“Princess,” he says after a time. “You are going to have to refill your well. If you don’t, you’ll remain in hibernation mode.”
I ignore him. What the fuck am I, a laptop? Thankfully, he goes away, too.
I don’t want to refill my well. I don’t want to be Lady Lucifer any longer. I certainly don’t want to be my father’s Left Hand of Darkness. I don’t understand what that means, but it fills me with such dread that tears well up in my eyes.
Eventually, I drift off until wild pounding on the door downstairs drags me out of a light, troubled sleep. I shudder with each percussion, but I don’t move. Maybe they will go away.
They don’t. If anything, the pounding becomes more frantic. And now I hear someone shouting. It sounds like an extremely angry woman. The pounding is making my head hurt. And now I’m worried the neighbors may call the police. I don’t need that kind of trouble, so I drag myself up, dressed in only a three-day-old T-shirt with soup stains on it and the boxer shorts I usually sleep in. It’s warm, but I can’t shake the chill in my bones. I pull the bed’s blanket around me like a cowl and head for the stairs, teetering on each as I descend. My legs feel like jelly for having lain in bed for almost three days.
The woman is now yelling incoherently. I hurry to undo the double deadbolt on the backdoor and pull it open before someone comes round to find out what all the fuss is about.
A pretty, heavyset black woman stands there, her hand, balled into a fist, still up in the air where she was pounding on the door. She’s dressed in nurse’s scrubs with the Peanuts characters on them, and her hair is carefully set into long braids that flow over her shoulders. There’s a Starbucks cup in her hand, but from the way she’s weaving slightly in the doorway, I have a feeling that what’s in it is cut with something stronger than caffeine. Her eyes, fierce but slightly unfocused, move up and down my body critically. Seconds later, her nose wrinkles up, and I can’t help but wonder if I smell from lying in bed, un-showered, for three days.
“You her, then,” the woman says, not asks.
I don’t answer. Naturally, I figure she’s someone here in need of help like Matilda and Doris. I’m just not in the mood to play Glinda the Good Witch at the moment.
So she surprises me when she steps boldly into the prep room in her sensible nurse’s white Dr. Scholl’s. She looks around a long moment before turning her critical gaze back on me. I get waves of anger and agony off her in equal measure. They are almost paralyzing sharp and keep me rooted to the floor even when she takes a threatening step toward me.
“So you’re the bitch,” she says, her words slightly slurred. “You’re the goddamn cunt.”
I flinch but don’t answer her. I’m dumbfounded by her hostility.
Reaching out, she rips the blanket away from me with such force, I flinch. As it falls in a heap on the floor between us, I feel the chill of the night penetrating my raw, bare skin. But I don’t try to cover up. I just stand there in front of her like an idiot, all bare and open and shivering.
“Would be a white bitch,” the woman muses almost more to herself than anyone else. “No tits…no ass. I take it you ain’t got to kids, no family…prob’ly no fucking job, either. Amiright, bitch?”
A part of me wants to get angry and defend myself. But I stay silent, too exhausted to fight and end this strange inquisition.
This terrifying stranger takes another step closer so we are almost boob to boob and I can smell the coffee, vodka, and peppermint on her breath. She looks deep into my eyes. “I want you to know something, you stupid fucking white cunt.”
I suck in a small breath and edge back, but she follows me farther into the room. She never breaks eye contact with me as she continues her tirade.
“When you take him…when you fuck him…you take him away from his kids. Not just me.”And she throws the container of coffee—steaming hot—at me.
The whole encounter finally makes sense. I instinctively throw my arms up to block the burning hot liquid. Mostly, it hits me across my right forearm and splashes down the front of my T-shirt, burning the skin of my breasts through the thin material. The heat of it stings my skin, which is actually pretty ironic when you think about it. Three nights ago, I literally vomited fire at a man and didn’t receive a single scratch or burn in return.
But this…this hurts me.
She throws the empty cup at me as well, screeches a “Fuck you!” and then turns to stagger out the door, leaving it open behind her.
I stand there, blinking after her. I wait until she is gone before I sink down to the floor in the puddle of my blankets, wrap my arms around myself, tilt my head back, and scream to the godless and uncaring heavens far above me.
47
I WALK out the door and down the street, picking my direction at random. Eventually, I find myself outside the park I found not long after moving here. The jogging paths have gates and chains across them, but you can still walk through the trees toward the dog park or the children’s area, and I do.
A small, well-tended creek feeds into the duck pond, and a large Japanese-style, wooden bridge with a pagoda-style roof spans it. I’ve seen parents and older siblings sit up here on the built-in benches while the kids splash around in the creek below, picking out fancy river rocks.
All alone, and with just the moonlight to guide me, I cross to the center of the bridge and stop to lean against the railing and look down. I think I see sleek silver and gold koi fish down in the creek, but I can’t be certain.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
The voice startles me and makes me quickly turn around. My heart thuds once, hard, in my chest when I spot a man sitting on the bench directly opposite me. He’s dressed in a dark windbreaker and has an ebook reader in his hands. But he was so sitting there so still, I didn’t first see him when I came up here.
He stands up now and I immediately recognize the young priest with the strong beard and the gorgeous black eyes.
“Father Matt?”
He’s dressed in civilian clothes under the jacket—a button-down shirt, pullover, and snug jeans that look good on him. He half-smiles in a self-deprecating way as if I’ve caught him doing something scandalous. “Vivian. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
I’m barefoot and dressed in my sleep clothes and a ratty robe. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. “I’m sorry,” I say because I am that he’s caught me like this in this state of undress. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It’s all right. I was done anyway.” He holds up the e-reader. “Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.”
I stare blankly at him—not because of his choice of reading material (that I don’t care about), but because I’m still reeling from my encounter with Brenda, Mac’s wife. But Father Matt misinterprets my silence.
“It’s really a political novel,” he insists by way of an excuse. “It’s actually about the corruption and death of the American Dream. Perversity, obsessions, but also art. Suburbia and consumer culture. And none of this looks good on me, si?”
I smile for the first time in days. Can’t help myself. I don’t really care that Father Matt breaks into parks at night to read scandalous classical literature on bridges. It’s really none of my business.
He studies me as he approaches. He looks at my arm, partially revealed by the robe but riding up because I keep rubbing my burn. His mood suddenly darkens considerably. “What happened to you?” He takes my arm and gently rolls my sleeve up to reveal the angry red skin that’s starting to bubble up in places. “Did someone do this to you?”
I look at him—at the mysterious compassion in his face—but I can’t seem to speak. My throat still hurts. But so does my heart. It feels like it’s broken in a way that will never mend. As if sensing how messed up I really am, he releases my arm and slides a hand over my shoulder—not sexual, but protective. “Come with me? Please?”
I let him take me. At this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass if he drags me to some scummy underground leather
bar and whips the hell out of me if that’s what he needs to get off. I don’t even feel like a human being anymore.
He doesn’t do that, though. We go back to the parish in his car, which is parked in the curb outside the park. Once we reach the church, he unlocks the attached rectory and leads me inside.
Father Matt’s quarters are small and homey, a tiny collection of rooms—kitchen, bedroom, one bathroom, and an office—decorated for comfort rather than show. I see a green sofa, lamps with fringes, one of those standing ashtrays you only ever see in antique stores and old movies, and a fireplace mantel cluttered with a plethora of family photographs. He has me sit on the sofa while he gathers first aid supplies from the bathroom. I look at the large collection of happy Latinx faces in the pictures and wonder who they are, where they are living.
“I really should take you to Emergency. But you won’t go, will you?” he says as he returns with a medium-sized tote full of medical supplies. From the size of it, I wonder if he’s used to patching up his parishioners. It’s a rough neighborhood. Perhaps he acts as healer of body and soul.
He sits down and rolls up my sleeve to examine my burn. Hissing between his teeth, he adds, “It looks pretty raw. Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you done something about it?”
I don’t answer.
He moves in closer to examine my face and eyes. I smell his aftershave—different than Mac’s. Lighter. “Are you high? I’m not judging, mind you. I’d just like to know for your own safety.”
I shake my head. Then, abruptly, I confess, “I deserve this.”
He doesn’t look shocked or surprised by my statement. “You deserve to be burned?”
I can’t respond to that. I don’t know how.
Father Matt doesn’t push. He just smiles. “We’ll do something about the burn now. Okay?”
He finds some burn cream and starts slathering it over my arm. Then he reaches into the tote for a roll of gauze. Having second thoughts, he puts it back. “That will stick. How about an ace bandage?”
I just stare at him.
“Let’s do that,” he decides and goes to work wrapping my burned arm with an ace bandage instead.
I realize he’s speaking to me as if I’m a child. But I don’t really care. I like the sound of his voice, and I enjoy listening to him speak. I wonder how long he’s been in America.
“Were you born here?” I ask, thinking aloud.
He surprises me. “Yes. But my madre y padre were from Guatemala. Villa Neueva. It’s a large city. But it has several beautiful national parks. I saw them all when we visited my abuela.”
I smile a little as he finishes bandaging me up.
“There we are.” He gently sets my damaged arm down. “You should rest. It’s late. You can sleep on the sofa if you like.”
He goes to fetch a sheet, a blanket, and a couple of pillows and sets the sofa up for me like something he’s familiar with doing. Once I get into bed, he stands there a long moment, looking down at me with soft, sympathetic eyes. I feel like my troubles are his troubles. “I’m turning in, but if you need anything, I’m just over here.” He indicates his room.
At first, I think maybe he’s making innuendo, but then I realize he’s actually sincere. He doesn’t want me for sex the way most men do, and I actually feel safe with him. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt completely safe around a man.
Before he turns in for the night, I say, “Why are you helping me?”
He looks surprised that I should ask. “We’ve all been in that dark place, corazon.”
That night, I actually sleep dreamlessly for the first time in what seems like forever.
48
“TRY TO eat something,” Father Matt urges me the next morning. He’s again dressed in his holy uniform, a cross hanging around his neck, and sitting on the side of the sofa where I’m lying, a tray balanced on his arm. He’s taken the time to make me cereal and toast and orange juice. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had something to eat that wasn’t soup or crackers. I think about something I once read, that a human can go as long as a month without food.
I just stare at him, hoping he’ll keep talking to me.
“I’ll leave it here,” he says with a half-smile, sliding it onto the coffee table. “I have work, but I’ll be back tonight around six. I left a number and money in the kitchen for an Uber if you want to go home, and there are menus in the drawers if you want to order something in. Do you have a phone?”
I left mine at home.”No.”
He nods. “There’s a rotary on the kitchen wall if you want to call someone.” He pauses, a look of concern on his face.
“I know how to use a rotary phone,” I tell him.
He smiles at that. “You can also wait for me if you aren’t ready to go.”
“Okay.”
After he’s gone, I lay back on the sofa. I again feel like I did at home—like my body has all lead bones inside of it. I can’t seem to move at all. There’s a TV in the corner, but I don’t have the motivation to get up and turn it on. Anyway, it will just be full of stories about dead people I’ve killed and city blocks I’ve burned to the ground. Instead, I doze for most of the day.
Around four o’clock, I get a leg cramp that forces me to get up and walk it off. I decide to visit the tiny bathroom, where I discover I look like some specter of death walking around. My eyes are blackened out and my hair tangled. My skin is whiter than paper, and there are red spots high up on my cheeks. I realize I look like a pathetic crack addict.
I avail myself of Father Matt’s shower, then pad naked into his bedroom. It’s kept tastefully Spartan, with just a large bed, nightstand, and highboy. A simple wooden cross hangs over the bed. But directly across the bed, I see posters for Jennifer Lopez and Shakira, both looking particularly sexy in their brief, fringe-laden dance outfits. And I smile. Peeking inside his highboy, I find a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. They fit me well enough, seeing how Father Matt is small and of a slight build, but I feel bad about borrowing his clothes without permission, so I go into the kitchen to peek in his refrigerator.
Before I decided to be a pastry chef, I took a full culinary course at Lincoln Technical. I find some raw produce and lay them out on the counter, then go through his cupboards for dry ingredients. Finally, I choose a good chef’s knife from the block on the counter. I figure I owe him at least one well-prepared meal for all his little kindnesses.
When Father Matt returns at six, I have a chicken enchilada casserole bubbling in the oven and the aroma has completely filled the flat. I noticed his interest immediately. “You’re up,” he says, sounding cheerful despite the fact that he has to be tired from attending to parishioners all day long.
I stand in the kitchen, washing the pots I have used to make the casserole, feeling slightly embarrassed about the way I’m wearing his clothes uninvited and have taken over his kitchen, but he doesn’t even mention it.
“I’ll set the table,” he says instead. “You’ll join me?”
I don’t eat much dinner—just a few bites to make him happy. I’m pleased to see he likes the casserole, though.
“It reminds me of my abuela’s. Who taught you to cook?”
It takes me a moment to answer. His voice is like this hypnotic drug to me. “I did. I went to school.”
“Ah.” He nods over his plate. I love watching him shovel in the food. It makes me feel good. “In my family, the women pass it down from mother to daughter. Often, they don’t even write it down and that causes conflict.”
I think about that a moment. “My mother didn’t like me. She regretted I was ever born.”
That gains me a long stare. I think he’ll ask uncomfortable questions, but instead, he says, “I’m sorry. Family can be hard.” He puts another bite of food into his mouth and talks through it like you’re not supposed to. “This is so good. I may need to keep you just so you can cook for me.”
I snort over
that.
He looks pleased to have finally gotten a reaction out of me.
After dinner, he offers to read me one of his ebooks. I don’t know how I feel about that, but after we’re sitting side by side on the sofa together—sitting closer than we should, probably—he whips out his e-reader and starts reading The Hobbit.
It was never a book I could get into as a kid. Too cute. But I like listening to him narrate it in his accent.
His voice is such a balm. I feel myself sinking against his shoulder in the seconds before I sit up straighter, clawing my way back awake. I wonder what I’m doing here, invading his life like this. It’s all so ridiculous…
Father Matt senses my unease and says, “I can get you that Uber now.”
I don’t want him investing more in me than he already has. “I can walk,” I tell him, getting up.
He follows me across the room and puts his hand on my arm to stop me. “Please don’t. I’ll drive you.”
I look at him touching me. I know how this will end. Like it always ends with me and my men. Nick. Mac. I tell myself I don’t want to make more brides. But as I try to move farther away, he says the words that seal my fate.
“Vivian, I know what you are.”
I really shouldn’t be here, but now I can’t leave. Getting angry for the first time in days, I turn and show him my teeth. “If that’s true, you never would have brought me here. Invited me in. You’re not…you shouldn’t…”
“My abuela was a witch.”
Tears spring to my eyes. The absolute horror of my life bubbles over and I find myself sobbing, “I’m not a witch! I wish I were a fucking witch! Being a witch would be easy!”
Father Matt is still standing in front of me, still holding my arm. I simply fold against him and start crying into his shirt. I let it all go and cry until my heart hurts too much to continue and I start to hiccup like a fool. Hot, biting pain blooms across my bare skin above the neckline of the T-shirt. It’s then I remember the cross hanging around his neck. Pulling back, I draw the shirt down a little to show him the burn mark in my skin, hoping he’ll understand. That he’ll be just as horrified of me as I am and push me away.
To the Devil a Daughter (A Vivian Summers Investigation Book 1) Page 20