And what I distrusted, I avoided.
Which is one of the reasons I never speak to Kieran Laugherty. Sure, he might be beautiful, sure, he might be the quarterback of the varsity team, but his eyes?
Shifty for sure.
The priest’s eyes? Definitely not shifty. He looked like he’d turn the other cheek, he looked like he’d approve of my huffing at the woman who’d been sitting beside me. I’d just bet he wouldn’t have teased me for saying no to the pot Judith had waggled under my nose last week.
Feeling a little self-righteous, I fold my arms under my boobs, and grumble to myself about weed and Judith and quarterbacks who have grabby hands. But then images flash of the war-torn country once more, and my heart starts to ache.
It takes me a few moments to realize a doctor has entered the waiting room, and though his scrubs are clean, they’re wrinkled, and his eyes are tired and his face is a little worn. He has a blue cap on his head, made out of the scrub material, and it’s wonky, like he rubbed his hand over it, and it had resettled at the wrong angle. He’s at my side, where the old witch had been sitting, and his elbows are on his knees as he stares at the screen.
It’s such an informal move that my heart starts to pound with unease.
Because he doesn’t say anything, my nerves have me trying to think of something to utter to break the ice. “Tragic, isn’t it?” I whisper, staring at the TV screen.
“Yes. It is.”
For a second, I just let the images flicker through my mind, then, I build up the courage to ask something his position alone told me, “He didn’t make it, did he?”
“No.” He releases a heavy sigh. “He didn’t. His body was too weak, and the strain on his heart was just too much.”
Tears prick my eyes and I gulp. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” He cuts me a look. “Do you know the boy?”
I shake my head. “No. I promise. If I knew, I’d say. The receptionist didn’t believe me—”
He raises a hand. “It’s okay.”
My brow puckers. “No, it isn’t. I’m not a liar. I just found him on the street.”
“The police will want to talk to you about him.”
I shrug. “They can. I don’t know anything. I’m sorry he’s gone though,” I whisper a little mournfully. What was the point in my finding him if there was nothing that could be done to save him?
I want to believe we are set on the right path for a reason. I want, so badly, to hold that as the key tenet in my life, but I can’t in this instance.
Why had I found the kid if I wasn’t supposed to save him?
My throat clutches at the thought, then this talk of the cops? Nervously, I whisper, “A-Are they going to arrest me?”
The doctor tenses. “No, of course not. They just want to understand where you found the boy. He was very young. Too young to—” He blows out a breath. “Too young to die like that.”
I bite my lip and dip my head between hunched shoulders. “I thought he was my age.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
The doctor’s chin tips up. “The police can’t speak to you without a guardian present anyway. If you leave your address with the receptionist, they’ll be in touch.”
I blink at him. “Am I in trouble?” I didn’t believe him before.
“No,” he says impatiently. “You’re not.”
Nerves make my stomach churn. “I-I just wanted to help—”
“You did your best. In fact, you did more than most would have.”
“I know you did your best too.”
His smile’s tired. “I hope I did him justice, but sometimes, it’s never enough.” He heaves a sigh as he gets to his feet, and his hand comes down to rest on my shoulder. He squeezes tightly, then mutters, “You’re a good kid. Not many would stick around, not many would have called an ambulance... you’ve got a good heart on you.”
Before I can say anything else, he wanders off, and I’m left staring at nothing.
Then the Father’s face flashes on the TV screen once more, and I suddenly know what I want.
Leaping to my feet, I skirt around the uncomfortable chairs I’ve been sitting on all day, and head for the receptionist. I write down the details she asks for, give her my home number, and tell her my address.
Once that’s done, I leave the ER and find the main entrance of the hospital. I just know there’ll be a chapel in here somewhere, so I seek it out, suddenly needing to be in there. To feel the peace and tranquility after four hours of being forced to sit in an ER department that’s teaming with humanity.
When I finally find it, I sigh with relief when I realize it’s empty. Only, when I make my way to the back pew so I can stare out of the stained glass window, which shows Jesus on the cross, I hear a giggle.
My brow puckers at the sound, and I twist around, trying to find it.
You’re not supposed to giggle in church.
I mean, I guess it isn’t a law or anything, but it’s definitely not allowed, right?
Just like not perving on a priest is a rule too.
The giggle is followed by a moan, and now I wonder if someone’s in pain or something.
Sheesh.
But when I look around the dimly lit chapel, I see nothing. No one.
A squeaking sound comes next, and a low grunt.
I’ve heard my parents doing it a few times, so it’s easy to figure out what’s going on. And the last time Judith had a party, Lizzie Boudreaux and Kingsley Lincoln had sex in her bathroom. I know what sex sounds like.
But to have sex in a church?
In a confessional booth?
In a Catholic hospital?
I’m not sure which is worse.
In fact, to my mind, it’s all very wrong.
When the confessional booth starts moving?
I roll my eyes.
Is this a joke?
And then, when it carries on, I start to get mad.
My temper’s slow burn. Really slow burn. As in, it’s barely there until it is and boom, it’s like a blast.
But this blatant disregard of decency has pissed me off. Throw in the kid dying, and the stupid prejudiced witch from the waiting room? Yeah, I’m mad.
Super mad.
Maybe I’m not thinking straight, maybe I’ve been invaded by the crazy bug, but hell, I have to act.
And I can’t just cough and demand they stop it. I can’t just let them giggle and get excited over being caught.
Nope.
They need to be punished.
I narrow my eyes at the confessional booth, which is still moving around like it’s got an earthquake going down under it, and I know exactly what I’m going to do.
A short, sharp shock.
That’s what they need.
So, I grab my bag, hitch it on my shoulder, and prepare to leave, my intent to find the security guard who mans the doors and get him to do something.
Only... when I leave my pew, I see it.
It might as well scream at me, “Push here.”
It’s stupid. I know it is. And, God, I might get into massive trouble considering it’s, ya know, illegal, but my slow-to-rattle temper always did make me an idiot.
So, I punch the glass of the fire alarm, and when it blares out a warning, and the sprinkler system pops on a few seconds later?