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It’s a good speech. I wonder what she’d say if I told her how I called him Daddy while he held a vibrator to my clit nearly in the prayer room, if she knew he almost fucked me in the boathouse then again as I held onto the altar as he told me to call him Daddy when he made me come.
“Where is he now?” I can’t help myself. I’m drowning.
“Taking confession from his parishioners, he never misses Monday morning confession. People count on him to be calm, constant in their lives. He’ll be there for the next hour at least. Have you been to confession before? Might serve you well.”
She raises one eyebrow, points to the bucket of cleaning supplies in the bathroom, then turns and leaves and I flop down on my pillow, spread eagle with a dramatic sigh.
Confession. Perhaps Father Martin should confess a few things himself.
I should stay away. I should. For all her faults, Sister Nathalia is right, Father Martin is a good man, and I am…well, me. Clearly not on the high road. Even here at Saint Margarets. I’m destroying a good man.
I should stay away.
I stare at the smooth plaster ceiling feeling Jesus’s eyes on me from the little framed print on the wall.
“Stop.” I tell him. “All sins are forgiven right? I mean, that’s the deal.” I say to the stoic Mona Lisa looking Jesus then huff and kick my heels into the mattress.
Rational thought has left the station I’m afraid. Love does crazy things to a person and before I can talk myself down, I’m in and out of the shower, mussing my wet hair, teeth brushed with a swipe of cherry lips balm on my lips.
I’m out of my room fast walking down the hall to the back stairway hoping to avoid a chance encounter with Nathalia who will certain side eye my barely there black mini skirt and a too tight Legend of Zelda t-shirt.
It’s an odd pairing, but I’m getting low on matching outfits and down to zero on clean panties but, I took that as a sign.
I know where the confessional box is, or whatever it’s called, and my skin tingles and the cool air of the hallway brushes on myheated bare lady bits as I move silently through the hallways that wind around to the chapel.
AS I approach, a stooped over women with curled and teased white hair and a lavender wool coat exits the box, making the sign of the cross and muttering something over her shoulder toward the open door of the confessional before meeting my eyes.
I’m not sure what I expect, but she smiles, and I smile back. I have no idea what to do.
Is he in there? On the other side? Do I wait to be called like in the doctor’s office?
Miss Tennant? The doctor will see you now…
I remember the little Latin inscription on the front door of the dormitory that I translated with an ancient Latin to English textbook I found in the library.
Per has iportas salus exspectat.
Through these doors, salvation awaits.
I head into the box and sit.
I’m not even Catholic. At least, I don’t think so. I’m not really sure if I have any religion, or any faith. But here I am. And I have no idea what I’m about to say.
“Bless you, my child.” Father Martin’s voice is unmistakable through the grating and my heart takes flight as wiggle my bare butt on the wooden seat.
Does he say that to all the parishioners? My child? He must be less than half their age.
“Um, hi,” I say.
A pause. That’s not the right thing to say, but I’m not sure what is.
“Kitty?”
“Hi,” I say again. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ll go.” The air is charged even with the wall between us. There’s a screen sort of deal with a filigree wooden carving that blocks his face.
“No, stay. You came here for a reason. God won’t turn you away and neither will I.”
“That’s the thing, I’m not sure I believe in God though. I shouldn’t be wasting your time.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about confession or something else.
