Nice Girls(5)

3




The parking lot at St. Rita’s Catholic Church was empty. Sunday services were over for the day. After I shut off the engine, I stayed put, staring at the brick building. At night, it looked like a hulking beast in the dark.

I entered the church through a side entrance. The front office was vacant. I found myself hovering near an old computer.

Mom used to always hang around St. Rita’s. She’d often volunteered for the parish. She helped care for the flower gardens and supervised the food and clothing drives, often taking me with her.

There was a revolving roster of elderly women who manned the front desk, and they adored Mom.

“Your hat is lovely,” one of them told her. “I love the yellow knit. It looks good on you.”

“I made it myself,” she said cheerfully.

It was the same routine. The women always complimented Mom on her hats—everything from the baseball caps to the turbans to the head wraps. They would mention everything except her hair loss. I just stood in the background as the adults gawked at me.

“Mary’s a real healthy girl,” said one to my mother. “She’s got a big appetite, doesn’t she?”

“Big fan of the hot dish, this one,” said another.

They laughed.

“Don’t worry, Mary,” said the first woman. She winked at me, as if we were sharing a secret. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts. You’re very nice, just like your mother.”

Mom was beaming, but I only felt embarrassed.

The door opened and startled me out of my thoughts. A priest hobbled in, leaning on a dark wooden cane. He wore a long black cassock, his face mottled and weather-beaten. He carried a cardboard box under one arm. I didn’t recognize him.

“Uff da,” he muttered as he set down the box. He turned to me. “Can I help you?”

“I—I wanted to do a quick confession.”

The priest pulled out his watch, squinting at it.

“I probably should’ve set up an appointment—” I started. He waved the thought off.

“If you give me a few minutes to prepare, I can meet you in the confession room closest to the baptistery. Is that all right?”

I nodded, strangely relieved, and headed inside.



The confession room was white and sterile. A lamp glowed in one corner. There was a tissue box and a prayer book on the table beside me, but I kept my hands clasped together on the pew. A white curtain separated me from the priest. I could see his shadow as he struggled to lower himself onto his knees.

We performed the sign of the cross.

“You’ve had the sacrament of reconciliation before?” he asked.

“Yes, Father.”

“And how long has it been since your last confession?”

“A couple of years, I think?”

Over a decade, to be precise. The last confession I could remember had been fourteen years earlier. I was eight. It was my very first confession. I’d rattled off my sins face-to-face to a young priest. I told him about how I’d yelled at Mom and Dad for always bringing me to the hospital with them when I wanted to stay home; how Mom and I had argued when she told me I’d have to miss Olivia’s birthday party; how I sometimes wished I’d had different parents.

After the prayers were said, the priest had assigned me five Hail Marys to pray as penance. And I prayed those Hail Marys eagerly—it was quick, painless. I felt like I’d been scrubbed clean from the inside out.

I wanted that magic again. My soul dusted and cleaned.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.

“You’re welcome to recount your sins whenever you’re ready,” said the priest.

My mind had been whirling and suddenly I had nothing. I closed my eyes, lowered my forehead over my clasped hands. I saw only darkness.

So much had accumulated over the years. So many sins. Was I supposed to list them all, or only the most recent ones?

“I guess I haven’t been the best daughter,” I said lamely. During college, I hadn’t come home to celebrate Easter or Christmas with Dad. I’d stayed at school or spent the holidays with friends. It was better than sitting in front of the TV with him.

When Mom died, he didn’t offer much consolation. At the hospice, we spent an hour waiting for the undertaker to arrive. Mom had passed away in her sleep.

Her corpse scared me. Her skin had yellowed, and it barely seemed to cover her bones. Her cheeks were hollow, as if the air had been sucked out of them. She was tiny.

Dad and I stood next to her, unmoving.

At eight years old, I was too shocked to cry. It seemed like somebody else had died in my mother’s bed.

Still, Dad held the corpse’s hand. I dared myself to touch her wrist with my thumb. She was cold.

“Bye, Mom,” I murmured. That was all I could say.

“She’s in heaven, I think,” Dad said.

But I could hear the doubt in his voice. He had no idea if it was true. He didn’t know where her soul had gone after death. My father, the man who could fix anything and everything, had doubts.

It seemed like a betrayal. An adult was supposed to know things. They were supposed to reassure their kids. But when Mom died, Dad was at a loss, like me.

Later, we scattered half of Mom’s ashes in the backyard. We gave the other half to my grandparents.