Page 5

Cathy

I detest going to church. But I don’t have a choice, not while I’m stuck living with Dad.

My childhood home is my best bet until I can save up enough for my own place, which is going to take forever because it can’t be just any place—it’s got to be isolated or at least near enough to the woods that I can escape into them during one of my episodes.

And I can’t have roommates. It would be too hard to hide what I am from them.

So I have to attend church with Dad once a week, a chore I make more interesting by wearing outfits that are just short of scandalous. The middle-aged moms and righteous old ladies are going to gossip behind my back anyway. Might as well give them something to talk about.

Today I’m wearing a backless, halter-top sundress with a sweetheart neckline. I covered the bare skin with a sweater, but I let the sweater slip off one shoulder as I follow Dad up the steps of the church, my hand skimming the iron rail with its peeling white paint.

My father is a burly man, thick-necked and big-bearded.

His hair is still mostly brown, but streaks of gray wriggle through the curly beard.

Above his bristly mustache, below bushy eyebrows, his pale eyes gleam with a hostile intensity he can’t quite suppress, even when he’s being friendly.

He carries a worn leather Bible with the same hand that tried to feed me a knife last time he got drunk.

I told him it tasted bad and I wouldn’t take it, which surprised his beer-addled brain long enough for him to think better of his actions.

I don’t know if he remembers doing that.

We’ve never talked about it. We’re trapped together, he and I, at least for now.

Surviving our situation means pretending certain things never happened.

Drenched in that pretense, we can smile and climb the church steps like a pair of innocent, God-fearing sheep ready for sacrifice.

There are two grinning greeters lying in wait to open the doors for us. They chirp, “Good morning,” in falsely cheerful voices.

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely fake. Maybe I’m projecting my trust issues onto them.

“So good to see you, Cathy.” Mrs. O’Brien’s voice drips with saccharine pity for my lost-lamb status. “I hope God speaks to you today.”

Never mind. I was right about the fakeness and bitchiness. These people never pass up a chance to confirm my opinion of them.

“I hope God speaks to you, too, Mrs. O’Brien,” I say sweetly. “And if he doesn’t, I’ve got a few words—”

“Cathy.” Dad’s voice is heavy with warning. He grips my arm above the elbow, so tightly my eyes water, and he pulls me through the doors into the lobby.

Pastor Linton is conversing in low tones with a group of deacons. He catches sight of my dad and calls, “Bob! May I borrow you for a moment?”

Mark Linton is a ruddy-cheeked, bland-faced man with a smooth, blond comb-over rendered impenetrable by layers of hairspray.

Today he’s much paler than usual, and I can’t help staring.

There are dark hollows beneath his eyes, worry creasing his brow.

The faces of the men around him are equally anxious.

Something bad has happened. My stomach quivers with terror—what if they’ve finally discovered my secret?

Dad must be thinking the same thing. He throws me a hard look, his Cathy what have you done now look.

I raise my eyebrows, trying to seem innocent and confused.

His lips tighten, but he doesn’t reproach me aloud.

That will come later, when we’re alone. When he can unleash his full wrath without anyone else to witness it.

“Sure, Mark,” he says to the pastor. “Save me a seat, Cathy.”

“I’ll be sitting near the back, though,” I tell him.

He knows what that means…that I’m going to have an episode sometime soon, and I have to be able to get out when it happens. As a deacon, he prefers sitting up front.

“Fine,” he says through a tight smile. “I’ll see you after the service, then.”

He heads over to the group of men. Despite the fact that I’ll be a prisoner in this building for the next two hours, being released from my father’s presence seems like freedom. Or it would if my skin didn’t feel like it’s about to crack and curl and flake off my body.

I inhale slowly, trying to find some measure of relief in the familiarity of this place.

The stale-carpet smell, laced with a hint of spray cleaner and air freshener wafting from the restrooms. To the right is a door leading downstairs to the children’s wing.

I haven’t been down there in ages, but I suspect it looks much the same as I remember: windowed doors along a white hallway plastered with coloring sheets and the occasional poster of a Bible verse.

In front of me, gleaming oak doors stand wide, leading from the lobby into the sanctuary.

The pews are honeyed oak with dull rose-colored padding.

Each pew has cloth pockets stapled to its back, hammocks for hymnals and extra copies of the Bible.

The gray morning leaks a wan light through stained-glass windows lining both sides of the sanctuary.

At the front of the church, the oak pulpit is overshadowed by an enormous tapestry—perhaps the most significant element in the place.

Because this church isn’t exactly Catholic, Episcopal, Southern Baptist, or any of the myriad denominations so prevalent in the South.

It’s a strange amalgam of Protestant teaching, Catholic ritual, and…

something else. Any stranger who walked in here would be confused by the contradicting elements of the place, like the confession booths in the back corners of the sanctuary and the small baptistry behind the pulpit.

But strangers never visit Wicklow Heritage Chapel…or if they do, they’re gently turned away at the door. And the reason for that is hung up there for all of us to see.

The tapestry depicts a large cross with a faceless figure bound to it—not with nails but with vines in a Celtic knotwork pattern.

Beneath the foot of the cross, below the ground, is a pocket of space, a tomb, where a larger figure lies, swathed in black cloth.

Horns protrude from the recumbent figure’s head.

At least…most people might think they’re horns.

They might assume the figure in the tomb is the Devil, defeated.

But I’ve gone right up to the tapestry and examined it in detail. Those aren’t horns. They’re antlers.

Every member of this congregation knows the purpose of this church—its true mission—even if we don’t discuss it more than once a year or so. Wicklow Heritage Chapel is located at the end of a half-hidden lane through the forest, a ten-minute drive or an hour’s brisk walk from Old Sheldon Church.

According to our congregation’s religious lore, beneath Old Sheldon Church lies the thing in the tapestry—one of the old pagan gods of Ireland. Dad says nobody knows for sure which god it is, although he and the other deacons have their theories.

Every year at Easter, our congregation joins with some others in the area, and we hold services at Old Sheldon Church.

The true purpose of that annual Easter service is lost on everyone outside our congregation.

For us, the service isn’t just a pleasant springtime gathering but a reconsecration of the ground.

We do it to saturate the earth with a faith and energy that is meant to be the polar opposite of the old pagan ways.

Besides Easter service, our congregation holds a midnight vigil at the ruins of Old Sheldon Church every month, and our deacons take turns patrolling the area, saying prayers, and anointing the ground with blessed water.

According to Dad, those rituals keep the god quiet and unconscious…

most of the time. Most of the congregation seem to believe in the practice, although it’s hard to tell how many comply just because it’s tradition, a habit that sets us apart from other churches.

I’ve stared at that tapestry during many long services, mulling over the concept of ancient gods and my connection to them—a link my father prefers to deny, one he has ordered me to keep secret from everyone in Wicklow. If anyone in town knew what I am—

“Cathy?” A light male voice at my elbow interrupts my thoughts.

I turn and look up at Edgar Linton, the pastor’s son. With his artfully tousled, golden hair and eyes as blue as the sky, he’s practically Cupid come to life—if Cupid wore a cheap gray suit with an aqua tie.

“You’re back!” Immediately I hate myself for the obvious phrase.

Of course he’s back or he wouldn’t be standing here, smelling like vanilla, looking as charming as ever.

He has spent four years at Bible college and four summers on various mission trips and outreach endeavors.

I’ve always thought he stayed away on purpose, and I sort of resented him for being able to leave Wicklow so easily when I had to get my bachelor’s in marketing online.

No chance of someone like me being able to have a normal college experience—not that Dad could have paid for it anyway.

As a realtor in Wicklow, his income is unstable at best.

“It’s good to see you.” I reach out to shake Edgar’s hand, and my sweater slips off the other shoulder.

Edgar flashes a brilliant smile, showing teeth that belong on a Ken doll. “I got back from Zambia a few days ago. It felt so great being able to help those poor folks. Truly amazing.”

Yeah, he doesn’t have a white savior complex at all. “Sounds rewarding. So what are you up to now?”

“I’m writing a devotional book, and I’ll be helping Dad with the church—the young adults and college group, especially.

In fact, I’m organizing a little get-together next weekend.

A friend of mine has a private beach we can use.

It’ll be late afternoon and evening, a time for food, fun, and fellowship, where singles of our age can meet new people without having to resort to the bar scene. You should come.”