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“What do you mean?”
“LaRonda said you passed out fliers and helped put the word out.”
“Of course.”
“Its stands to reason, you should be the one to bless the apartment.”
“Of course.” All that comes to mind is the little girl identifying me as the man who killed her captor, and the look on Bishop McDonnell’s face, just before I’m defrocked and the police drag me off.
“Is everything all right, Damon?”
“Yes, of course.”
I blink out of my musings, his question snapping me back to the present. “I, um … I’ll take care of it.”
From his pocket, he draws out the address on scrap paper and hands it to me. “She’s expecting you sometime today.”
The sobering thought of seeing the little girl again, and having to face the memory of her being held in that cage, is enough to quell the urges of this morning. I take a quick lunch, and as I drive to the apartment where I dropped her off only a week ago, cold spikes of nervous energy hammer through my blood.
I nab the book of scriptures beside me, along with holy water, and make my way up the stairs.
LaRonda and another woman that I recognize from the news report as the girl’s mother, greet me at the door, but Camila is nowhere in sight.
“Father Damon, this is Luisa, Camila’s mama.” LaRonda sets a hand on the short, pudgy woman standing beside her, whose eyes carry shadows behind the kind smile she offers.
“Thank you for coming, Father.” Like most who aren’t entirely familiar with the church, she keeps her hands clasped in front, back stiff, as if she’s unsure how to behave in front of a priest.
Out of respect, I try not to be too touchy-feely, not that I am by nature, anyway, but keeping my hands at my side works for me. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
Closing the door behind me, Luisa guides me to the couch, where all three of us sit around a coffee table that holds pictures of a man drawn in crayon, with angry red eyes, holding some kind of stick in his hand. “Since the night she came home, Camila just … hasn’t been the same. She doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t sleep. She wakes up from nightmares.” A hiccup of a sob interrupts Luisa, as she wipes away tears, and LaRonda wraps her in a hug. “There’s this … man. He looks like some kind of demon. She calls him the Bad Man. She says he kept her in a cage, and he did bad things to her. Things she won’t tell me, or the doctor. She says an angel saved her. An angel in all black.” Luisa’s body shakes against LaRonda’s, as she sobs into the other woman’s shoulder. “I just want the nightmares to go away and my daughter to feel safe again.”
The weight of guilt damn near crushes me as I sit across from the woman, wishing I could tell her everything. That I strangled the demon. That I dragged him across church grounds and stuffed him inside a hole, never to be seen again. Instead, I give a slight nod and say, “Let’s start at the entrance of your home.”
Giving the sign of the cross, I push off the couch and watch as LaRonda nudges her friend to stand, as well. Luisa awkwardly follows mine and LaRonda’s motions, seeming both nervous and, perhaps, a small bit hopeful. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” LaRonda says, hands clasped in Luisa’s.
I hold the book of prayers along with the holy water, and bow my head. “Peace be to this house and all who dwell here in the name of the Lord.”
“Blessed be God forever.” Again, LaRonda intones for both of them.
After sprinkling them with holy water, I cross the room, coming to a stop in front of the front door, and say a quick prayer, then dab the holy water onto my finger and draw the sign of the cross on its wooden panel. From there, I make my way to each room and sprinkle the holy water with a blessing, aspersing it everywhere, until I reach a smaller room with pink walls adorned with paintings of princesses and castles, which I assume belongs to Camila.
Once inside, I find more pictures lying on the floor, drawn in remarkable detail, of a girl in a cage and a man jabbing a pole into it. Presumably the one he used on her. Another shows her tied to a leash, as the man walks her around like a dog. A third shows another man, dressed in all black, holding a rope. Still another depicts the man in black holding his arm out, with the other man dangling from a rope, the droop of his head indicating he’s dead. Suddenly, I’m relieved I opted to leave my collar in the car that night, or I’d be staring down at the evidence for a murder trial. In the final picture, the man in black is hugging the little girl.
“This is her angel.”
I glance back to find Camila’s mom standing behind me, and in the corner of the room, Camila stands fidgeting, the occasional crack of a smile telling me she’s happy to see me. She darts across the room and wraps her arms around me, while her mother watches with tears in her eyes and a look of confusion on her face. Confusion I wish I could erase, to make sense out of why her daughter seems so content with me.
“She’s … happy to have you bless our home,” Luisa offers, as though she needs to explain this affection.
From my pocket, I pull out a bottle of Holy Water and kneel down before Camila. “To help with the bad dreams. Let me show you.” I dab the water onto her finger and show her how to make the sign of the cross, and I say a prayer specifically for her. Hand stroking down her hair, I’m taken back to the times when I sat beside Bella, on nights after she woke from nightmares. How much small gestures of comfort and safety, of reassurance that there were no monsters, meant to her. “Do this each night before you sleep.” I cup her jaw, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “All things will be made new.”
The smile she offers doesn’t meet her eyes. It’s tired and lackluster, but genuine. It’ll be a long while before she’ll truly smile again, I suspect. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asks, and at my nod, she sets a hand on my shoulder, lips to my ear. “I haven’t told anyone you’re my angel.”
Her comment brings a smile to my face, and I take her small hand in mine. “You’ve nothing to worry about anymore, Camila. The bad man can no longer hurt you. This house is protected.” With a wink, I plant a kiss to the back of her hand and she gives me one more hug, before I push to my feet.
At the front door, her mother glances back toward Camila’s room. “I’m not the religious type, you know. I wasn’t born into the church. I mean, I believe in God, but … I don’t know. I somehow feel comforted having you here. It’s … strange.” Rubbing her hands together, she cracks a smile through her frown. “I can see Camila feels the same. It’s not like her to be so … comfortable around others. Yet, she seemed … very happy to see you. Thank you for doing this, Father Damon. It means a lot to us.”
