“Why do people come here?” Mila whispers, as they walk into the main lobby, armed with a twenty-dollar voucher for chips to “get them started,” that Cole is hoping they can trade for food. They wander through, past the Art Deco columns and gilded lights and a black Maserati on a turntable display in the center of the room, with a red bow squatting on its hood like a parasite and a license plate that reads Ac3sW1ld, trying for James Bond glamour. There are easily a hundred women here, not including the staff, scattered between the machines with flashing lights and sound effects.
“Why does anyone want that car? Why do people still gamble? Don’t they know it’s stupid?” Mila continues.
Occasionally a machine will pay out with a clatter of plastic coins, although the lucky winner seems more irritated than elated, like this isn’t the point of it, is in fact an aberration that gets in the way of her true purpose: feeding the machine, jabbing the flashing yellow button to spin the dial. It’s not about hope. It’s anti-hope. A finely honed ritual that is comforting in the predictability of the result. Which is nothing, no match, no meaning. She can see how this would be affirming. We play the games because we know the rules.
It would be easy to lift someone’s purse here. Except for the cameras. She glances up on automatic, and ducks her head, feeling sick at her stupidity. Of course casinos have cameras. And now they’re on them.
First rule of being on the run. Disappear better.
I thought it was “don’t talk about on-the-run club,” she snipes back.
It doesn’t matter, so long as they don’t give anyone a reason to check the footage. It means stealing is off the (poker) table for now, and that’s a relief. They’ll get a greasy takeaway, use the bathroom, the hotel business center, and move right along. Keep on trucking.
“Hey, Mom,” Mila tugs at her sleeve because there’s something happening that is weirder than people feeding money to jangling machines. Women in colorful robes, so lurid they rival the casino carpeting, are spreading out across the room. Neon ninjas, with veils across their mouths and their heads covered. Their outfits are printed with words in big bubble letters, bright pink and green and acid yellow. Not words. One word. “Sorry.” Printed in a migraine of fonts and colors. “Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry.”
“Maybe it’s a show?” Mila says as Cole draws her back between the Wild Safari and Dragon Quest slot machines that roar and swoosh.
“Have you heard the word, my sister?” A burly woman approaches them, her eyes a vivid green above the veil that puffs against her lips as she speaks.
“No, I really don’t—”
She reaches out to take her hands. “It’s the easiest word. And the hardest.”
“I know the word. I can read.” Cole twitches away. “I really don’t want to. Thank you.”
“I’ll say it with you. That’s why we’re here, to offer forgiveness.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
It’s a mass of one-on-one interventions, she sees. Another neon nun is talking urgently to a blue-rinse job who has not yet turned away from her machine but is nodding along. Still others don’t want to be bothered: a woman on her mobility scooter steers at the nun trying to greet her, forcing her to dodge.
“Don’t we all need forgiveness?” The green eyes crinkle in a patient smile.
Doesn’t she?
The weight of the shotgun, the cold tang of the metal against her palms, the soft give of flesh as she pressed the wooden stock into the woman’s shoulder, pinning her to the ground. She wanted to do more. She wanted to hit her across the face with it. Feel her nose break.
There are other women succumbing to the onslaught of personal interventions. The mobility scooter lady is clutching on to the robes of the nun she tried to run over mere minutes ago, sobbing.
The Sisters are clustering around the Maserati with its stupid bow. Security is moving in, women in black jackets with headsets and scraped-back ponytails.
“I’m sorry,” one screams at the ceiling. “We’re sorry,” another wails. The chant is picked up by a third, then a fourth, until they are all caught up in an agony of sorrow, pulling at their robes in a hysteria of repentance and swooning against the machines with their flashing disco lights and the scattered popcorn of jackpots because there are still patrons intent on ignoring this spectacle.
“There’s no judgment here,” her nun says. “We’ve all done terrible things. Everyone.”
Not like me, Cole thinks.
Waking up to an empty bed at Ataraxia. Her mouth was dry, her tongue heavy. Familiar. Like the benzos she’d weaned herself off over the last six months, breaking them into smaller and smaller pieces until they were a bitter dust under her tongue and her head was clear. Knowing, knowing of course what was happening. Billie had drugged her. Miles was gone. The Lada’s distributor cap was missing.
“Because we had to, or thought we had to.”
Five thirty a.m. She knew without looking at the clock. Predawn, when the guards are switching over, briefing the new shift, not looking at the cameras. It wasn’t so difficult to find this out. Who knew you could befriend the security detail by making praline gâteaux for someone’s birthday? Bribery by confectionary. Billie knew.
“We have all made mistakes.”
Racing through the corridors of Ataraxia belowground, taking the service stairs two at a time to the fire door, where Billie had disconnected the alarm. “But what if there is a fire?” she’d asked, naïve.
“There will be,” Billie said. Because that’s what they planned. A distraction. A rag stuffed into the gas tank of the tractor out in the field to keep the guards looking the other way.
“You think they are incontrovertible, unforgivable.”
She slipped out through the kitchen, where Billie had baked the goods to befriend the guards to discover their routines to hatch their escape to get away with the boy, but not without her, not without his mom. That wasn’t the plan. Cole ran down the driveway to the garage workshop, which was standing wide open and dark, save for the interior light of the Lada, spilling from the trunk so she could see the shape of her sister struggling with the body and cursing under her breath. And at first she thought it was a dead body. Could only be dead, so limp and so heavy in her arms.
“You shouldn’t suffer with this. Don’t you think we have all suffered enough?”
There is white here where there should be memory, like the adrenaline burned through the film reel. The tire iron dropping to the ground. Where did it come from? It appeared in her hands like a magic trick. The little grunt Billie made in her throat. An echo of her father’s voice. You always play too rough, you girls.
But Miles. Miles-Miles-Miles. Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry. I’m sorry. Cradling him against her. Sobbing, feeling one-handed for a pulse. Pressing her finger against his throat until she was certain it was his heartbeat she could hear, and not the roaring in her ears.
Alive. But he wouldn’t wake up.
“Say it with me, sister. Don’t you want to be set free?”
“I’m sorry,” Cole gasps.
The nun touches her face, so gently it’s unbearable (a fingertip against a trigger, a sudden tire iron). “You are forgiven.”
She’s crying. For her. With her.
“We will take your pain.”
The blood. So much blood. How could there be so much blood? She tried to kick it away from them, cradling him in her arms. Her sneaker skidded into it, a red swipe. She couldn’t look at Billie. Didn’t want to see.
She must have drugged him. With Cole’s own medication. How much is an overdose? The hot chocolate. Cole poured it out for him. She gave it to him, put the cup in his hands. If he died, it would be her fault. She wanted to pick up the tire iron again, keep bringing it down until Billie’s head was a pulp. What if he was dead? Oh God.
Motherfucker. She would kill her if anything happened to him. She would kill her.
But she did not pick up the tire iron. She kept shaking her son, saying his na
me. Miles. Miles. Wake up. You have to wake up. Please, tiger, I’m not fooling.
And Billie made a gargling sound behind her. And she should check her for a pulse. Because she might have killed her. But she couldn’t. Because Miles.
“Come on, wake up. You gotta wake up.” And he stirred and his eyes flickered. Come on. She tucked herself under his arm, hauled him toward the passenger door. Dead weight. No, living weight. He’s alive. She got him into the front seat. Clipped him in.
“Mom?” he mumbled.
“I’m here. I’m here. It’s okay. We’re going to get out of here. Okay. The escape is uncanceled.”
But Billie.
Billie was not moving. And she couldn’t bear to go back. Couldn’t bear to check. Because what if she was dead.
And what if she wasn’t. If she left her here, and she wasn’t, she might die.
“Mom.”
There’s a doctor here. The best clinic tech billions can buy. They can pump his stomach. They can save Billie.
If she’s not dead already. Because Cole killed her.
Sister killer.
Endangering a male. That’s even worse than murder. They’ll take him and she’ll never see him again. And fuck you, Billie, for putting them in this situation. Oh God. But she’s the one. She’s the one who picked up the tire iron.
“Are we there yet?” A groggy, little-boy voice. Confused. She made the decision. She had to. She put her hands on the steering wheel. Turned the key.
“No. Not yet. We will be, though. Soon, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, into the nun’s embrace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” the nun says.
28.
Miles: Con-verts
A bouncer with a gray buzzcut and a face like a boiled ham grabs the nun Mom is clinging to, sobbing, by the scruff of her robe. Mom collapses to the ground as if the woman was the only thing holding her up. “Out. I knew you were trouble. Out with you.”
“We’ll leave if you ask,” the nun protests. “All God requires is that you ask.”
He crouches down next to Mom, but she’s crying and crying and crying, and she keeps saying that word over and over. Sorry.
“I’m fucking asking, then. Get out, you freakshows, and don’t come back.”
“Mom. Come on, you gotta get up. We have to go.”
There’s a flyer crumpled on the ground beside him.
Are you feeling LOST and ALONE?
Yes, he thinks.
Are you battling to UNDERSTAND why everything has changed?
Again, yes.
This was not part of GOD’S PLAN.
But we have so DISAPPOINTED him that
He was forced to teach us A LESSON by taking our men away from us.
Okay. Batshit. But okay.
The Church of All Sorrows is on a SACRED MISSION.
We want to show God that we have UNDERSTOOD what he is trying to teach us.
If we can show God that we are TRULY, DEEPLY, PROFOUNDLY sorry for the sins and vanities of women, He will HEAL our souls and HEAL the world.
Join us. Turn your back on sin.
Modesty. Nurturing. Supplication.
Are you ready to take the first step?
Yeah. Okay. What choice does he have?
Clutching the flyer, Miles runs out of the casino after the nuns before Mom can stop him. As if she could stop him.
“Hey! Wait up!” he calls.
“Out of Sorrow, Joy” the slogan reads on the side of the bus, beneath the logo of a teardrop surrounded by radiant sunbeams.
“Wait! I need to ask you…”
“Yes, daughter?” One turns to him. It’s not the green-eyed one from before. This one is small and curvy, even swathed in robes. Boobs, his brain notes, not helping at all. The dumb puppy in his pants.
“Hi. Yeah. I need to know—” Tripping over the words. The same thrill in his gut as when he stole the money, the moment before you tip over the roller coaster’s edge. He’s got their attention now, bright penguins watching him from the letter boxes of their headscarves. The banner strung across the back window reads “Saving souls coast-to-coast!”
“Where are you going? Where does this bus go?”
“We’re on mission?” the nun says, her voice doing that up-tilt fake question mark at the end. “On our way to the Temple of Joy. That’s in Florida! Oh, but I’m sorry, did you want a Confidance? Because we were about to leave. Would you like a pamphlet? I’ve got one here somewhere.” She rummages in the pockets of her robes.
“I got one here. It’s like an invitation?” He’s picked up on her up-tilt. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Mirroring someone to make them relate to you. “It says ‘join us.’ So can we?” He rushes through. If he gives her time to answer, she might say no. “We need help. My mom needs help. She’s not okay.” To his disgust, his voice quavers. Saying it out loud makes it real and true. “She needs help and she’s not okay and she won’t stop crying and I don’t know what happened because she won’t tell me. I don’t know what to do. Can you help us?”
They do it right there, in the parking lot. He fetches Mom from inside the casino, leads her out to them, shaking and sobbing so hard he can’t understand what she’s saying. Something about Billie. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to know.
“It’s all right, Mom, they’re going to help us. We’re going to go with them,” he says too loud, like talking to a little kid.
Two of them come rushing over. The tall, severe one from before, with the eyes like a cat, takes Mom by the shoulders. “Sister,” she says. “You are lost.”
Mom nods. “I am. I’m lost,” and then her face crumples and she sort of collapses so that the woman has to hold her up. There’s an answering clench in his stomach, an electric shock jumping from her to him. He chokes on it. He’s not going to fucking cry.
I bet your old man died of shame, a son like you.
He did not. See, I’m taking care of things. Of Mom. Like he’d want me to do.
“I’ve been. Trying. So hard.” Mom jerks out half sentences between sobs. “Oh God. But I did. I did something. Terrible. I didn’t mean it.”
“Shh. Hold your pain. Now is not the time for Confidance, Sister. You were lost, lamb, but now you are found. Kneel with us and we will pray for you.”
“And then we can go with you?” Miles says, his stomach a tight drum.
“Right here?” Mom looks momentarily startled.
“God is in the lowest of places and the highest and with you always. You too, daughter.”
“C’mon, Mom.” On their knees, the rough tarmac biting through his jeans. If this is what it takes, he’ll do it. The nuns gather around them both, still standing, squeezing in next to each other so they can place their hands on their shoulders and backs, pressing against them. It makes him feel panicky, like they’re holding him down. Mom’s whole body shudders with sobs.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispers, like a prayer. The cluster of warm human bodies is suffocating him.
“I’m Sister Hope,” the tall one says. She takes Mom’s hands in her own, folded between hers like a prayer trap. “You are welcome.”
“You are welcome,” the nuns echo. They lightly drum their palms against his back and Mom’s. It’s ticklish. And bizarre. This whole thing is so fucking nuts.
“What is your name, my sister? My daughter?”
“Co-Colette,” Mom manages, changing gear at the last instant at the same time he says, “Mila.” She’s forgotten their cover story, their pseudonyms.
“And are you in your menses yet, daughter Mila?”
He doesn’t know what that means. A jolt of hysterics. More like boysies, he thinks.
“No,” Mom says. Calmer. It’s the pattering fingers on their shoulders. Not holding them down, but anchoring. “Not yet. She’s not even thirteen yet.”
Ohhhh. “No. I haven’t
had my period,” he says.
“Then you will not be able to perform the Mortification, if you decide to stay. Not until you are in full womanhood.”
“Okay,” he manages. Cool-cool-cool.
“Colette. That is your sin name,” Hope says. “God will bless you with another, a virtue to live by. Sisters, here is a lost daughter who is struggling with her sins.”
“You are welcome,” they chant. “You are forgiven.”
“She has come to be found.” Hope lowers her voice in instruction. “Repeat, please.”
Miles elbows Mom.
“I am lost. I am struggling. I have come to be found.” It flicks through his mind that she might not be playing, and the thought is like biting on metal. But he’s stepping up. They’re partners in crime. He’s got to carry her through.
“You are found, sister. You are known.” The nuns’ hands flutter against their shoulders, a reinforcing rhythm.
“I am found.” Mom is crying again. “I am known.”
“Will you walk with us a while through the valley of your sorrow on the path to the greatest joy?”
“I will,” Mom says.
“I will too,” Miles adds quickly because Hope is skewering him with those gemstone eyes. Promises don’t count if you’re desperate. You’ll say anything, if you’re being tortured. It doesn’t matter. No one will hold it against you. If there’s a God, he won’t mind. He’ll understand. But the words feel as heavy as those tapping fingers feel light.
There’s a rustling, someone reaching into the pockets in her robes. A hand offers a Ziploc container with the same teardrop logo on it. There’s the soft pop of plastic release as Hope pries the lid off. He knows that smell. Sweet and fruity. Apples. Dried apples.
“This is the symbol of our womanly sin,” Hope says. “We eat of the apple to remind us of how Eve led us to forsake the garden and the way. Please open your mouth.”
He does, but Hope shakes her head. Not him. Not this time. Not until he gets his period. Gonna be a long wait, lady, he thinks, struggling against hysteria. Don’t get your hopes up.
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