Eileen knew the power of shame. Even after all these years, every time the memory lurched back into her head it was the same. She saw the look on little Jack’s face in the second after she cracked him one in the mouth because he wouldn’t stop crying. He was only eighteen months. Oh, the shock on his tiny face, and the red mark. His eyes so wide, and his mouth … that terrible silent moment, and then the screaming, shrieking outrage and horror from the little child who, up until that moment, hadn’t known that someone who was supposed to love him could betray him so. This was Eileen’s shame. Murder? No. Grand larceny? No. Rape? No. Just the destruction of a child’s world with one selfish, violent act. Child abuse? Yes. And the years of trying to forget, to pack it away, to say it wasn’t such a big deal. And her years of desperate need to rescue everyone else to make up for it.
And to make up for being unable to save her father, too. All those years learning to detach with love. I thought we were done, Lord. I thought we were done.
“Angela, I’m not going to turn you in, but I can’t do anything that takes you further away from the one God created you to be. My prayer for you is that you find the rest of your self, not just the part of you that’s done this awful thing, because that part is not the whole of you. And when you are whole, everything will look different.”
Angela doubled over and dropped her head into her hands. “I want to kill myself. I want to die.”
“I hope you don’t. It’s not a solution.”
“Isn’t it? At least the pain would stop.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Connor will never speak to me again. I can’t go to jail. I can’t!”
“Let’s take this one step at a time. You’ve told me what you did. Now what?”
“What do you mean?” Angela looked up and frowned.
“How can I help you?”
“I don’t know. You’ll find out if the man’s okay?”
“Yes, but you could probably do that yourself.”
“I can’t.”
“Because?”
“I’m too afraid.”
“I understand, but I think it’s better to know, don’t you? Isn’t that partly why you called me?”
Angela closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, I guess it is. Will you do it now? Please. I don’t think I can take this not knowing much longer.”
Eileen took her phone from her bag and tapped in a query for hit-and-run accidents in Trenton. There it was.
TRENTON — Police are investigating a hit-and-run accident that has landed a Trenton resident in hospital.
According to Trenton police, around 10:00 p.m. Tuesday, 47-year-old George Clarence, who is wheelchair-bound, was crossing Brunswick Street when he was hit by an unknown black SUV travelling north. The vehicle then fled the scene.
Clarence was later transported to Capital Health Regional Medical Center where he remains in serious condition.
Police believe the vehicle involved in the accident has a broken right front headlight and possible hood damage. Detective Keith Danburg is investigating the case. Witnesses are asked to contact Trenton Police at 609-989-4170.
George Clarence? Sweet Christ. Eileen knew George Clarence. He used the Pantry. Angela might even know him. He had lost the use of his legs as a child. He had been eleven, racing his bicycle down a hill with some friends. They saw the construction on the bridge before them, but he didn’t, or perhaps he did and couldn’t stop in time. He didn’t remember. He was impaled on a piece of rebar and it took four hours to get him down. He lived with his twenty-two-year-old autistic sister, Darlene.
“What, what is it? Is he dead?” Angela stood and backed up toward the bureau.
“No, no. He’s not dead.”
“Oh, thank God.” Angela crumpled into a squat.
“I know him. George Clarence. You might have met him at the Pantry.”
“What?” Angela’s eyes darted about. She looked like an animal backed into a corner, about to dash for escape. “You know him? I don’t know him. I never met him. I’ve never …”
“Well. He’s at Capital Health. He’s quite … well, fragile. I mean, his health has never been terribly good.”
“You’re saying he might still die?”
“I don’t know, Angela. I’ll go and see him.”
“You’re leaving? You’re going to see him?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll come back. Will you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Do you have any alcohol here?”
“Not anymore.” Angela face reddened. “I got a couple of bottles of wine from the bar, you know, yesterday, I guess. I drank them. I just wanted to black out.”
“Can you not drink any more today?”
“I won’t. I promise. I couldn’t.”
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to consider going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.”
“AA? I’m not an alcoholic.” She rose from the squat and sat on the bed, on leg tucked up underneath her.
“To me the definition of an alcoholic is someone who drinks in spite of the consequences. I would say you’ve been doing that, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, that night. Yes. I guess. But it was an accident.”
“Do you think it would have happened if you’d been sober?”
Eileen could see the resistance, the defiance, the defining characteristics of the alcoholic. Angela’s jaw worked as she ground her teeth. Her lips were a hard line. Beautiful Angela wasn’t so beautiful any longer. How often had she seen this defiance on her father’s face? On the face of all those people, a few nuns included, over the years? Too often. Enough, God, enough.
“Angela,” she said, “a person without an alcohol problem does not drink all day, drive drunk, have a hit-and-run accident, and then keep drinking all the next day.”
“But I don’t drink every day. I don’t have consequences, not in the way you’re making it sound. It was just this awful accident. And I’ve been out of my mind with … I just needed a drink to keep from killing myself. Why are you making me to do this? And why today, of all fucking days? Haven’t I got enough to deal with?”
“I’m not making you do anything. You must make your own decisions. I can’t make them for you. I’m going to leave and find out what I can —”
“Can’t you just make some calls from here?”
“I could, but I want you to have some time with God. I want you to pray and think.”
“I don’t want to be alone. I don’t know what I want!” She was on the edge of wailing again.
Eileen made her voice firm. Not unkind. But it must be clear she wasn’t going to baby this woman. That wouldn’t help. “God is with you,” she said. “Remember, God loves you. That has never changed, and it never will. I’ll only be a few hours. If I’m going to be longer, I’ll call you. You’ll be fine. Sit. Do you have some paper and pen? There’s some on the desk. Talk to God. Write it down. Be still. Listen.”
“What am I supposed to listen for? That’s why I called you! I need help.”
Eileen moved to the bed and put her arms around the shuddering, tearful woman. “And I’m going to help you. I am committed to your freedom, your freedom from shame, from guilt. It’s going to take some time, but this is the only way I know.”
They sat for a few minutes this way until Angela’s tears subsided.
As Eileen left, she looked back at Angela. She sat on the side of the bed, one leg bent beneath her, her profile to Eileen, staring out the window. The light was harsh, and made the room look cold, as though there wasn’t a single shadow to hide in. Angela looked small and thin and brittle. She looked, for the first time since Eileen had known her, old, like a woman closer to seventy than forty-five. Her fingers plucked at her sweatshirt. Would she pray? Eileen didn’t know.
Angela
When the hotel door clicked closed, Angela felt it like a whip-crack. As though it was a signal to an unseen mechanical device, the air in the room
was instantly hard to breathe. The room was a tomb. If she was lucky, she would die here and never have to go out into the world again. Oh. Not the room. Her. She was holding her breath. She opened her mouth and gulped in the recycled air, and then stood, stumbled to the breakfast tray, and poured a cup of coffee from the Thermos. It was so bitter. Wormwood. Gall and wormwood. Appropriate.
She thought she would feel better, lighter, once she told someone, but didn’t.
Her shame was out in the world now. Dragged out from under the rock. Dug out from the earth. It was no longer the Man. It was George Clarence. A man with a family, with a history, with a life. Perhaps she had been a fool to tell Sister Eileen. She might have got away with it. A broken headlight and a scratch or two on the SUV. A deer would account for that. She might still get away with it. Sister Eileen had said she wouldn’t tell anyone, and Angela believed her. It was sacred, wasn’t it, for nuns, this keeping of secrets? And maybe she’d come back and say the man wasn’t badly hurt at all. Just some bumps and bruises. What was the point then, of taking things any further?
Was this prayer? She thought not. Angela drained the last of the coffee. Her head was clearing, but in the clearing, in that absence of muddle, her thoughts sped up. Contradictory and sharp as flying glass. She curled up on the bed and pulled the covers over her, suddenly cold again. She closed her eyes but the instant she did, the man’s face was in front of her. No! She opened them again and pressed her thumbs into her temples. Stop it! Get away with it? Was she the sort of woman who could live the rest of her life with a secret such as this? Was she? Maybe she was. She’d been rather good at carrying on a secret affair. More or less. Then again, maybe that’s why she told Sister Eileen — to make sure she wouldn’t get away with it. Some twisted instinct at self-punishment. If she was going to hide this away, then she’d never be able to see Eileen again. She couldn’t bear that; couldn’t bear the look she knew she’d see in the woman’s eyes.
Her phone rang. She cried out. A mouse-like squeak. An image of police in the parking lot, surrounding the building, flashed through her mind. Had she been found? Did Sister Eileen lie to her? Bring the cops to arrest her? It could only be Eileen who would turn her in, because only Eileen knew where she was. She had been lucid enough the night of the accident to block the friend-finder app. Thank God. She supposed, if she was going to go on the run, she’d need a burner phone, or no phone at all. Whom would she call?
Who thinks like this? She does, apparently.
She picked up the phone from the bedside table. It was Carsten. Angela cradled the phone in her palms and looked at his name. She kept looking at it until the phone stopped ringing. It was as though she were two Angelas. One screamed at her to answer the phone, and flashed visions of reconciliation before her. This Angela said Carsten had realized what a fool he’d been. He would hold her and love her and see her through whatever this was going to be. But the second Angela. Ah. How dispassionate she was. She looked at the name of her lover as though it were some robocall, some charity she didn’t believe in trying to solicit funds. It was something from another life, this name, this Carsten, and it was a life to which she would not, could not, return. He was a page already turned.
The phone showed a message. Should she listen? What was the point? Still, still, even so, she wanted to hear his voice.
Angela. It is me. If you don’t wish to talk, that is fine, but I do not like the way you … the way we left things. I think we should talk. Please call me. A pause. At least let me know you are all right and where you are. Perhaps you have become more calm now. I hope so. I do care, you know that.
Ah, he cared, did he? There was no urge to call him, no desire at all. Carsten had become merely a space where someone had once stood. In fact, the space was large enough to include this Angela person, whoever she had been. For surely, she was dead, too.
Dead. Oh, God. What if the man dies? Eileen seemed to imply that was possible. Please, no. Maybe that was a prayer. Oh, God. She slipped from the bed to her knees, in the very pose she had prayed in as a child, asking this distant God to bless her mother, and her teacher, and her hamster. The hamster had died, anyway, of course, as hamsters do. Why remember that now? Must she remember that God, whatever that was, didn’t fix things? What did Sister Eileen always say? God is with us.
Is that enough?
God, be with me.
God, show me what you want me to do.
The tears again. And yet, in crying them now she felt somehow as though she wasn’t crying for the right reasons, or for the right person, even.
God, let that man, George, be all right.
What kind of prayer was that? Why did she want the man to be all right? Because it would be better for her, or for him? She couldn’t answer that, she realized.
God, don’t let Connor hate me.
An honest prayer there, at least. Would Connor love her, no matter what? Had she loved her mother, no matter what? She had not. And what had her mother done that had been so terrible? Embarrassing, yes, and unmotherly in various ways, but at least she’d never killed anyone. At this thought Angela feared she might suffocate. Her throat constricted, and only by uttering a cry, bestial and low, could she open it again. She got up and began pacing, hoping the movement would stop her mind from ricocheting around inside the garbage can of her skull, banging and clanking like a demented rat trying to escape. God save me.
How convenient it was, her mind told her, all this calling out to God when you needed God, when you were looking for a lifeline.
She crumpled to the floor. The room was darker now. Clouds had moved in outside and the previously harsh white had become murky and grey. Angela fancied she could smell a whiff of vomit wafting from the bathroom. Is this what prison would be like? Or jail? What was the difference between them? Jail for under a year, she thought, remembering conversations she’d had with people at the Pantry. Prison for more serious crimes with longer sentences.
For a moment she found this hideously amusing. All those times she’d sat, serene and kind as milk, listening to mothers talk about their sons and daughters, women talk about their husbands, daughters talk about their mothers. Robbery. Assault. Concealed weapons. Drugs. Domestic violence. How non-judgmental she’d been. Why not? It was nothing to her to be sympathetic to those unfortunates. Poor things.
She was one of them now. The criminal class.
Or she could just get back in the SUV and drive like hell until she landed somewhere in the west. Wyoming, maybe, or Alaska. Hadn’t she read that half the people in Alaska washed up there because they didn’t want to be found and no one asked questions? She could be a bartender. No, bad idea. She could be a waitress. Live in a little house with a wood-burning stove, and she could have a dog. She would be the sad-eyed woman with the mysterious past.
Oh, God, she prayed. How I hate myself.
She wished she had Deedee to talk to. But Deedee was on Philip’s side now. Not hers. Another image flashed into her mind. From a book of photos called The Family of Man she had once owned. It was a black-and-white photo of a woman, in the 1940s maybe, in a courtroom witness box. She wore a tweed suit and a little beret. She was leaning forward, her face a haggard mask of fear. Her hands were open, reaching. Her mouth was open, and from her expression it was clear she was pleading. Underneath, the caption read: Who is on my side? Who? She had looked up the quote. The story of Jezebel, the desperate, pagan queen of Israel, Ahab’s wife. After Jehu killed her husband and son, he came for Jezebel herself, who defiantly dressed in her finest to meet what she must have known was certain death. Jehu called up to the eunuchs in Jezebel’s service. Who is on my side? Who? And with that they defenestrated their queen, her blood splashing on the stones, her body trampled by Jehu’s horse, her flesh eaten by dogs.
It had shocked Angela. She had thought, surely, given the photo, it would have been Jezebel who cried out this plea. But if she had, the answer would have been clear. Who is on your side? No one, my dear.
/> Perhaps she should call Philip. Would he take the call? She imagined his voice. The fury, the heartless assessment. No more than she deserved, but what did she hope to accomplish by calling him? If the positions were reversed, she would not take him back. And, she realized, envisioning herself in her greenhouse, surrounded by orchids, dressing for a dinner with friends, sitting on the board of the counselling centre in town (oh, the irony!), that all that life, with its polish and sheen and luxury, was also over for her. Even if nothing happened, even if she was spared having to pay for what she’d done, she could no more go back to Philip than she could sprout gills and breathe underwater.
The canal popped into her head. The tow-path, where once mules pulled barges throughout Pennsylvania and New Jersey, carrying goods before the highways were built, now a place where people walked their dogs, rode their bikes, and went for long strolls. Sometimes people drowned themselves in the muddy waters. That was still an option.
Sister Eileen had said there was no guarantee the pain would stop if she killed herself. Wouldn’t that be just her luck. Hell, after all, would be real and she’d find herself there, a chestnut roasting over an eternal fire.
“I can’t go to prison. I can’t. Make it different,” she moaned, “make it not so.”
If Sister Eileen didn’t come back soon, Angela didn’t know what she’d do. She couldn’t very well throw herself out the window. She was only on the second floor and besides, the windows only opened a fraction. Had that been planned by the architects?
Oh, God. She wanted a drink. Or did she? No, she didn’t. She just wanted it all to go away, to not have been. She didn’t want to be Angela. She remembered an old joke: Why do you drink so much, asked Bill of Bob. To augment my personality, answered Bob. But, said Bill, what if you’re an asshole?
And therein lay the problem.
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