AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Seeing the little girl with even a slight smile on her face makes me feel like it’s all worth it. The punishing torment of having violated my commitment to sanctity somehow seems less intense on seeing her reunited with her mother.
I wait to see if there’s anything about the man I killed. Not that I expect anything so soon. He hasn’t technically been missing any more than forty-eight hours, but anyone who might try to reach him wouldn’t know that. My guess would be a neighbor, investigating the barks. I’ll have to go back in a couple days to check on the dogs, make sure someone’s fed them.
Killing a person isn’t supposed to feel like doing the world a favor, and yet, that’s exactly what I feel. As if a weight has been lifted from the world. A darkness favoring the young and innocent, extinguished beneath the heavy concrete lid that’ll hide the stench and decay of what’s left of him in this world.
Hairs on the back of my neck bristle with the cold breath of a memory brushing across it. I look back to the closet, where the box sits on the top shelf. I’ve refused to look inside it for years, but perhaps the unexpected attraction I experienced today, along with my act of retribution, means I’ve begun to heal and move on.
As I make my way into the closet, my stomach churns a reminder that everything in that box represents a small piece of my pain, and pulling it apart, going through all those memories, will be no different than cracking open my ribs and tearing away at my heart.
But ten years is long enough to carry such an unrelenting ache. Instead of seeing their lifeless faces over and over inside my mind, I need to hear the laughter, and remember what it feels like to love something more than oneself. In the wake of having rescued a young girl from unfathomable horrors, I need to remember why. Why, even at the risk of damning my own soul, it was important to pull her out of that cage and return her to her mother.
Only Isabella can possibly make me remember.
Hands trembling, I slide the box off the shelf, careful not to drop anything. I don’t even bother to look inside until I’m out of the closet and have set the box on the floor of my bedroom. Kicking back a long swig of beer is a weak attempt to settle my nerves, and I wipe my arm across my mouth. This is a part of my life I keep locked away from everyone. My congregation. Father Ruiz. Bishop McDonnell. After the murders, I changed my name, and essentially killed off my old life by completely disappearing. Never looked back, and as far as I know, nobody’s bothered to come looking for me. Not even my own father.
As if everyone’s forgotten the tragedy that continues to thrive inside of me like a cancer.
Philippe jumps into my lap, settling himself across my folded legs, as if he knows I need comforting for this. With a solemn smile, I scratch behind his ear and sigh. “Bet you miss her petting you behind your ears, don’t you, buddy?”
Finally, I lean over Philippe and peer inside the box, at a teddy bear sitting atop a stack of pictures and papers, and whatever else is beneath. At the first sting of tears, I slam the lid of the box, closing out the quickly surfacing memory of my daughter lying in bed with her teddy bear. My head battles the image, and sirens blare a warning inside of me to put the box back on the shelf, but I won’t. I can’t shelve their memories forever, so I open it again and allow myself to get swept up in the hurricane of pain.
“Daddy? Do you think God is mad at me?” Isabella clutches her teddy bear, while I tuck her into bed.
“Why would he be mad at you, baby?”
“Because He gave me cancer.”
It’s a struggle to hold back the tears, but I do it for her sake, because I don’t want a single shred of doubt to taint my words. “I think he gave you cancer because he knew you were strong enough to beat it. And you did.”
“What if it comes back? What if I don’t beat it next time? Does that mean God hates me?”
“No, sweetheart.”
I don’t tell her its because God hatesme. For all the wrongs I’ve committed. For all the people I’ve hurt. This is my penance, not hers.
Through the distorted view of tears, I set the bear beside the box and reach for a book from beneath.The Little Prince.The bookmark inside carries a quote, perhaps one of my favorites:“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”
Tears slip down my cheeks, my heart so full of anguish, it feels as if might burst through my chest, and I set the book aside for a stack of pictures: Val squeezing Isabella while standing in front of the ocean; the three of us at Disneyland when Bella was only three years old, her little Minnie Mouse ears making me smile, in spite of the blur of new tears. I wipe them with the heel of my palm and flip to the next picture, of Isabella sitting on the kitchen floor with her mother’s favorite tube of lipstick painted all over face and body, as well as her doll’s. A burst of laughter breaks free at the memory, how much Val wanted to be angry with her, but couldn’t stop giggling.
Against the inner wall of the box is the rosary I gave to Isabella in the hospital, springing forth the memory of showing her how to make the sign of the cross and explaining how each bead represented a different prayer. Everyday she spent at the hospital, the two of us prayed Apostles Creed, Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, all the prayers my own mother insisted I learn when I was a kid, back when I found it to be nothing more than a chore, a means to appease a woman whose faith outweighed her own unhappiness. But with my little girl lying sick on a bed, with tubes sticking out of her and an unnatural paleness to her face, suddenly it meant more to me than it ever had before. Even if I never believed in prayer before then, I swore I’d reaffirm my faith if it meant keeping my Bella a little longer. And when the hospital finally discharged her home, Isabella made a point to pray every day after, to keep from having to go back.
It wasn’t until after the funeral that I denounced God, going so far as to try to cut the cross tattoo from my own skin, one night after too much whiskey. I ended up with stitches and round the clock suicide watch for my efforts. Wasn’t long after that, I stumbled into church, screaming profanities at the altar, my vitriol echoing through a mostly empty nave. I expected to be kicked out of the church, or taken into custody by police. Instead, Father Thomas Cannes sat beside me, wordlessly listening as I cursed the heavens, until I finally broke down.
We talked for an hour, maybe longer, in my drunken tirade about God and faith, and in spite of my refusal, he said a prayer for me. Not that I’d one day find my faith again, or to pardon my blasphemy. He prayed that my suffering would end. That I would find some purpose in it and come to know peace again. It took a long time for his words to penetrate the steel that guarded my heart. Even today, I can’t say that my suffering ever truly came to an end, but I did find purpose in it.
I lift Val’s old cellphone out of the box, and something falls from it onto the carpeting. I turn the stiff, white card over to find a name: Richard Rosenberg of Goldman and Rosenberg Law Firm. I don’t recognize the name, or the firm, but as I flip the phone over, it appears the card might’ve been tucked inside the case. On the backside, written in her handwriting, isThe Palms Hotel, room number one thirty-three. Curiosity swirls inside my head, at what reason Val would meet with a lawyer. At a hotel, no less. Bankruptcy? The business wasn’t exactly thriving, but we weren’t on the verge of losing our home, or anything. She knew that better than anyone, having worked as my bookkeeper. That's how we met, after all, was through my father, when he hired her to keep his financial dealings in order, which were far more convoluted than our own.Divorce? She never seemed unhappy. In fact, she spoke frequently about trying for a second baby. Infidelity? Having been cheated on herself, she’d always expressed a sincere hatred for that kind of betrayal.
I plug the phone into a charger, hoping I’ll maybe find something on it that might shed some light on the lawyer. Maybe a phone conversation, or an undeleted message. With the phone charging on the nightstand, I continue rummaging through the box.
There’s a father’s day card, written in crayon, that says “Best Daddy In The Whole Wide Wide World”, and a picture Isabella drew to go with it, of our family and the kitten she asked Santa for that year.
Scratching Philippe again, I smile down at the drawing. “Remember she used to call you her baby brother?”
There’s a picture of all three of us on her last day of chemo, and by the time I reach the bottom of the box, the pain is bearable—there, as it always will be, but not as crushing as I imagined. With as much sadness as these relics bring me, I feel light, too. Lost in the memories of those days. I feel the sun on my face, the happiness in my heart, the gratitude for the small amount of time God gave me with these two amazing creatures.
I shove the box back onto the shelf and slide beneath the covers of my bed. Staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drift to Ivy’s visit earlier in the day, and I cringe at the thought of not offering more help for her situation. At the very least, I could’ve grabbed one of the many pamphlets we have on domestic abuse, though it seems that might’ve been a slap in her face, after all the resources she’s already exhausted. Who is this guy who has so many connections with the authorities? Part of the mafia? A cartel?
Maybe she mentioned his association with them, but I was too caught up in staring at her body, like some kind of predator sizing up its next meal.
