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"Father, it's important," the voice insists, and I wonder why it sounds so familiar.
"Everything always seems important to the person seeking help," Father O'Malley responds with a kindness that doesn't quite mask his insistence. "But I have no opening right now."
I sigh and rise from my kneeling position, the joints in my legs protesting from the prolonged stillness. With my hands steadying me against the bench and my heart thudding with a rhythm that feels too loud in this sanctuary of silence, I walk to the entrance, willing to share my God as I know He would want me to.
"Father," I call out, my voice firmer than I feel. "It's okay. They can come in."
As I approach, my gaze is fixed on the blurred outline of the two figures by the door, and a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness assaults me. I press a hand to the cool stone column holding the Holy water chalice that people use to bless themselves when they enter and leave the church, willing myself to stay upright."
"Tony," Father O'Malley calls out, concern clouding his voice, as I go down. I am now crumbled down on the floor, and I seehim—Liam—standing there over me, a figure carved from hell.His presence is a jolt to my system, a live wire sparking with energy I can't contain.
"Li-Liam?" My voice betrays me, quivering like leaves in a storm.
"Tony," he replies, in a voice that is laced with surprise and something else I can't decipher.
The world tilts precariously, and I grip my belly, trying to keep from barfing. Liam steps forward instinctively, but I hold up a hand.
"Stop," I manage to say, even as the ceiling threatens to come down to meet me. "Just . . . stop."
I close my eyes, focusing on the rhythm of my own breathing, grounding myself at the moment, fighting the vertigo that threatens to pull me into its own vortex.
Chapter seventeen
WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS.
TONY
Father O’Malley picks me up from the floor, and my knees buckle, threatening to land me right back down. He stiffens his body, using it as an anchor, and I finally find my balance in those strong hands that grip my arms firmly but gingerly, hoisting me onto a pew, the wood of the pew hard against my back, grounding in its solidity.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, his brow furrowed with concern as he rushes away, his cassock flapping behind him like a blackbird taking flight. He disappears into the back rooms, his footsteps fading, leaving me with nothing but the scent of incense and Liam.
"Tony," Liam's voice interrupts the silence, but I don't look at him. I can't. Anger simmers in my chest, bubbling up with each ragged breath.
"Are you okay?"
I don’t bother answering him. I'm mad. No, mad is too soft a word—I'm furious. Furious that my search for peace has been interrupted byhim, of all people.
"Why, Lord," I cry out, my voice echoing off the high ceilings, "Punish me . . . Take me. I'm the sinner, Father, take me."
My mother's image, saintly and kind, flashes before me, and the injustice claws at my chest. "My mother has been nothing but a good servant to You. Take me," I plead, my words dissolving into wails that fill the church. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
Liam shifts uncomfortably, his presence an unwanted reminder of everything I'm trying to escape. When Father O'Malley returns, glass in hand, my tears have not ceased; they won't be quenched by water or words.
"Liam," Father O'Malley's voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the storm within me, "you can see what I was saying. Show compassion, son. Tony needs to pray a lot more than you do. Give her this space."
Liam hesitates, then steps closer, his face etched with concern. "I am very sorry for whatever you are going through. If there is anything I can do to help . . . "
"Cancer is taking my mom. Can you give me back my father?" It slips out, a dagger thrown in the dark, and it finds its mark, judging by the pained look in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, and the visible struggle in his demeanor.
“Everywhere I turn, you are there. How can you not see how painful that must be to me? My mother is dying. Every moment I spend hating you is a moment you are robbing me of time I could spend with her. You have taken so much from me. How much more would be enough? Name your price, and I will give it to you, Liam.. . .. Anything.”
The words spill out, bitter and sharp, and they hang between us, an impossible request that carves endless open spaces.
Liam steps back, the lines of his face tightening. I finally get up to leave, catching full sight of the stress etched into his features.
His eyes, usually bright, are dimmed, clouded with something akin to pain, yet I can’t think for the life of me what could possibly pain a soulless man.What keeps him up at night? What brought him here today? Is he even Catholic?
There's a tremble in the slope of his nose, a slight flaring of nostrils as he takes in a deep breath as if trying to steady himself.
