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His skin is pale, almost translucent under the dim flickering candlelight, and his hair, normally so carefully styled, falls in disarray around his forehead, betraying his turmoil.
His lips part to speak, then close automatically, as if to swallow the unspoken words. Holding his breath for a little while, he finally lets go and breathes out slowly, visibly struggling to contain whatever storm brews within him.
"Sorry," he mutters, more to himself than to me, before turning to leave. His retreat is a quiet one, footsteps soft against the stone floor, but the echo pounds in my ears like rolling thunder.
As the doors to the church close behind him, Father O’Malley turns to me and says,
"God does not give us trials we cannot endure," his voice calm, a stark contrast to the tempest inside me. "Find strength in your faith. Your mother would want that."
Flopping back down on the pew, I let Father O’Malley’s words wrap around me, a blanket meant to soothe, but it's hard to believe them, hard to accept solace when every part of me screams in protest.
I nod because what else is there to do? The water is cool against my lips, a small mercy in this moment of despair. Silence fills the space around me, expanding between the wooden pews like a tangible thing. Father O'Malley lays a soothing hand on my shoulder, the light pressure grounding and kind.
"Tony," he begins, his voice a gentle tide washing over the jagged edges of my despair. "Remember, 'Blessed are those who weep, for they will be comforted.'"
I look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His gaze holds mine, steady and patient.
"Your pain is great," he continues, his thumb tracing the sign of the cross dangling on his torso, a ritual that would normally bring solace to me but isn’t today.
"Let us pray together." He guides my hands to clasp before me, our heads bowing in unison. "Lord, we ask you to be with your daughter in this hour of need . . . "
As he prays, I try to follow, to let the words carve a path through the darkness, but each syllable feels heavy, sinking before it can lift my spirit. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, willing myself to believe, but I feel the very emotions I felt at Lady Viola’s.
"Grant her the serenity to accept the things she cannot change," Father O'Malley's voice is a beacon, but the fog in my soul is thick.
"Courage," I whisper, latching onto the prayer like a lifeline. It's all I have left, this courage to endure, to exist amidst the shards of my shattered world.
"Tony, your faith will hold you," Father O'Malley assures me as he finishes his prayer, and I wonder if faith is enough to mend a heart so badly broken.
"Faith," I repeat the word, a soft exhale of surrender. My hands fall to my lap, fingers entwined tightly, holding onto the last vestiges of a belief tested beyond measure.
"May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your heart and your mind in Christ Jesus," he finishes, and the solemnity of his words wraps around me like a shawl.
"Amen," I manage, my voice barely audible. His presence is comforting, even if the answers I seek seem as distant as the stars of the cosmos.
"Take all the time you need," Father O'Malley says, giving my shoulder a final squeeze before standing. "The church is your refuge. You are home here."
I nod, watching as he moves away, his form retreating to give me privacy. Left alone in the quiet sanctuary, I draw a deep breath, the stillness punctuated by the soft drip of a candle in the background.
"Dear God," I murmur into the silence, "I come to you as a sinner. Hear my prayer."
Chapter eighteen
A GIFT OF LOVE FROM THE DEVIL HIMSELF.
TONY
The room is dim, laced with shadows that cling to the corners, as if even the light can't bear to witness Mom's suffering. The only sounds are the soft wheeze of her labored breaths and the occasional rustle of cotton sheets as I ease them away from her frail body.
"Easy now," I murmur, my fingers gentle as they trace the outline of her collarbone, seeking out any new wounds on her paper-thin skin. Amber stands close by, a silent sentinel ready to assist, but it's my hands that work with practiced care, lifting Mom into a clean nightgown.
"Tony . . . " Her voice is a thready whisper, each syllable steeped in pain, and I catch her hand in mine, squeezing a lie into her palm.
"Everything's going to be okay, Mom."
A whimper escapes her as we shift her to rest more comfortably, her body writhing with silent protests. My chesttightens, a silent echo of her agony. I reach for the pre-filled syringe of hydromorphone, doctor-approved for the kind of deep-seated pain that burrows into bones and souls alike.
"Here, this will help," I say, injecting the medication with steady hands into the port that has become an integral part of her. It takes only moments for the drug to seep into her bloodstream, for her features to smooth out ever so slightly. I hold onto the hope that it's the relief she's feeling and not just the numbness of encroaching oblivion.
