by Dawn Ius
Until now.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.
The flickering candlelight does little to soothe my nerves, and for the first time in all my years at this church, the booth feels too small. Cramped. As though the walls themselves are caving in on me, and will somehow force the words out that I am too nervous to share on my own, suffocating me beneath them.
“I sense your hesitation,” Father Buck says. I have been silent for too long, uncharacteristically so. “You are safe in God’s house.”
My breath comes out in a huff that I worry he’ll interpret as sarcasm. Father Buck is perceptive, if not perfect. I’ve often wondered what secrets he keeps beneath that thick robe, whether he is as pure in spirit as he leads our community to believe. Fall River is a community of make-believers.
But again, I’m shifting blame and guilt, because it’s not Father Buck who will be asked to perform Hail Marys at the end of this session. And what does it matter whether he’s blemished? None of us is absent of sin, none worthy enough of God’s true acceptance. Isn’t that what my father always says? Certainly in his eyes, I am not worthy.
A candle inside the confessional flickers. I focus on the wax that slides down its side, dripping like tears. It awakens something in me and I begin to cry. I swipe at the sides of my face, unable to mask the sniffle.
“Lizbeth, if you’d prefer to speak outside the confessional, we can start there,” Father Buck says, his voice etched with concern. He would argue that he is not only a priest, but also a friend, a confidant.
But there’s so much I’ve never confided to anyone, not even Father Buck—what reason would he have to believe me? Money may not buy happiness, but influence is an entirely different story—and my father is a man of considerable wealth.
“I’ve developed feelings . . .” I choke on the words, forcing them out in a burst of false courage. It’s not that I have found sudden trust in the process, in God’s will, but rather the idea of confessing, of saying this aloud to Father Buck’s unmasked face is more terrifying than the act of confession itself. At least here, I can pretend the privacy screen conceals my true identity. “These feelings . . . they’re for someone I should not have feelings for. Not in this way.”
Father Buck shifts closer, as though he’s adjusted himself in his seat, leaning in to listen to teenage gossip.
I’ve never sat on his side of the booth, and I wonder if his seat is as hard as my bench, or if he pads his chair with cushions and pillows to soften the edge. What color is his candle? How do I appear through the screen, if at all?
The scent of lavender incense whispers through the cracks in the wooden door. I breathe deep, allowing it to soothe me.
“Is this an older man?”
I smile in silence. If only it were that easy. “No.”
“A boy in the church, perhaps?”
It’s cruel to keep Father Buck guessing, but I’m not yet ready to reveal Bridget’s identity. While I may be able to conceal her name, keeping her gender anonymous isn’t possible—not if I’m truly going to confess.
I exhale hard. “Not a boy,” I finally say.
There is an extended pause before Father Buck sighs. “I see.”
I should leave now, slip through the giant front door and run out of the church. But that’s the problem with small towns—Father Buck knows it’s me in his confessional, and even if I divulge no further information, I can’t take back what I’ve already confirmed.
There are sins for which I much atone.
I raise my chin, straighten my posture. Try to convince myself that there is nothing wrong with these feelings, that I have no reason to be ashamed. The act is the sin, not the desire, I remind myself. That’s what the Bible teaches. But what acts, specifically? I squeeze my eyes shut and think of Bridget’s fingers trailing across my cheek, her hip pressed against mine. I ache for her touch, for her lips to claim me once again. Are those the sinful acts God speaks of?
“And does this . . . person . . . have feelings for you?”
I lick my lips, dry despite the humidity in the air. “We are in love.”
A brief hesitation. “Do I know this young lady?”
I’ve kept Bridget sheltered, tucked safely within the confines of the B and B—but now that Abigail has seen us together in that way, I worry our time may be running out.
A knot forms in my chest. “You do not.”
Father Buck sighs. “Tell me about her.”
The simple command snaps away any hesitation, and my voice fills with childlike enthusiasm. Adrenaline flows like spring rivers. “B—I’ll just call her that—is well traveled. Adventurous. Oh, Father, you should hear of the places she’s been, the experiences she’s had.”
Father Buck chuckles. “I suppose you would be drawn to someone like that, someone who is—”
Not lame, I think. It’s not what Father Buck means—at least not what he’d admit aloud—but it’s as though he’s dismissed my confession as nothing more than the childish ramblings of a lovesick schoolgirl. My feelings are so much richer, more mature, than that.
But of course, this is what he would see. Father Buck envisions me as a modern-day spinster, pouring my passions, wants, and needs into the church and its beliefs. Not long ago, I saw this too. The seed of doubt rooted upon Bridget’s arrival has sprouted new branches.
“—a person so well-traveled. A free spirit,” Father Buck finishes.
“It’s not just that. . . .”
“Of course not,” he says, undeterred in his preaching. His inability to listen is something my Sunday school students complain of weekly. “But you must realize, Lizbeth, that your life is much different from hers.”
More structured. Controlled.
“You were destined for other things, perhaps greater things.”
I can’t think of anything more enlightening, more freeing, than traveling with Bridget. Exploring culinary hot spots, trying new things. To see the world with my eyes wide open, rather than how I often see them in the mirror after one of my father’s beatings: swollen shut.
I resist the sudden temptation to out my father for his violence, my stepmother for her mental abuse. It would be easy to use the sympathy card here, but I’m afraid it would fall on deaf ears.
And, while my dysfunctional family situation is certainly at fault for many things in my world, it isn’t the reason I’ve fallen in love with Bridget.
My breath hitches.
I still stutter on the word, as if it’s part of some secret language.
I don’t know the meaning of love, not really, truly. Only that being with Bridget renders me light-headed and giddy, that her touch makes me forget the abrasiveness of my father’s hands, or that her laugh can erase the high-pitched screech, screech, screech of my stepmother’s voice. Our love gives me a sense of freedom, however false. Isn’t that enough? Should my skin not tingle when she brushes her hand against mine? Should my whole chest not fill with yearning when she walks into a room? I shake my head, now grateful for the cloak of darkness the confessional provides.
“This girl . . . she will move on from Fall River,” he says. “Few with that kind of spirit stay in one place.”
Though I know it’s true, I’m struck with resentment that he would say it aloud. “And if I go with her?”
Father Buck clucks his tongue, a first sign that he’s annoyed by my persistence. Perhaps he thought dismissing my feelings would void the confession altogether, bring me back into the fold, no Hail Marys required. But I’m not letting him—not letting myself—off that easily.
“You know that isn’t an option,” he finally says, softly.
My spine goes rigid. “I love her.”
Father Buck bangs his fist on the screen partition that separates us. The force of it makes me jump, and I question whether this was a mistake. Whether I should confess this—or anything—to this priest ever again. Rumors of his temper have always been quashed, but here, now, I’m starting to
realize he isn’t quite the man we’ve all been led to believe.
In that way, he has much in common with my father.
I press my hands on my knees, prepared to stand and leave. But then I’m struck with worry. If I go now, pretend that he’s right and I’m no more than a lovesick fool, can I trust him to keep this secret? Or will he run straight to my father to share what he knows?
My face goes hot at the idea that Father Buck may betray the sacraments of the church. I have nothing to substantiate these theories aside from the ember of fear and doubt that burns in the pit of my belly. Still, it’s not a risk I can take.
“ ‘Every human being is called to receive the gift of becoming a child of God by grace,’ ” Father Buck quotes from an unknown text. “ ‘However, to receive this gift, we must reject sin, including homosexual behavior.’ ”
His voice is somehow ominous and soothing, low, calm—the vocal push and pull of both rationality and stark judgment. “ ‘Homosexual desires, however, are not in themselves sinful.’ You have not acted on this desire, have you, Lizbeth?”
“Of course not,” I say, shocked at how easily the lie slips from my tongue.
My butt cheeks have gone numb from the hard seat, and the candle has burned a quarter of the way through its solid base. Overhead, the patter of steady rain hitting the stained glass morphs into something that sounds a lot less like rain pattering over a window and more like nails scratching on a chalkboard.
“I don’t understand why homosexuality is a sin,” I say, surprising myself with a candor that doesn’t come naturally. It’s perhaps the first time I’ve challenged the Bible and its teachings in this holy place. I grasp the cross around my neck with one hand and squeeze hard enough to create indents in my palm.
For years, I have recited God’s words to young students seeking truth in their faith. I have led youth groups and Sunday school sessions, volunteered at every church event. It’s within these walls—within the house of the Lord—that I have often felt safe and pure and innocent.
Today, that innocence is replaced with shame.
It shouldn’t be like this.
“Feelings are sometimes difficult to interpret,” Father Buck says.
I know this, but it doesn’t change how I feel, and it won’t convince me to forget about Bridget, about me and Bridget, the idea that we can be together despite—or perhaps because of—the obstacles.
Who am I kidding? I’m stuck in Fall River while Bridget, as Father Buck has just reminded me, will . . . leave. Everyone leaves. This isn’t a place for her. She doesn’t belong here, just as I am an outsider in her world. I swallow hard.
It’s conceivable, probable even, that she won’t remember me or our time together, the laughs and tears we’ve shared, the pictures she’s taken of me. I suck in a breath to stanch the pain of this new reality.
Love hurts.
“I don’t know what to do, Father.”
Tears fall in symmetrical lines down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I need them to remind me, ground me. I need to face this pain head-on.
“You must ignore these feelings, Lizbeth,” he says. “Resist temptation. Do not succumb to sin.”
My voice cracks. “And if I can’t?”
“There will be consequences.”
Swipe.
“Spiritually, of course, but also in other ways. . . .” He takes a deep breath. “Resist, Lizbeth. It is the only way.”
CHAPTER
16
Oversize sunglasses rest low on the bridge of my nose, way too big for my face. They’re new, pocketed from Mr. Bentz’s grocery and department store just last night while gathering other supplies for three days at Father Buck’s annual church retreat.
Except, that’s not really where I’m going.
Bridget bounces on her tiptoes beside me at the bus stop. She’s a restless ball of energy, while my stomach flip-flops like a fish out of water. I’m so queasy I have to sit. She clutches her hands together and grins. “Can you believe we’re doing this?”
I can’t. At first the idea seemed preposterous—running off to Boston to interview at Le Cordon Bleu, one of the premiere cooking schools in the whole state. But now I wonder if this time away from Fall River isn’t exactly what I need to find context, to mull over Father Buck’s words, figure out my next steps.
It’s as though fate intervened, giving me both motive and excuse.
“I’ll go with you,” Bridget said, and the next thing I remember is hiding in the closet with the phone tucked up to my ear while I lied to Father Buck, my voice husky and raw to convince him I was sick. I added a theatrical cough—the kind even Abigail might have admired—and then sat very still, my stomach roiling with guilt.
The fluttering kicks up again, but I’m not sure if it’s my nerves or the thought of going away with Bridget that has my guts twisted into knots.
I clutch my small black suitcase with white knuckles and adjust the rim of my hat so it rides low on my forehead. The letter from the school’s top instructor—he’s almost as amazing as Emeril!—is tucked in my inside pocket, pressing up against my heart. “I’m nervous,” I whisper, but the truth is I’m terrified.
This is the first time I’ve been outside Fall River, a whole three days without Abigail or my father telling me what to do, how to act, when to take my medications.
My breath hitches on another betrayal. The half-full bottle of pills is tucked under my mattress, hidden from Abigail’s view. I’ve purposely not brought them, choosing to wean myself off medications that are clearly not helping. I’m not depressed—I’m happy. Deliriously so.
Bridget grins. “I can hardly believe this. We’re free.”
Not quite.
At any second, Father Buck could cruise by in his rented van, or worse, my father could drive past on his way to work. Either of them could make me—my disguise isn’t exactly covert. I roll my fingers under the hem of my skirt, twirling it around my thumbs until it stings.
Bridget notices and swats my hands away. “Stop fidgeting,” she says. “You look suspicious. I promise, it will be okay.”
I want to believe her, but across the street, the gray brick facade of the church rises into the sky like an ominous sentinel, trapping us under its massive shadow. Wispy clouds above the steeple beckon like crooked fingers, daring me to confess.
I spot Father Buck’s van at the far corner of the parking lot and slink behind a bush to spy on the teens loading up their suitcases and instruments and prayer books. “There he is,” I whisper, heart pounding.
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous,” she says, and then giggles. “He can’t hear you.” She cups her hand to her mouth and yells, “Over here!”
Eyes wide, I yank on her sleeve. “Please, Bridget . . .” I’m sure every gossip on the street is peering through their curtains with curiosity or annoyance. If one of them recognizes me, they’ll call Abigail, or my father. My pulse tap, tap, taps against my skull. “Don’t draw attention to us.”
She laughs, louder now, and shakes her head. “No one is looking at us. I promise.”
Except someone has already seen us together, maybe not today, but before. Abigail. It’s always tense when I’m around her, but these days the air is thick enough to suffocate. I watch her eyes, her expressions, every subtle shift of her body, trying to predict the exact moment she’ll confront me about what she’s seen, how she’ll leverage it in the most painful way.
The anticipation is killing me—and maybe that is her intent.
Father Buck’s van pulls away from the church and turns up Second Street. I stare down at the pavement, counting the cracks, watching a black spider as it scampers across the top of my foot and down along my big pink-nailed toe. The polish is bright, almost neon, so totally not me. Bridget insisted.
“To our first adventure,” she said, adding color to her toes as well. We are twins, but not really, because she is a sun-kissed butterfly and I am a gothic freak. My heart swells
, panic rising as I realize how dangerous—ridiculous—this all is.
Bridget shuffles closer. “Okay,” she says, after what seems an eternity. “We’re in the clear.”
I release the breath that’s pinched between my ribs and glance up, just in time to see the vehicle’s taillights disappear into the early morning mist. Before I can even finish my sigh of relief, our bus pulls up to the curb and the door swooshes open with a soft hiss.
“This is it,” Bridget says, adjusting her rainbow backpack high on her shoulder. “You ready?”
Unease shakes through me, and still, I nod. “I shouldn’t do this,” I say under my breath.
The words repeat like radio static at the back of my conscience until something inside me snaps. Dang it. I’m sick of being the good girl, the one always following the rules. That’s all I’ve ever done, and what do I have to show for it? Bruises and scars. A crippling lack of self-worth. The constant knowledge that no matter how hard I try, how good I am, it isn’t enough.
I am enough. At least that’s what Bridget always says.
Head down, I climb the steps into the bus, drop in enough money to take us to the main depot where we will catch an express coach to Boston, and wind my way to the back row. A half-dozen pairs of eyes land on my back. The hair on the nape of my neck goes rigid, and again I wonder if anyone will recognize me, rat me out.
Bridget places her hand on my waist to guide me. Her touch—in public!—turns my insides out. I trip over a bag left halfway in the middle of the aisle and stumble forward. My hat falls off and lands in some kid’s lap. He hands it back to me with a snicker. “Watch your step.”
A terrifying anger begins to unfurl from inside me. I stuff it away and continue to my seat. Bridget slides in next to me. Her hand rests on my knee. “You’re fine,” she says. “You’ve got this.”
I breathe in, out, in.
My eyes skim the backs of heads in the seats ahead of us. I count fifteen people, most of them adults, and only one I think might recognize me if she lifted her gaze from the book cradled in her hands. Satisfied I’m safe, for now, I stare out the window as we turn down Second Street and pass the Borden B and B. My heart skips a beat. I place my face up against the glass and crane my neck, positive the ghostly image staring at the bus from the foyer is Abigail. She sees me. Us.