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“Of course, I’m sorry to hold you up. I’d like to invite you back to the church, if you’d like to talk, or confess. Promise I’ll hold your hair back next time,” I tease, as easily as if I’ve known her awhile. Feels that way, for some reason.
“Yeah, I … don’t think that’s gonna happen, Father. Thanks, but throwing up in a confessional booth is ranked up there with the time I walked out on stage for my elementary school Christmas concert with my dress tucked into my underwear.”
Again, I chuckle for the second time within minutes. “It doesn’t have to be me. Father Ruiz performs Reconciliation, as well. No one has to know. It’ll be our secret.”
“Am I to assume …youcleaned up my puke?”
“Does it matter who cleaned it up?”
“Well, kind of. See, I know I’m not supposed to think you’re attractive, but hello, human nature. And knowing that you cleaned up my puke is just … wrong.”
“So, if I wasunattractive, you wouldn’t be grappling as much?”
“I know you can’t really relate, so I’ll leave this topic alone.”
“I’m a priest, but I’m a human being, as well.” Leaning in closer, I lower my voice in play. “Believe it, or not, I used to think girls were cute.”
“But now you wear special clergy contacts that make all of us look like hags.”
Her comment draws my eyes back to her outfit, simple yet classy, keeping the focus on the unique beauty of her face. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and those spellbinding green eyes. “I see you just fine, and there’s nothing unattractive about you.”
Clutching the strap of her purse, she takes a step back, as if my comment slapped her in the face, and suddenly, I regret saying it. “I’m gonna go. I’ll think about coming back.”
“Fair enough. Take care …” There’s an awkward pause where I might’ve said her name, and I fill the gap with a smile, instead.
“Ivy. My name’s Ivy Mercier.”
“Take care, Ivy.”
The elevator dings a third time, and I watch her walk off before I step inside.
* * *
Ifind a moment between supper and Wednesday night mass to log onto my computer and search Paws For A Cause. It’s a local business in what looks like a residential area of Los Angeles, but the website shows nothing about the trainers, or staff there. I jot the address down and scour the internet for anything on Lia Ames service dog. A faint image shows up, pixelated with age and crappy quality, but I can make out the logo on the dog’s vest. The same logo as worn by the lab I saw at the hospital. The same logo I saw on the penitent’s shirt. And just like that, I’ve made a link between Lia and her kidnapper, or killer, as it were.
And what if he is her killer? Who will you tell?I can almost hear the words of Bishop Cannes, my mentor while he was still a priest, and an expert on canon law, just before I’m excommunicated.
There is no one to tell. It’s my duty to maintain the confidentiality and sanctity of what is confessed. It is the priest-penitent privilege, much like communications between a lawyer and client, protected by civil as well as canon law, and disclosing such would set precedence. Besides that, I have no evidence. I’d be condemning a man based on a drunken confession, driven solely by my own painful experiences—something for which I’m not willing to betray my parishioners, nor face the penalty for doing so.
6
Ivy
The smell of piss assaults my nose as I enter the room that Mamie shares with another woman, whose every breath is marked off by an incessant beep. A machine to keep her alive, I guess. Partitioned by a pastel curtain, my grandmother lies in her own bed, the heavy drapes across from her blocking out most of the afternoon sunlight, creating a depressing darkness that I know would’ve left her old self miserable. She loved the sun as much as she loved her gardens and music … and me.
The very faint sound ofTe Revoir Mon Amourby Rina Ketty plays through the speaker I bought for her, from an entire Spotify list of her favorite French singers. Probably helps keep her from counting each of the other woman’s beeps and paying far too much attention to how many breaths her neighbor takes in a day. If she even has the wherewithal to notice such things.
I crack the drapes just enough to let a sharp beam of sunlight through and catch the twitch of Mamie’s hand when it hits her skin.
Rheumy eyes stare off toward somewhere behind me as she cracks a slight smile, her mouth bracketed by laughter lines. “Do you hear him,moineau?”
“Hear who, Mamie?”
“The angel. He says it’s almost time.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that. Stop talking like that.”
Her soft brown eyes fall on me. “This place … isn’t my home.”
