My chest ached. I half-hiccupped, tears springing from my eyes. “He said he’s molesting one of the altar boys. It was—it’s Michael.”
Sister Bernadette’s eyes widened. “Which priest?”
“I don’t know,” I said, even as a chill went through me. She didn’t say what like she was in disbelief. She specifically asked who. “I didn’t recognize his voice. And I couldn’t get to the door in time to see who it was.”
Her face softened. For a second, I thought she might cry. “I’m sorry. That’s . . .” She shook her head. “I’m stunned. I’ve seen a lot of stuff. I’ve heard a lot of stuff. But this . . . abuse of power from a position of authority over a minor at our church . . .” Tears slid down her cheeks. She seemed devastated, and yet, at the same time, she didn’t really seem surprised. “So you haven’t talked to your uncle about this?”
“No way. I mean, he absolved this dude. Pretty much let him off the hook with the whole ‘don’t do it again’ routine. He actually said please. I didn’t know what to do so I came to you.”
“I don’t know what I can do,” she said honestly.
My heart sank. “Someone’s in danger. We have to do something.”
“I’m not saying this should go unpunished. It has to be stopped at all costs. I just literally don’t know what I can do.”
I didn’t understand. “Can’t you go to the police?”
Sister Bernadette’s lips pursed. I didn’t know whether that meant she couldn’t or wouldn’t or what.
“If only we could find out who the priest was, it’d be easier,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” said Sister Bernadette.
“What do you mean?”
“Canon law. Vows. Priests often absolve each other of sin. It’s not so uncommon—”
“That’s illegal.”
“We believe in forgiveness.”
“For pedophiles?”
I could see the tension running along her jaw as she clenched it. “Look. There’s a small percentage of bad people in the world. Some are Catholic. Do the math.”
“Okay, fine. The math is telling me that there’s at least one sexual predator at Saint Martha’s, and thanks to canon law he’s getting away with it.”
Sister Bernadette continued to tap her fingers on the steering wheel. She then reached over to grab a plain black handbag from the glove box. I repressed my surprise that she even had a purse. She fished through it and pulled out her phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked, chest tight. “You’re not calling my uncle, are you?”
“Shh,” she said, gesturing at me to keep quiet. Through the speaker, I could barely hear a muffled “Hello?”
Sister Bernadette suddenly recited:
“We believe in one holy Catholic and Apostolic church.
We affirm one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
We look forward to the resurrection of the dead,
And to life in the world to come. Amen.”
The reply was muffled against Sister Bernadette’s ear. Quietly, she said, “Alexis.” I craned my head. “She knows about Michael.” She continued to listen as I strained to hear what was being said, though soon she nodded. “Always.”
She hung up the phone and pulled the car on the road.
“What was that?” I asked.
“The Nicene Creed,” she said, turning down a side road. “Sometimes it’s too dangerous to talk.”
“So it was code?” She didn’t say a word, neither confirming or denying it. I struggled to remember how to breathe. There was only one reason for a code to be created to signal an abuse of power.
This had happened before.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked quietly.
“Probably best that you don’t know.”
“But Michael?” I pressed.
“It’ll be taken care of.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I reached to rest my hand over hers on the clutch. She turned her palm up, fingers linking with mine. Although she didn’t look at me, she smiled. The stress washed off my body. “I love you,” I told her.
Her smile never faltered. A rosy tint came to her cheeks, or maybe that was just in my head, as she looked away from me and said, “I know.”
21 Aleks
You know that feeling of dread you can’t shake? Like when something’s just not right and you don’t know what it is or what it could be and you start wondering and your day’s just off because of it? Sometimes it turns out to be nothing and you realize at the end of the day that you’re unsatisfied without a resolution but how can there be a resolution when there’s no known problem? And when it gets in your head and stays in there and oh my God, what’s happening? Shut up, shut up, shut up. No, don’t shut up. If the voice goes away, then there’d be no one.
How messed up is that? Was I so addicted to misery that I couldn’t let something go right?
Yesterday was a win. Sister Bernadette had made that phone call and promised the sexual abuse at Saint Martha’s would be taken care of. Michael would be safe. My conscience was clear.
Well, almost. I owed Deacon Jameson an apology. Or some other subtle way of making amends, because he didn’t even know I’d suspected him. I could get him some kind of gift, maybe get him a really cool Super Soaker, or see if there was some Gregorian chant album that he didn’t own. I’d ask Sister Bernadette what else he liked.
Thinking of her made me smile. Didn’t he call her Bernie? Was I allowed to call her that, too, now that I’d told her I loved her and her response wasn’t to push me away but say, “I know?” Was I allowed to think of her as Bernie when she linked her fingers with mine so intimately? The slight sheen on her lips—had that been lip gloss? Had it been it for me? Was she hoping I’d kiss her the way I wanted to kiss her? How old was she anyway? She looked my age, but she seemed more mature. Probably a little older. If she was nineteen did that mean I had to wait a few more months before I could crush on her? Or twenty? Or twenty-three, like Deacon Jameson, at which point the age gap might just be gross?
Thoughts of gross age gaps took me back down a dark path.
I should have gotten up feeling light, feeling relieved. But this whole thing still didn’t feel right.
I kept biting my lip, stomach turning from nerves. My anxieties shot out in all directions. I thought about Dad in Kuwait. Was he safe? I grabbed my phone and dialed Mom. She answered on the third ring.
“Hey, kid. Long time no talk.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.” I wasn’t sure why I held back from telling her about Michael. Maybe because I didn’t know who the abuser was, or because Sister Bernadette said it’d be taken care of. I trusted her and the weird phone call she made. No need to get Mom riled up over something that was already being resolved.
“Have you heard from Dad since he got to Kuwait?” I asked anxiously.
“Briefly,” she said. Instantly my shoulders relaxed.
“He tipped me off about you liking a nun.”
“Oh my God. It’s not a big deal.”