In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(33)
What if I could help her take the first steps? Someone has to.
I really should leave.
In another twenty minutes.
■ ■ ■
September 2011
We stopped attending mass when I was around twelve. There was no big political reason behind it; we just stopped going. I don’t think I’ve been in a church—outside of Sasha’s funeral—in the eleven years since. Yet the second I step inside, I’m hit with that familiar smell that I recognize immediately. A strange combination of wood and must and incense.
It seems almost fitting that I’ve broken my rule to stay away a second time to come to church, seeking answers. Specifically, why haven’t Kacey’s aunt and uncle gotten her help?
It took me four trips to Caledonia and risky stakeout sessions to find the parish that her aunt, Darla, attends for Sunday morning services as well as on Mondays, for prayer. It’s a small, old church with brown brick and a tall, narrow steeple.
Darla’s seated in the fourth pew from the front right side, her short, curly black hair sprayed in place, her forehead resting against clasped hands as she prays. I slowly pick my steps down the aisle, easing into the pew behind her and a good ten feet over. Given that it’s Monday and we’re alone in here, I’m fully aware that this is a weird move on my part. But I’m hoping I’m right about her.
Turns out, I am.
“So nice to see a young man in the church, praying,” she whispers with a smile my way.
I return the smile. “I’ll admit, it’s been a while.”
“Are you from around here?”
“Just visiting some friends.” I hate lying, what with Jesus hanging on a cross directly in front of me.
She nods as if in agreement. “I know almost every parishioner here. I didn’t think I’d seen you around.”
With that, she turns back to her prayers, and I silently try to plan out how I’m going to get information from her. After half an hour, I realize that the woman is either a marathon worshipper or she has a lot to worry about. Either way, my ass is getting sore against the hard wood and I’ve given up on this brilliant plan of mine. The pew creaks loudly, echoing through the lofty space, as I stand and walk toward the aisle.
“Do keep your faith up. It’s so difficult to get young people in here and they’re the ones who need it most, what with all the drugs and sex and violence in society today.”
So . . . Aunt Darla’s not a partier. Does she have any clue what her niece has been doing? “You’re right,” I agree. “Do your kids come with you?”
“Oh, I don’t have children. But my nieces live with me and one of them has started coming to confession on Friday afternoons, after school. Now, if I could just get my other one here . . .”
“Not interested in religion?” Come on, Darla. Give me more.
Darla’s tight smile tells me she’s biting her tongue. “Kacey’s not interested in much of anything,” she mutters, and then adds for my benefit, “She lost her parents in a tragic car accident.”
I frown appropriately. “It must be hard to deal with, for her.”
“Well, Livie lost her parents too and she didn’t become a heathen,” she argues. “Then again, I suppose Livie wasn’t the one stuck in the car, waiting to be pulled out.”
A genuine frown pulls my brow together.
She sees my bewilderment. “It took those firefighters hours to cut into the car. How she remained conscious that entire time is beyond me.”
Thankfully I’m still in the row because my knees give out and I half-sit, half-fall into the pew. I can feel the muscles in my face fighting to control my expression, trying to hide the horror from it. Kacey sat in a car with her dead parents. Just the idea of seeing Sasha or Derek lying on the pavement is enough to drain the blood from my face.
“It’s divine intervention, is what I keep saying to her,” Aunt Darla keeps going. “How can no one believe there’s a God after that? The girl should have died, to be honest. I tell her that and she just gets angry. Angrier . . .” She harrumphs. “She’s never anything but angry nowadays. She was always the boisterous one of the two, getting into mischief and all. But it was good-natured, before. She loved life. Now . . .”
I blow out a mouthful of air. “Sounds like she needs some help.”
“I’ve tried, but she refuses. She still has nightmares every night. Her screams are . . .” She shudders. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in more than two years, since she moved in with us.”
Yeah, poor you. “Is she seeing a therapist or going to support groups or . . . anything?”
One shake confirms my fears. Kacey is exactly like I was. “She’s beyond help. I had the church counselor and the priest visit our house, but Kacey would have none of that. I even bought her her own Bible and left it on her nightstand. The spine hasn’t been cracked once.” She clucks her tongue. “If only my sister raised them with God in their lives, Kacey would be fine now. I truly believe that.”
I’m not so sure about that. One of Dr. Stayner’s patients in the program was an ex-nun named Margaret, whose two-year-old niece snuck out the front door and got hit by a car while Margaret was babysitting. She walked away from her church and her beliefs after that. Even the most God-fearing person’s faith can be displaced when tragedy strikes. Maybe for only a short time; maybe forever.