Page 21 of Play Nice

When I dream, I hear my mother’s voice. That’s how I know I’m dreaming, because even asleep I know she’s dead.

Father Bernard arrived the next morning before I could get the girls to school.

Elle, Dee, and Cici were at the kitchen table eating oatmeal when the doorbell rang. They perked up, curious.

“This is my visitor and my personal business,” I told them. “No one likes a busybody.”

“What’s a busybody?” Elle asked me.

I suspect she’s the one who told your father.

“A gossip.”

I went down and answered the door.

Father Bernard was an old man, well into his seventies.

He was completely bald but had long, dark, bristly eyebrows, like black widows glued to his face.

Like Father John, he was dressed in all black, except for the white of his clerical collar.

Unlike Father John, he came without a hat. And without manners.

“Good morning, Father,” I said.

He grunted. “Ms.Barnes.”

“Alexandra. Please, come in,” I said.

Our call the night before was short. He didn’t provide details other than he’d spoken to Father John about the house and that he would come by in the morning.

He crossed himself before coming inside.

He winced the second he stepped into the foyer. Then he sniffed the air. Two exaggerated inhales, crinkling his nose.

It was incredibly, unabashedly rude.

“Sulfur. Excrement.”

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head. “I’m not welcome here. The presence is making it known. Trying to repel me. It’s powerful.”

I was shocked to receive such immediate validation.

“?‘The presence’?” I asked.

He ignored me, waving a hand as if I were a gnat. He looked past me, down the stairs, then up the stairs, then down the stairs, as if debating which way to go. A sort of purgatory there on the landing.

He clutched a Bible to his chest and started upstairs.

“My girls,” I whispered, following at his heels. “They don’t know.”

“Very well,” he said.

When we reached the top of the stairs, we found the girls gathered around the dining table. They’d moved their chairs closer together and were glowering at us like a little pack of wolves.

“Hello there,” Father Bernard said, his tone artificially cheery. I was grateful he wasn’t as brash with the girls as he was with me but knew they would be able to see right through him. I’d taught them to be skeptical of strangers, done what I could to nurture their intuition.

Sure enough, they narrowed their eyes at him.

Cici, in particular, was never afraid of being perceived as ill-mannered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Father Bernard,” he said. “I’m here for a quick visit, to see your new house.”

Cici made a face. “Like that other guy?”

“Father John, yes. He’s a friend of mine.”

So often we’re trained to ignore our intuition.

That it’s impolite or irrational to be anything but sweet and nice, arms open, ankles crossed.

I was scolded by my parents, by teachers, by friends, by ex-lovers, by your father.

I was told so many times that my intuition was wrong when it was right that I didn’t know how to trust myself anymore.

Men love a beautiful fool. Weak men, rather.

I didn’t want you girls to suffer the way I did.

“He had a pretty bad time,” she said, and returned to her breakfast.

Elle and Dee said nothing. They exchanged looks and then got up and went to their room.

Cici stayed at the table, occasionally poking at her oatmeal while doodling on a notepad.

“It’s better if I explore the house alone,” Father Bernard said. “Without your influence.”

“?‘Influence’?” I asked.

He waved me off again and started to wander around, muttering prayers to himself.

I sat beside Cici at the dining table with my coffee, now gone cold.

Father Bernard moved through the house. He was slow, methodical. With his Bible and his prayers and a vial of holy water.

Cici drew. I finished my cold coffee.

Elle emerged from her room. “We’re going to be late to school.”

“You can be late,” I told her. What could I do?

She huffed, clenching her jaw, her fists, and stormed back into her room, slamming the door.

I looked over at Cici. She was drawing a picture of the house.

“That’s very good,” I told her, because it was. Not just good for a seven-year-old. She was a prodigy. A very talented artist.

“Thanks,” she said. “I know.”

There was a crash downstairs.

I gasped, but Cici was unfazed. She raised her eyebrows, shrugged.

“Father Bernard?” I called as I got up and went over to the stairs.

He was coming up to the landing, patting his head with a handkerchief.

“Alexandra, I need to speak with you,” he said sternly. “Outside. Now, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” I told Cici.

“Ooooh, you’re in trouble,” she singsonged, grinning at me.

I met Father Bernard outside. He paced on the front pathway. It was a hot, sticky day. Impossibly humid. He was drenched in sweat.

“I have known Father John for a long, long time. We were altar boys together, before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye.

When I received the call from him, I knew the matter at hand must be urgent.

You see, all priests are aware of and educated on the subject of occult phenomena, but only some are specialists in dealing with such matters.

I am one of such specialists, which is why John reached out to me.

He relayed his concern of a possible infestation. Diabolical interference.”

An awful expression in general, but especially from the mouth of a priest, and this priest in particular.

“I’m sorry. What does that mean?”

He looked at me with a solemn expression and said, “I am sorry to inform you. I believe there is an entity living in your house. And I believe it may be demonic.”

It was the single most terrifying moment of my life up until that point. It was also the most liberating.

I never could have anticipated what would come next

Here was someone who was substantiating my fear, confirming what I had known all along.

There was evil lurking inside my home.

“What do I do?” I asked him, practically on my knees, pleading.

“It is very rare, though not impossible, for such an entity to inhabit a home. Possession of places and things are often means to an end for such entities. It is their ultimate desire to possess the flesh. A body. A mind. A person. That is why I believe you and your daughters may be at risk. But for my own integrity, I will need to be sure before I perform the rites of exorcism on your home. It is my recommendation that we have an outside investigative research team confirm that this is in fact a demon we are dealing with and not, say, a ghost or poltergeist. I have some names. In the meantime, I suggest you take some precautions.”

“Like what?”

“Do not underestimate the power of prayer. The power of God. Are your daughters baptized?”

—

I remember Father Bernard in the abstract. I see him, a man dressed in black, but where there should be a face, there’s nothing. An indistinguishable smear of features. My mother’s description of him wasn’t enough to resurrect his image, what he looked like.

I see my sisters in their school uniforms. I see the kitchen table, the paper in front of me, a box of colored pencils, a sharpener, neat spirals of pencil shavings, my drawing of the house not yet complete.

I see my mother. See her, hear her. But I can’t touch her, and she can’t touch me, can’t hear me, see me. She looks past me. Beyond me.

Behind me.

—

I wake up on the couch to the sun streaming through the windows. I don’t remember falling asleep. There are four cans of White Claw on the coffee table. My sketchpad is open, with a new doodle.

The words “Leave Me Alone” floating in space, with stars and planets all around.

I do remember drawing this.

I check my phone. It’s past noon. I have two contractors coming today to look at the kitchen and the bathrooms, to give me a quote for those and the floors.

The first will be here in forty minutes.

I wanted to get up early and start priming downstairs.

I wanted to do yoga. Shower. Have coffee.

Post photos I took in Brooklyn last week.

Now my content posting schedule is off. Now I’m tragically uncaffeinated.

I gather up the cans of White Claw and put them in the recycling bin under the kitchen sink. I change into a long Oxford shirt that I wear as a dress and slip on a pair of loafers, make myself presentable for company.

I brush my teeth, rinse with Listerine. I can still taste the fear in my mouth, even after my valiant attempts to wash it out.

There are mice. They’re living in the walls. That’s what I heard. The scraping. There’s a lingering electrical issue. The flickering lights. There’s me, more worn than I maybe realize. All this back and forth. Brooklyn. Penn Station. New Jersey. Leda. Daphne. Dad. Amy. Mom. Past. Present.

Or maybe it is the demon that my mother was so convinced lived here with us, who wasn’t exorcised after all. The ultimate freeloader. The unwelcome guest.

The part of me that wanted my mother vindicated had been much bigger and braver back in New York. Had been much bigger and braver before last night.

The first contractor is fifteen minutes late and calls me “hon,” which isn’t my favorite, but I play into it and get a better quote than the second contractor, who is the consummate professional and calls me “Ms.,” which apparently comes at a cost of seven thousand dollars.

The first is condescending when I ask questions like “What if I did the demo myself?” and “Would it be possible to take out this wall?”

The second sighs and puts his hands on his hips a lot as he looks around.

I was always going to pick the one who charged me more—I trust a bargain only in a thrift shop. It’s just so satisfying that I get to reject the one who clearly thinks I’m incapable.