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He’s gone. A murderer walking the streets of Los Angeles. A wolf amidst the flock.
And I let him go.
2
Ivy
Hands sweaty, wringing the fabric of my dress, I wait by the confessional box. Churches have always made me somewhat edgy, except on the few occasions I’ve managed to score an entire pew to myself in the back, butthe boxis something entirely different. Old and ornate, wedged between two beautifully carved white pillars, it reminds me of some medieval torture chamber, small and cramped. Claustrophobic.
Of course, it doesn’t help that it’s been …a whilesince I last confessed, and the shit I have to get off my chest isn’t quite as innocent as the last time I faced off with a priest.
One significantly less attractive than Father Damon, I might add, but I digress.
I’m only here for the sake of my grandmother, who raised me the last twenty-nine years and asked on herbirthday, of all horribly manipulative things, that I confess my sins. Guess that’s all part of her making sure all her shit is in a row before meeting the big man upstairs. Woman isn’t even dead, yet, so I’m not so sure what the hurry is.
Not that she was allthatreligious to begin. She did, after all, run a sort of halfway house for displaced prostitutes when I was growing up, which is how she met my mom, who came to her at seventeen years old. From what I gather, her son, my father, spent more time at home than on the ball field, growing up. As a result, ended up balls-deepin one of her strays, and because I was technically my mom’s fourth pregnancy, counting two miscarriages and a previous abortion, she opted to name me Ivy.IV. Four. Cheesy, I know, but that doesn’t even begin to describe how messed up my life has been ever since.
Which is why my heart feels like a troop of chimpanzees are swing dancing inside my ribcage.
My grandmother’s sense of urgency has little to do with my soul, and more to do with her own conscience, as she happens to be the only one privy to my darkest and most troubling secret. One that has pretty much destroyed my life and could land me in prison, if anyone else ever finds out. One I’m not entirely certain I can entrust to a man like Father Damon.
The gravity of it is more than I can take, though, pressing down on me every day. My grandmother says, it’s an evil I need to set free, or it’ll crush me from the inside out, because everyday I feel like a traitor for having gotten away with it. I feel like I don’t deserve my freedom, even if I’ve technically not been free since the night it happened.
The church door swings open, and what has to be the most handsome priest in Los Angeles swoops in like a dark storm cloud. Over his black clerical shirt and slacks, the stole dances around him. Even in the thick of summer, he wears a long-sleeved shirt that stretches tight over his massive arms, but he’s rolled them up to his elbows, exposing the impressive vascular map in his forearms. With dark eyes and a brooding expression, he doesn’t look like a priest. He looks like every other sinner in the city of angels.
“I’m sorry,” he says, striding up to me, hand rubbing his chin. Another glance back at the door tells me he’s preoccupied with something, but I’ve been coming to the church a few times over the last month since Mamie’s condition has worsened to know that troubled look on his face is a permanent mask he wears. A few parishioners even call him Father Heathcliff—affectionately, of course, as they all seem to adore the man, in spite of his ascetic broodiness.
“Do you chase down all your penitents after confession, or …”
After another quick glance back to the door, his gaze falls on me like a thunderstorm. Good looks aside, his appearance is unnerving, imposing, like he’ll force the Lord into you one way, or another, and tell you to swallow it. The stern angle of his brows add a natural glower to deep penetrating brown eyes—the kind that don’t exactly screamcomfortandreassurance. “I didn’t mean to run into you.” He ignores my earlier comment, which is okay, but he certainly hasn’t put me at ease about stepping inside that box with him. “Let’s get on with this.”
It’s not the apathy in his tone that initially keeps me from stepping inside the confessional, but something I sense is troubling him. When he disappears behind the door, I stare after him a moment, mentally straightening the mess of words jumbled inside my head.
Once inside, I kneel before the screen, the silhouette of him no less intimidating than when I could actually see his face moments before. After a few seconds of quiet reflection, I give the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
In the pause that follows, I clamp my eyes, breathing through my nose to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” His voice is deeper in here, or maybe that’s just my ears popping with all the stress, while the walls feel like they’re closing me in.
“Too long.” Everything inside my head is spinning, and I squint harder in an effort to slow it down. When I open my eyes again, I can just make out his shadowed form on the other side, bent over his knees and cradling his head, and suddenly all the noise slamming against my skull turns silent. “Is everything all right, Father?”
“Yes.” His obscure form straightens, voice guarded when he says, “Proceed.”
Proceed.It sounds like something a judge would say, and when the visual of sitting before a roomful of people studying my every word, my every expression with their accusing eyes, forms inside my head, a cold hollow tickles my chest. The nausea drives up my throat, and before I can stop myself, fluids burst free on a torrent, splashing against the kneeler below me. I reach out to steady myself, and accidentally push the confessional door open, letting in enough light to see small chunks of peppers and lettuce from my salad decorating the wood in an array of disgusting colors. Oh, shit.
First thing that pops in my head? I don’t think I have enough napkins in my purse to clean this.
Second thing? I don’t know what the second thing is, because I’m too busy rummaging for napkins, rifling through all the crap I never use.
“Are you okay?” Father Damon’s voice is a distant echo, like the warning of something I’ll have to face as soon as my brain loses the shock and catches up with the mortifying scenario playing out.
“I can’t … find … I don’t have napkins. God dammit!” I slap the back of my palm over my mouth and cringe at the God reference. “I’m so …. I’m sorry, Father.” I’m done. Not only did I desecrate the confessional with the shitty salad I had earlier, but I also just cursed in front of a priest. Nabbing my purse , I stand up from the kneeler, stumbling backward, as if the anxiety inside my head has rendered me drunk, and make my way out of the booth, where he’s already standing. “I’m sorry, I’m …. I just .... I’ll clean it up.”
“No, no. We’ll take care of it.”
“Seriously, if you have some paper towels and some … cleaner, I’ll do it.” The words spill from my mouth as if programmed, and I can’t even look him in the eye. Instead, I glance back at the mess oozing onto the floor, taunting my gag reflex again.
“It’s okay. It’s happened before.”
