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Yet, I can’t just ignore the brutal murder of a child. I can’t.
Opening my eyes brings an object to view at my feet. A torn piece of paper, upon whichI love you, daddyis written in orange crayon. The scrap blurs behind my tears as I kneel down to pick it up. In seconds, I’m taken back to the night, eight years ago, when I sat at my desk late into the evening, working on a new deal, and reached inside my coat pocket to pull out the note now lying as nothing more than a memory in my hand.
When I punched the wall, it must’ve fallen out of the box I keep on the top shelf, one housing pictures and memories—vestiges filled to the brim of a past I can’t bear to revisit. I reach up to the shelf, my fingers blindly prodding the opened box, and I drop the note inside. I pull the box to the edge, until I can see the hearts and stars drawn on the surface with multiple colored crayons.
Panic punches my chest at the sight of it, and I quickly replace the lid and push it back, out of sight again.
In eight years, I’ve not found the strength to look inside that box.
Nabbing a pair of sweats from one of the lower shelves, I change out of my clerical garb and throw on a black tank, before exiting the closet.
A small desk in the corner holds my laptop, and I flip it open to random notes I have jotted for Sunday homily. Pulling the Internet up, I type ‘Ames murder’ in the search bar, and I find myself staring at the face of a fair-skinned child, with blonde curls and bright blue eyes that seem to sparkle on the screen. Lia Ames. According to the article, she went missing from her L.A. home over a year ago, and her mother, distraught, urged anyone to come forward with information about her daughter, who suffered from pediatric retinoblastoma blindness. On February 18th, 2016, her babysitter reported the two of them were in the back yard of the girl’s suburban home, when she went inside to grab some water for her. Upon her return, Lia was gone. The babysitter reported that the girl’s service dog hadn’t even barked to suggest a stranger in the backyard, which led them to believe the girl might’ve taken off.
With no warning, a heavy body leaps onto my lap. Back stiff, Philippe settles down on my thighs, nudging my arm for a pet. Snorting, I shake my head and stroke my hand over his soft gray fur. “How’s your day been, buddy? Better than mine, I’ll bet.”
The girl on screen catches my eye once more, and I flick my attention back to Philippe, where his golden amber stare takes me back eight years.
Isabella lays tucked into my arm, as I read the last page of her favorite book,The Little Prince. I’ve grown to hate this book, the ending of it taking on new meaning since her diagnosis, but as it’s her favorite, I read every last word. The smooth skin atop her head brushes under my palm, as I mindlessly caress where long chestnut locks, like her mother’s, once hung in loose curls. Stolen in the first weeks of chemotherapy. On her lap, Philippe purrs, enjoying the short-lived attention from her. Unlike before, he doesn’t get to sleep in her bed, not until the chemo is finished, and has taken up sleeping with Val and me at night.
“Daddy?” she asks, as I close the book, setting it on the nightstand beside me. “When I die, will you take care of Philippe?”
Muscles frozen, I frown down at her. “Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re gonna be fine. The chemo is gonna work.”
“Jenna’s brother had Leukemia, and he died.”
“Well, there’s different kinds, and different things affect the outcome, Bella.”
“But he had the same kind. And he was way stronger than me. He could cross the monkey bars in five seconds. It used to take me twelve seconds.” Bottom lip quivering, she looks on the verge of crying. “Mommy says Philippe is an annoying cat, so when I’m gone, who’s going to pet him when you have to work all night?”
“Listen to me, you’re not going anywhere. Philippe is going to get more pets than he can imagine, once your chemo’s over.”
“But if it doesn’t work, will you promise me you’ll take care of Philippe forever? And you’ll pet him for me, whenever he feels sad and lonely?”
“I promise.”
I blink to hold back the tears, as Philippe springs off my lap and saunters back out of the room. Gaze lifted toward the closet, I can just make out the edge of the box shoved toward the back. Part of me wants to grab a bottle of whiskey and drown myself in those memories. To pull out the copy of the book I know is tucked inside, and remember the feeling of having my young daughter lying in my arms as I read it to her.
Another part of me knows from experience how hard it is to resurface after that, so instead, I push up from my desk and head to the rec room.
Over the next hour, I hit the gym equipment, pushing myself harder than usual, until my skin is coated in sweat and my muscles burn with the torment. After a quick shower, I tuck into a bowl of the ham and potato soup our secretary, Mrs. Castle, dropped by earlier in the day. The food helps settle my thoughts, pulling me out of the dark hole that threatens to consume me.
Later, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, having spent the last half hour trying to remember one moment in my life I wasn’t challenged with something that warred with my conscience. As a child, my mother died in a car accident, leaving me to grow up with my aunt on my father’s side, a devout Catholic woman who made every day afterward bearable, who made me feel like I could lead a normal life without my mom, which invariably left me grappling with guilt. As I got older, I faced the challenges of being a criminal’s son in New York, groomed and trained by a man who had no place as my mentor. The same man who taught me how to cheat the system, launder money and amass more enemies than friends.
What happened tonight was another test. Another stab at my conscience that I need to set aside, until the morning when answers might come to light.
In the quiet that follows, my thoughts drift to the woman who threw up in the confessional. How troubled she looked, and how my mind, completely consumed in anger and guilt, could hardly focus on the conversation with her. I’ve always been good at setting aside my stresses for the needs of my parishioners, but tonight was different. I wasn’t in the mindset of judicious confessor, but that of a man wanting to protect and punish.
The vigilant shepherd watching over the flock.
She sensed something was wrong, she could see it in my eyes. I could see something was troubling her, as well, and I wish I could set things right with her.
Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.
4
Ivy
Sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains, warming my face, enticing me to open my eyes, but I don’t. The ache between my thighs is a reminder that I’m not alone, and I can’t bear to see Calvin lying in bed beside me. Instead, I push off the edge of the mattress to my feet, and hobble to the bathroom, a deep throbbing cramp low in my stomach.
