My Best Friend's Exorcism(83)

Brother Lemon brushed past Abby, hurrying out of the room. He returned a moment later carrying a yellow plastic funnel and a gallon jug of Heinz distilled white vinegar. He used his massive hands to bend Gretchen’s head backward and forced the funnel between her teeth. She released great, angry whooping moans around it.

“Hold her legs!” Brother Lemon shouted.

Using one hand, he twisted the top off the jug. He used his teeth to pull off the white paper disk and spat it onto the bed. Upending the bottle, he sloshed a third of the liquid down the funnel.

Gretchen choked, gagged, kicked her heels against the mattress. The vinegar sting burned Abby’s eyes. Brother Lemon pulled out the funnel and held Gretchen’s mouth closed.

“Bucket!” he roared, as Gretchen thrashed beneath him.

Abby grabbed the bucket from where it was lying on the floor and held it out to him.

“Closer!” he yelled. “By her head!”

Abby got there just as he released Gretchen’s mouth, and she threw up all over her shirt. Brother Lemon twisted her to the side and she vomited thin yellow liquid. Then he repeated the process while Abby stood there, holding the bucket. This time, a gout of vomit sprayed the bucket in a high-pressure blast.

“I take up the sword of God’s spirit,” Brother Lemon said, forcing the funnel between Gretchen’s teeth. “I pierce you, driving away your lies.”

“It’s hiding,” Gretchen gasped. “Down deep, it’s going. . . . Do you think this hurts me?” Her voice dropped lower, her vocal cords rasped and scraped. “You’re damning your souls, both of you. You’re throwing away your salvation by torturing this pig. What would your God say?”

Gretchen’s head snapped back on her neck, and she bit her tongue. Her eyes opened, unclouded.

“Don’t listen,” she said. “Do it. Get it out. Get it out of me.”

Brother Lemon stood up and turned to Abby.

“I want you to go into the kitchen,” he said. “See if you can find some ammonia under the sink. We’re going to have a real fight now.”

Abby found half a bottle of ammonia under the sink, but she lied and said she didn’t, so Brother Lemon kept using the vinegar. The struggle went on for hours. Abby’s role was limited to saying “Christ have mercy on us” when Brother Lemon cued her, emptying the bucket as Gretchen filled it with progressively thinner and smaller amounts of bile, and holding down Gretchen’s legs. The guest bedroom warmed from their body heat until it felt like a sauna and condensation trickled down the walls. When they finally stepped out for a break, the sunlight burned their eyes.

They sat in the living room and Brother Lemon chugged water from a gallon jug. He sucked down half and poured the rest over his head and shook it, spraying cold water.

“Brrr!” he exclaimed. “Want some of this? It wakes you up.”

“There has to be another way,” Abby said.

“Don’t you worry,” Brother Lemon said. “Andras thinks he’s in the catbird seat, but he’s about to feel the boot of the Lord in his ass. Go fill the tub.”

Abby’s heart sank. “Why?”

“Full-immersion baptism,” Brother Lemon said, and he wasn’t smiling anymore. “The more we mortify the flesh, the harder we sanctify the spirit, the tougher it is for the demon to hide.”

Abby imagined him lowering a bound Gretchen into the bathtub as she kicked and screamed, pressing her to the bottom of the tub, bubbles rising from her mouth.

“No,” she said. “It’s too much.”

Brother Lemon pointed a beefy finger at her.

“Don’t coward out on me now,” he said. “You heard her. She wants it out.”

Abby shook her head.

“What good is the exorcism if she’s dead?”

The exorcist considered Abby for a moment. Then he headed for the kitchen, shaking his head. “I’ll just do it myself,” he said. “Lonely are those who serve the Lord.”

Abby heard him clanging around, followed by the sound of the sink running. Then it was quiet. She crept back into the guest bedroom. It smelled like rancid piss and sour vomit. Gretchen had stopped shaking and her skin was grainy with goosebumps. Her breathing was shallow. Her face was raw and wet, her lips swollen and bruised, cracked and chapped from the vinegar. Salt was in her hair, and her eyes were swollen and pink. She raised a bound hand as much as she could and beckoned for Abby to come closer.

Abby knelt beside the mattress. Gretchen opened one bloodshot eye.

“Let him do it,” she whispered.

“He’s killing you,” Abby said.

Gretchen shook her head violently.

“It has to come out of me,” she said. “Cut it out, burn it out, drown it out. I can’t live like this.”

Abby took her hand. It was icy and stiff.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said. “We can do something else. I can’t keep hurting you.”

“Andras showed me what I did,” Gretchen said. “To you, to Margaret. To Glee. To Father Morgan. To Max . . .”

Her voice cracked on the last one.

“That wasn’t you,” Abby said.

“It was!” Gretchen said. “It was all me! Me and this—this thing inside of me. It has to come out. Before it destroys everything.”