Acts of Contrition Page 12

  The priest speaks of the Blessed Virgin, her unselfish love, how Christ’s birth was made possible by Mary’s fiat: Be it done unto me according to thy word. When I pray the Hail Holy Queen, I feel consumed with an emotion that’s too big to contain in my mortal body. Let me be just a little bit like you, I pray. Let me not hesitate. But I know that I’m nothing like Mary, a woman who took the ultimate risk so that something great could be achieved. While I have been bold with my risk taking, my motivation has been selfish. I’m aware of the distinction.

  After Mass, I stand in line to make my confession. When the person before me exits and the light turns green, I slip into the box and onto my knees.

  “Hello, Father,” I say. I make the sign of the cross and say “Amen.” Then I begin, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.”

  “What are your sins, my child?” It’s Father Mike and I’m glad. He’s more relaxed than Father Tucker, who often borders on sanctimonious, making me feel worse, not better, than before I confessed my sins.

  “I’m holding on to a piece of information,” I say. “I’m withholding the truth. I guess that’s the same as lying.”

  “What is the nature of this lie?”

  Words are too small to describe what I’ve done. “I’ve lied to my husband.”

  “And has this lie hurt him?”

  “It hasn’t, but if he knew…”

  “Are you looking for absolution or advice?”

  “Both,” I say. “I’m thinking about coming clean, of telling the truth. Should I?”

  “I can’t tell you that, dear,” Father Mike says. “My job is to hear your confession. Your penance is three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers.”

  “But Father,” I say. “I want to know how it works. If I tell the truth, what will happen? And if I don’t tell the truth, what will happen? I need to weigh my options.”

  Father Mike chuckles, and the tone of it rings of Teresa—Teresa who accuses me of going at my faith like a lawyer, all bargaining and negotiating. “I have no idea what will happen,” he says. “But God does. And if you trust in His will, I’d say that you’ll be fine.”

  “But Father, isn’t it always best to tell the truth?”

  “It’s best to confess your sins, my child. And it’s best to tend to your marriage at home.”

  I make the sign of the cross and say, “Amen.” Then I say, “Father? So this is enough, confessing my sins?”

  “There is nothing greater than cleansing your soul of sin,” he says. “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

  “His mercy endures forever,” I respond, rote, the words from my entire life, but I’m still thinking it through. Did Father Mike just advise me not to tell Tom the truth? I should feel relief, but all I feel is dread, because something inside me knows that the time to come clean is upon me, to confess and hope for leniency.

  Later that night, Tom and I lay in bed. “I talked to my brother today,” Tom says.

  “How’s he?”

  “He’s working—odd jobs,” Tom says. “But I worry, you know?”

  “I know you feel that he got a rough shake; that the alcoholism is a curse. I know you worry about him. He’s your brother. I’d be the same way with my sisters.”

  “A lot of it is his fault, of course,” Tom says. “He’s a grown man. But he’s also a Morrissey, and God knows there are plenty of Morrisseys who hit the bottle too hard.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Patrick was made in your father’s image. It’s a lot to fight against.” I snuggle into Tom and pull my fingers through his waves of hair. “You, on the other hand, were made in your mother’s image—good and kind.”

  “What about you?” Tom asks, reaching his arm around my back. “Whose image were you made in? Robert or Regina Russo’s?”

  “Neither,” I say, and mean it. “They’re good people, my parents. I’m only partially good. Certainly not enough like them to say I’m in their image.”

  I’ve plucked up my courage and dropped the bait, and now I wait for Tom to bite. Crack me open, Tom, so you can finally see my truth. I squeeze my eyes shut and prepare myself for the blow. It’ll hurt, but I’m ready.

  What do you mean you’re only partially good? Tom will want to know.

  But Tom doesn’t take the bait. “I think they would claim you,” he says.

  “That’s because they don’t know the half of it.” I stare at Tom and try to modulate my breathing. My heart is thumping like a gong.

  “Mare, just because you lifted Post-it Notes and paper clips from the law firm you worked at ten years ago doesn’t make you a delinquent.”

  On any other day, Tom would have put me on the stand, would have drilled me to explain the meaning of my inflammatory remark “because they don’t know the half of it.” Today, the one day I want him to press me, prosecute me, force me to come out with it all, he isn’t in the mood—his thoughts are elsewhere.

  Coward that I am, I luxuriate in the wave of relief washing over me and settle back into cozy chitchat. “It wasn’t Post-it Notes and paper clips,” I remind him. “It was toilet paper and coffee filters.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We were on a tight budget. Remember, we were just married and both working and we were living in that little apartment.”

  “And you were pregnant with Sally,” Tom adds.

  Pregnant with Sally. “We were saving up for our house,” I drift on, though my heart is pounding again. “And eating a whole lot of tuna casserole.”

  “Hey, I love tuna casserole,” Tom defends. “A few potato chips crushed up on the top.”

  Now all at once I throw myself back on the stand. I can’t let this chance pass. I’m so close. “I was pretty stressed back then,” I say, the witness leading the prosecutor, taking another whack at provoking him into pressing me for the truth that’s all but bursting out of me.

  “You were a nervous wreck,” Tom agrees. “Worrying that Sally wouldn’t be perfect, and then she blew you away by being a thousand times better than perfection.”

  “I never cared about her being perfect,” I say, closing my eyes and sliding out on the easy, loving tide again, remembering what it felt like when Sally somersaulted inside me, when she traced an elbow like a rainbow across my gigantic belly. “I was just so anxious to see her, to hold her.”

  “Happiest day of my life,” Tom says. “Holding Sal for that first time.”

  “Happiest day of your life ’til Em and the boys came along.”

  “Of course,” he says. “But there’s something about your firstborn. It hits you harder, that’s all.”

  “It was a great day,” I admit. “But then you had to put up with me and my roller-coaster emotions.”

  “I’ve put up with a lot more since then,” Tom says. Here it is—another entrée to the truth. Say it, Mary. Say it: “The thing is, Tom, there was a reason why I was so wacko after Sally was born. You see, it had to do with Landon James…”

  Instead my courage sets sail for good. Gone, just like that. I snuggle my face into Tom’s chest. Next time I’ll tell him. My heart is racing and my eyes are wet with tears, and I have the distinct feeling that my chest is either swelling or splitting. Sometimes it’s just all too much. Too much emotion for my little heart to bear. Too much for just one tiny flawed woman like me. A husband, four kids, my constant worry for their happiness—and the past, the long, deadly reach of my compulsions and mistakes that puts it all at such horrible risk. I’m holding up the dam, though I know there are cracks on the inside, hairline fissures that will soon make their way to the outer layer—and then, an imminent burst.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Detesting Sins

  ON THE SIXTH OF JANUARY, the children return to school. After I drop the boys at preschool, I cross the church parking lot and enter the parish hall, where I’m meeting with a group of moms who have volunteered to help me put together an Easter retreat for the Sunday school stude
nts.

  “Do you have the stack of paperwork for the moms who have already gone through the training?” I ask my friend Alice. The diocese won’t allow anyone to volunteer in any capacity until they’ve completed a four-hour training course on working with children. It’s the church’s too-late, reactionary stance to show that it’s now vigilant; that turning a blind eye to heinous acts of decades past won’t happen again. As if putting a group of mothers through a four-hour training class will somehow heal the wounds of countless souls who were victimized at the hands of the person they believed to be their most trusted ally.

  The scandal makes me sick. I once asked Mom how she did it, how she kept the faith in light of it. She told me that it sickened her, too, but that her relationship was with God, not the Church. When she said it, I felt a little jealous because what I like about Catholicism is the Church, the stuff: the incense, the stained glass, the ritualized standing and kneeling; the purple robes for Lent, the rose-colored robes for Christmas, the stations of the cross. I’ve never considered myself anything but Catholic, and a happy Catholic at that. But Teresa is right: My belief is conditional, not blind. Her faith—and Mom’s faith—loom larger than mine. Their connection with God couldn’t be challenged by a nuclear holocaust.

  “I’m thinking that they’re at the office,” Alice answers. “Want me to go check?”

  “No, I got it.”

  “Want to get coffee when you get back?”

  “Sounds good!” I holler back.

  I slip out of the classroom we’re using as our HQ and down the hallway to the church office. My mom’s friend of forty years sits at the desk tucked behind a high counter.

  “Hi, Dotty,” I say, peeking over.

  “How are you doing, dear?”

  “I’m looking for that stack of paperwork for the volunteers who have completed training.”

  “It’s in the back, hon,” she says, then swivels her chair and hoists herself to standing.

  “Oh, just tell me where it is and I’ll—”

  “No, no, don’t be silly. I’m off!” Poor Dotty’s arthritis keeps her in its grip. I watch as she clutches the countertop and straightens herself, my own back aching in sympathy.

  While she’s in the back, I glance at her television, which is wedged between her computer and telephone. It’s about the size of a tissue box. The news is playing and before I know it, Landon is flashed on the screen—and though the thumbnail photo in the corner is as small as a postage stamp, I know immediately that it’s the photo. The photo I’ve been looking for all of these weeks. Landon is facing forward and I’m facing sideways. No sign of Sally, though I can tell from the position of my shoulder that her carrier is hanging from my arm.

  I’m leaning over Dotty’s counter, my stomach stretched across the cool Formica, my feet airborne. I’m squinting and straining to see the photo, and then, like that, it’s gone. The Dow Jones ticker takes its place. I slide back onto my feet, but my hands remain gripped around the countertop. My head swims and I feel like I might vomit. I look again at the television, but now my vision is jutting back and forth, like paint being shaken at the hardware store. Dotty returns with the papers.

  “Honey,” she says, putting her hand on mine. “What on earth? You’ve gone completely white.” Colored spots flash in front of my eyes, and when I look at Dotty, I can’t make sense of the words coming out of her mouth.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I manage to say, but even to my own ears my voice sounds hollow and distant.

  “Sit down, honey,” she says.

  I shake my head but the motion makes the room spin. “I’ve got to go.”

  I list out of the room and find myself jogging unsteadily back down into the parish hall. Though I’ve been here a hundred times before, it now seems awkward and unfamiliar to me—like I’m the new kid on the first day of class, looking for the library, or is it the gym? Where’d everybody go? The empty hall seems to be echoing. Then I hear Alice’s roaring laugh, remember where I am, duck in and grab my purse, then mutter something about having to go.

  “Hey, Mare!” Alice calls. “What about coffee?”

  I shake my head again and run, with the sound of her voice echoing “Mary!” through my head.

  I drive home without noticing whether there are other cars or red lights or pedestrians or stop signs. I charge through the front door and grab for the remote controls. In fifteen minutes I’ve seen my photo appear half a dozen times. I’m pressing in my stomach with the palms of my hands, fighting for breath, trying without hope to imagine which way to run. I’m helpless, trapped. I literally don’t know what to do with myself.

  The phone starts to ring. I can see from the caller ID that it’s Mom, Angela, Martina, then Teresa. My neighbors, some church friends. Then, almost in unison, numbers I don’t recognize. I suspect without answering a single one that it’s the reporters starting to call. The networks, the cable stations, magazines and blogs I’ve never heard of. I ignore them all. The only person I want to talk to is Tom, and he’s not calling and not answering when I call him. I don’t know what to do.

  I pace the house. My fingernails bitten to nubs, I scrub the kitchen until the smell of bleach makes me dizzy and my newly gnawed fingertips are burning and throbbing. I sit on the sofa, but it doesn’t feel right. I stand back up, but my legs feel weak and spindly. My skin doesn’t feel right. It’s tight and tingly and I slap my cheeks so I can feel the warm vibration that follows. I pace some more. Somehow I end up in the master bedroom closet, under the drape of clothes, my knees pulled tightly in to my chest. I’m now gnawing down on my cuticles, the insides of my cheeks. I’m too petrified to cry. Tom, Tom, Tom, dear sweet Tom. What have I done? Why didn’t I tell?

  At eleven I splash water on my face, pinch my cheeks, and slide into the car to pick up the boys. A paranoia as sticky and thick as the summer humidity adheres to me. It seems that everyone is staring: the teachers standing outside of school at pickup, the other parents, the fellow drivers. It’s as if I am covered in chicken pox.

  The boys are oblivious. They chatter on about their day.

  “We did paper machines!” Dom says.

  “Mâché,” I correct, and when I see in the rearview mirror Dom’s mouth turn down because he said it wrong, I hate myself a thousand times more because I’m the worst person on earth. “Tell me about it!” I say in my most cheerful voice.

  “You just dip paper in gluey water,” he mumbles, but his enthusiasm is gone.

  “That’s awesome, buddy,” I manage.

  “I’m hungry,” Danny says.

  “Got anything left in your lunch box?” I ask, knowing he does.

  “Just my chips and grapes and half my sandwich and my cookie,” he lists proudly.

  “Eat some of that stuff,” I say, and then even though I feel as though my face is made of plastic, I turn and flash the guys my biggest smile because not one minute of their innocence deserves to be sullied by me.

  At home I stick the boys in front of the television with a bowl of Goldfish crackers and a bin holding their dinosaur figures to play with. I check the caller ID and see that Tom still hasn’t called. More calls from friends, family, and more—many more—strange numbers and names. The media. Listening to the messages on the wildly blinking answering machine isn’t even an option. When the phone rings again and it’s Angela, I finally answer it.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “What the heck?”

  “I went to see him one day,” I blurt, startled by the sound of my own voice. “We needed to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t say. Tom’s going to kill me.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Angie says. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Tom.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Call him!” she says. “Face this head-on. Whatever this is.”

  “I am,” I say. “He’s not answering.”
<
br />   “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Call me,” she says. “Promise?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Promise me that you’re okay.”

  “I’m not going to jump off a bridge, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Mare, what’s this about?”

  “Just do me a favor, Ang. Call Mom and Dad and Teresa and Martina. Just tell them to stop calling. That I’m okay but can’t talk yet, all right?”

  At three thirty the boys and I walk down to the corner to pick up the girls. My neighbor Susan, who says whatever is on her mind, blares, “Was that you on the television, Mare? What gives? Out leading a secret life?”

  “That’s me,” I play along. “Not enough to do at home!”

  “Seriously, Mary, what’s with the photo?”

  I’m in the outdoors, but suddenly I feel like there’s not enough air. I inhale, but my lungs have turned into cocktail straws, narrow and unyielding. I lean over at the waist, rest my hands on my knees, and look up. “It’s crazy!” I say in a voice that’s not my own. “I was downtown one day after Sally was born. I was waiting for my friend to show up. We were going to have lunch. Then, what do you know? I happened to run into Landon James. Not sure if you know this,” I say, making a visor with my hand, gauging Susan’s reaction, “but he and I used to date. Anyway, I was talking to Landon when all of a sudden I start to…leak, you know, breast milk, and I realize that I’ve forgotten to put the pads in my bra. Long and short of it, Landon took me up to his hotel room to get cleaned up. That’s it! Sorry, nothing too juicy!”

  “Oh,” Susan says, clearly disappointed, her eager face falling glum. “Because on the news they’re wondering about your relationship with him. They’re referring to you as the ‘mystery woman.’ ”

  I pull my mouth tight and raise my eyebrows while shaking my head back and forth. “Some mystery. A leaking mom!”

  That gets a laugh from her. She believes me. “But at least you’re on TV like it was truly a scandal, right?” Like this is something I might aspire to.