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“You’ve never been here before.” Cleo looked at him as if he were crazy.
“Precious Blood,” he whispered back.
“Are you having a stroke?”
“That’s the name of the church I grew up going to.”
“Precious Blood? That’s a unique name.”
“I don’t know the denomination of this church. I don’t think it’s Catholic, but it’s very similar to everything I remember about Precious Blood. Lots of complicated feelings. My parents were very religious. They expected us to be as well. We were for a long time, but after they died, it just didn’t feel right anymore. Like we made a deal with God to do all these things, and in the end, he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain. He let them both die.”
“It must have been tough to square that up in your mind.”
“I guess it still is. But if I’m being honest, being in here right now is the closest I’ve felt to my mother in a long time. She took church very seriously. We hardly ever missed. And no matter how wild we were or how poor we were, when we were at church, we knew we had to hold ourselves to a higher standard. She made sure of that. It used to drive me crazy how tight the collars of our church clothes were. The itchy sweaters. The pinching shoes. But now, standing here, I miss that version of my mother. The one who could get us to do anything she wanted with just a look.”
“The mom look,” Cleo said through a tiny smile. “If they ever harness that energy and bottle it up, what a weapon that could be.”
“Just being in here makes me want to behave.”
“Then we should have come here sooner.”
“Welcome.” A priest gathering up hymn books gave them a smile. “Services are over today, but you’re welcome to light a prayer candle and stay for as long as you like.”
“We’re actually here to talk with you,” Cleo said, her voice too loud for the space, but Nick let her go. He couldn’t even find his voice in here. Their plan suddenly seemed out of line. Should they really be questioning a priest inside a church about something like this? It was too late to turn back now, though. Cleo was locked in.
“Some marriage counseling?” the old man asked, his wispy gray hair ineffectively combed over his mostly bald head. He had a familiar-looking face even though Nick was certain they’d never met before.
“We’re not married,” Cleo cut back quickly. “We have questions about someone who worked here. It would have been many years ago. Have you been a part of this church for very long?”
“My entire life,” the man said proudly. “I’m Father Benjie. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. My memory isn’t as strong as it used to be. You’ll see that someday if you’re lucky enough to get into your late seventies.” He gestured for them to follow. “Come into my office.”
Passing the confessionals made Nick tense up. There was something about those boxes and the fake anonymity they promised. Their priest always knew it was an O’Malley boy on the other side of the screen as they confessed their endless list of sins for that month.
“We are here on behalf of one of your parishioners,” Cleo said, and Nick felt suddenly like lightning might strike. She wasn’t worried about stepping out on a limb in this holy place, but only because she likely hadn’t spent her youth being threatened with the pits of hell if she stepped out of line.
“If you’re speaking about the Munson family, I’m not certain you are here on their behalf.” He was calling them out, but his face remained gentle and understanding. The prerequisite for any priest Nick had ever met. There were always a couple of stern ones, but even they would normally circle back to some kindness after a scolding.
“I forget sometimes we’re in such a small town,” Nick said, finally finding his voice. “Word travels fast.”
“Mariena has been a part of this church her entire life. I’ve seen her through some of her darkest days. But no matter how much support we give her, it seems your presence here keeps undermining that.” He took a seat in a squeaky old chair and shifted around a few papers on his cluttered desk.
“We’re not trying to cause problems,” Nick said, attempting to beat Cleo to whatever point she was going to counter with. “Your parish has offered much needed support to Mariena Munson, and it’s given her daughters a break they’ve needed.”
“Something sent her spiraling yesterday. Ronnie’s visit was very detrimental to her progress. I planned to call on the farm today. I thought maybe a chat would be helpful. We can’t continue this way,” Father Benji cautioned.
Cleo nodded, but Nick recognized her expression. It wasn’t one of agreement but the precursor of a cutting point. “Mental illness isn’t something you can pray away.”
Nick felt his scalp tingle as though his mother might reach out from the grave and slap him in the back of the head. “Cleo.”
“No,” Father Benjie held up a hand to quiet Nick. “She’s right. And while we are praying for Mariena, we’re also making sure she’s getting adequate medical support. But none of that will matter if she continues to be triggered by stressful visits.”
Cleo crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “Did she mention why it was so triggering to her?”
“Mariena was sedated.” He folded his hands and placed them on his desk. “That’s how upset she was. And she’s hardly said a word since. We’re struggling to get her to eat. If this goes on much longer, she’ll end up back in the hospital. She doesn’t do very well there, as you likely know.”
Nick had very little sympathy for Mariena. She’d tormented her daughters for years out of spiteful hate due to her own circumstances. She failed Carmen when an abusive relationship almost cost her life. And Nora was her punching bag for years on that farm. Knowing she was struggling felt like an appropriate penance. But that wasn’t a very suitable stance for where they were sitting.
He tried to hold on to the idea of forgiveness as he spoke. “It wasn’t just a visit that caused Mariena to spiral. It was what Ronnie told her. We started this conversation talking about how word travels fast around here. You must know the rumors.”
