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“The church.”
I frown.Figures.But what could she possibly need to do there at 6:30 in the evening? Daily mass was always 9 a.m. and 4 p.m., unless Saint Matthew’s has changed things up, which I doubt. Lord knows the Catholic Church abhors change.
“What’s to do there at this time of the evening?”
“Pray.”
“Isn’t mass done by now?”
“We don’t need a ceremony to take time out of our day to talk to the Lord. You should try it sometime, might make you a better person.”
I bite my tongue, rather than argue over which one of us is the shitty human. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later, I pull up at the curb outside of Saint Matthew’s and leave the engine running.
“Aren’t you going to park and join me?” my mother asks.
“Not unless you need me to help you walk in. Praying is your thing. Not mine. I’d prefer to wait righthere for you.”
My mother juts her chin out, but opens the car door. “I don’t need your help.”
I wait a half hour, then another fifteen minutes more. When a full hour ticks by and there’s still no sign of her coming out, I unbuckle my seat belt and turn the car off. She’s probably taking her time to be spiteful, but she’s also sick and frail. There’s a tiny part of my heart that hasn’t turned black when it comes to my mother, so I can’t help but worry, even though I hate myself for doing it. Then again, this may just be her way of getting me to come inside.
The vestibule of Saint Matthew’s hasn’t changed one bit—church bulletin board with dozens of pinned posts, worn black pleather chairs that parents force their rowdy children to sit in when they grow too loud at Sunday service, holy water fonts on either side of the door leading to the nave. I peek inside and spot my mother sitting in a pew a few rows from the altar. A man sits next to her—a priest, I assume. I ponder turning around and going back to the car, waiting her out. But I need this day to be over with. So I take a page from my mother’s book—lift my chin high with righteous indignation and walk in like my feet aren’t burning with each step.
The priest spots me first, and my footsteps falter when I get a look at his face.Father Preston—the one Ivy told me she confessedsomethingto years ago. This town might as well have been frozen the last two decades with the amount of change it’s seen.
I look away, not wanting to meet his eyes. But when I glance to my left, a statue catches my attention. That wasnothere twenty years ago. The taste of bile rushes up from my stomach, yet somehow I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Father Preston stands when I arrive at the pew they’ve been seated in. “Elizabeth. It’s wonderful to see you.”
I point back to thestatue. “Is that new?”
“Saint Agnes? Why, yes it is.” He smiles. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“When did you get it?”
“A parishioner donated it about a year ago, I think.”
“What parishioner?”
His brows furrow. “It was an anonymous donation. Why do you ask?”
Another coincidence?How can one little town be filled with so many?
I look back at the statue, and cold seeps into my body. It’s probably still ninety outside, and the church doesn’t have air-conditioning, so it means one thing—a panic attack is coming. I need to get the hell out of herequick.
My mother still hasn’t acknowledged me. Her head is bowed like she’s full of shame. I thought this was the place you came to get rid of that stuff. “Mom . . .”
She turns. The change in her position lets me see there’s something in her hand. I take a step closer, squint for a better look.
Drinking
Fornication
I close my eyes.Her sin list.No wonder it’s taken so long. Mom traces my line of sight and pulls the paper tight to her chest so I can’t see it. Which makes me wonder—what else is on there? I should’ve read the entire thing when I had the chance earlier. Is she here to confess justhersins? Or does she feel the need to rat out everything she believes is a crime against the Lord, even if the sins don’t belong to her?
“What can I get you?”