I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(20)

There’s a little bit of money set aside—that’s what Father Maridale tells me—but it’s not enough to hire workers with the kind of skills required. That’s why I was so thrilled when Father pulled me aside a few weeks ago and said he’d found someone who could fix up the school at a fair price.

First, I was worried this prospective employee would do a shoddy job, seeing as he was willing to work so cheaply. But then Father told me this guy was more than qualified.

I couldn’t believe our good fortune that day. I clapped my hands excitedly and just about gave the leader of our parish a hug. But then Father Maridale told me whom he’d hired, and I froze, wondering if maybe Father was exhibiting early signs of senility.

“You’re kidding, right? Chase Gartner? No way.”

I was floored. Didn’t Father know this guy’s past?

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to allow him to work alone in the church?” I pressed. “Not to mention in the school.”

I know who Chase Gartner is; everybody in this town knows. And just because he shows up in church every week now that he’s out of prison doesn’t mean he’s changed or reformed.

When I said pretty much this exact thing to Father Maridale, he frowned, and told me Chase was a good guy who deserved a second chance. He chastised me and reminded me that it’s our duty to help those in need, not to cast judgment.

That last part sort of shut me up. And struck a nerve. I reconsidered. Father Maridale had a point. After all, at least this Gartner guy paid his debt to society. And his offense was just some drug-related thing. Not that drug charges aren’t serious, don’t get me wrong, but they pale in comparison to the secret I harbor.

Yet I walk around a free woman, garnering everyone’s pity, when all along it was my negligence that led to my own sister’s demise. I hate it, I hate it. I should’ve been the person sent to prison. Perhaps it would’ve lessened all this guilt weighing me down now.

But that never happened, and it never will. Everyone just calls it what it was—an accident. I, however, know it’s one that could have been avoided.

I close my eyes. It bothers me still, and how could it not? Na?ve and stupid, that’s what I was, but not anymore. Now, I feel older and wiser, and savvy enough to know to keep my mouth shut, not share secrets with anyone.

Back after Sarah died, I hadn’t learned this lesson though. Or maybe I just had a burning desire to confess. Was I seeking punishment? Maybe. More likely, I wanted absolution.

Punishment or absolution, I ended up confessing to my mother what had really happened the night Sarah died. She was the only one I told, but I soon discovered going to her was a colossal mistake. I received nothing remotely close to absolution from my mother. She did, though, mete out a punishment, thick and heavy as tar, one that still sticks today.

Upon first hearing my confession, my mother stared vacantly at me for what felt like a small eternity, and then she stepped toward me and slapped me hard. Twice, once on each cheek. My face stung and my ears rang, I wore her marks for days.

After a verbal lashing, she disowned me on the spot and kicked me out of the house. “You were supposed to protect her, Kay,” she scream-sobbed, pushing me away when I tried to go to her. “It should’ve been you.” I was too stunned to respond to that lovely comment.

“You don’t really mean that, Ruth,” my father said, rushing into the room, catching only the tail end of our discussion.

To this day, he remains blissfully unaware of what I was really doing the night Sarah died. My mother has never told him, and neither have I.

Ruth did mean every word she said that day, just as I knew she had. Sarah had brought my mother a joy I never could—despite repeatedly trying—and my poor judgment led to it being taken away. Someone had to pay, and that someone was me.

When my father realized my mother truly wanted me out of the house he gave me some money and told me to stay at a motel for a few nights until things cooled down. Only two days had passed since the funeral and my father said it was my mother’s grief talking; he said she’d come around.

That was four years ago and my mother still hasn’t spoken to me. Not. One. Word. To say her silence hurts would be an understatement. It doesn’t hurt, it shatters. But I’ve accepted, at twenty-three years of age, that I am truly alone in this world.

The rain pounds at the roof of the shelter and I cover my ears. With my present surroundings muted, I continue to remember the past.

Back then, when everything happened, I was nineteen. I was home for summer break, in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. That few days’ stay at the motel turned into four weeks, and then I returned to school—lost, broken, and forgotten.

My parents moved back to Columbus, Ohio, where we had once lived, back when I was a child, back before Sarah was born. To his credit, my dad secretly funneled money to me. He continued to pay for tuition and room and board.

But the day I graduated he cut me off. I skipped commencement. There was no one in attendance to watch me walk across the stage and receive my degree, so it seemed a little pointless. Not to mention embarrassing, seeing as all the other students had their families gathered.

That afternoon, hours after commencement ended, Dad drove in from Columbus—alone—to take me out to lunch. That’s when he told me I was on my own financially. To me, it felt like a clean break.