario stirred, the motion triggering waves of agony. His head felt like mortar had been poured into it. Where was he? Who was nearly done . . . and with what?

  A hand squeezed his, warmth and compassion radiating from the stranger's grip. As if reading his mind, the man whispered, “It's alright. You're in a hospital.”