“Thank you for breakfast. And uh, lunch. For the next few days.” Great. I was babbling like a fool and Sister Bernadette was smirking.
“I hope to see you soon, Alexis.”
Her smile was so disarming, it made me sweat. She looked as if she saw girl-me. As if girl-me wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t a pretty girl, but I could fool people sometimes with the makeup, the decent hair, the tight jeans, the heels.
My palms started to sweat. Being visible, like boy-me, was bad. It wasn’t safe. Even if so far the only person who’d noticed me was a nun.
I turned and hustled back to the rectory. I had to think of something else, anything else. The food really did smell fantastic, and by now I was starving. My stomach growled, aching hard, but I made myself wait just a bit longer. I poured makeup remover over a washcloth and aggressively scrubbed at my face. I got everything off except a little smear of black eyeliner, almost like it was intentional. It’d have to do—for now.
Stop thinking about the nun.
You’re so going to hell for this one.
Slut.
Cheater.
Whore.
Ugly girl.
Ugly girl.
Ugly girl.
I almost smiled. Of course the voice would be back to berate me.
But as I brought the box to my room and sat on the bed with it, the voice didn’t make another sound. Like it wanted me to do the right thing. Everything was blissfully quiet except for me munching on a pastry—and soon, murmurs I could recognize by tone as my still-unseen uncle’s voice. Strange that he wasn’t helping with the bake sale, hadn’t poked his head out to say hello . . .
I grabbed my notebook and pen, nestled in bed, and started listening to the next confession.
5 Alexis
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Help me, Father, for I have sinned.
Save me, Father, for all of my sins.
The precise words may have varied, but the penitence of each churchgoer was consistent. Many were tearful, and pretty much everyone sounded full of remorse. No one seemed bored, or like they were there only because they had to come. There was something oddly comforting about that, something kind of touching about how sincere these confessions were.
And yet the sins themselves generally turned out to be low-stakes and mundane. Profanity. An inappropriate look. Lost tempers. Just ordinary slip-ups. Listening to them for hours was exhausting. It was depressing hearing how broken up people were about transgressions that weren’t remotely important. Carrying guilt and shame for literally nothing.
“I caused bodily harm to someone,” a woman in the confessional below said. There was more than just remorse in her tone, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I was so drained, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“Who and why? How so?” my uncle asked in alarm.
“My brother.”
I sat upright on my bed, poised with my pen and notebook. This was serious.
“What happened?”
“He’s hard to manage,” the woman said. “He gets violent tantrums. My whole family is bruised from head to toe.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“We can’t. He’s nonverbal. We’ve tried things. Sign language. Classes. But—earlier today, he lost it. I don’t know what I did, if I did anything, if it was sensory overload. I don’t know. He went ballistic and started destroying the house. Then he came at me. So I took a broom and hit him.”
I sucked in a breath.
“I hit him. Just once, but it’s inexcusable,” she said softly, like if she raised her voice she wouldn’t get all the words out. “I’m at the end of my rope, Father. Help me. Please.”
“I don’t know if I can,” my uncle said, unable to hide the revulsion in his voice. The woman began to cry. My fists tightened. What the hell was my uncle doing? “This is a serious offense. Criminal.”
“I know it’s serious. That’s why I’m here. I’m begging you for help.”
“You caused harm to a vulnerable person in your care and you’re asking for forgiveness? I’ve only seen you at Mass a few times this year.”
“I’m not asking forgiveness. I don’t deserve it,” the woman sobbed. “I’m asking for help for him.”
“You need to get a grip,” my uncle said.
She needs help, not a grip!
A long pause. Something seemed to change in the air. Like he’d counted to ten to calm himself down. “Please. Deep breaths.”
After another brief pause, he continued, “Pray more. Come to Mass every day. Show God you’re remorseful for hurting him.”
No way. Was he really using her suffering to promote church attendance?
By now, the woman was sobbing. “How can I come to Mass more often? I have no one to watch my brother.”
“Your parents?”
“They’re in California.”
“Husband?”
“Are you serious? He’s the mayor and he has to keep the bodega running—how is he going to have enough time to do it?”
I did an internet search on my phone. Max Mackell was the mayor. A few more swipes with my finger brought up his wife, Elizabeth. She was older than she sounded at seventy. Despite Googling, I couldn’t find the name of her brother.
This couldn’t just be a dead end. There was an old woman who was out of her depth caring for her brother. Hitting anyone was wrong, under pretty much any circumstances, and yet, I couldn’t help but sympathize with this woman. Maybe it was because she didn’t ask for forgiveness. She came to my uncle for help, and his response was to reprimand her for not going to church more often.
I sat on the bed, absolutely stumped, well past my uncle leading her through a series of Hail Marys. Doing nothing wasn’t the answer, but I didn’t know what I could do. Except . . .
You do know what you could do, the voice said.
My chest began to pound as I pulled up the website for the local police station.
What if I was making the biggest mistake of my life? This woman was asking for help, not a citation.
But if she’d hit her brother once, it was fair to worry that she’d hit him again, especially if she felt this desperate. And even if I didn’t want to make things worse for her, I knew I needed to do something to get it to stop.
I clicked on their anonymous tip page and started typing.
It’s come to my attention that a man with a severe cognitive disability is currently in danger at the residence of Elizabeth and Max Mackell.
I paused and read over the note, flinching hard. Noooooope. This wasn’t right. This made them out to be monsters. And I wasn’t even sure I was using the correct term to describe Elizabeth’s brother. My fingers tapped away at my computer, deleting what I had written to start over:
I need help for Elizabeth Mackell’s brother. He’s nonverbal and has gotten violent with Elizabeth and Max. Recently, in self-defense, one of them hit the man in question. Please help them. They’re good people who are in over their heads. Without help from the government or a nonprofit or someone, everyone in that home could be at risk.
I reread it a few times, biting my lip hard as I went over each word. Although it was an anonymous tip, I added a name at the bottom: Raziel. A little afterthought, tagging myself to show I was serious. And it seemed appropriate. Raziel was meant to be the archangel of secrets, with six wings and thousands of eyes. Watching people, or watching God? I wondered.