Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
The God talk already. I’m all about people having their religion, but there’s going to church every Sunday, and then there’s being a full-on righteous zealot who preaches to everyone while not looking inward at your own behavior. It’s a good thing she believes God will save everyone, because she never did a damn thing to take care of herself—or her child, for that matter.
I went to church every week with her when I was little—wearing my best dress, helping my unsteady mom to a pew. The same woman who didn’t come home most nights because she was screwing every loser in town. Church seemed like a scam to me. A way of getting people to part with their hard-earned money.
The priest had a new house located on the manicured church grounds. Most of his congregants, meanwhile, lived in this sort of place. A tiny two-bedroom down a dirt road. Dogs chained outside. Porches falling apart. Kids in hand-me-downs that rarely fit properly. I didn’t see the priest caring if I ate, and God certainly didn’t save my friend when she needed saving in high school.
“I choose not to go to church, Mom.”
She shakes her head. “You’ll never have good in your life without God.”
“Really? Have you considered that your God made you an alcoholic? And is now letting you die alone in this house?” The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. I’ve never been good at not speaking my mind. Being in New York, away from this place, has only strengthened that. New York and I are a good fit—there, people respect raw honesty. Here, though, it’s expected that you shut up and keep your thoughts to yourself. Unless you’re my mother, of course.
“You ungrateful little brat. God loves me despite my sins. He forgives me—Father Preston told me. Here, look! I wrote them all down so I wouldn’t forget to confess any.” She thrusts a ratty piece of paper into my hand. It’s written in clunky pencil, handwriting shaky like a child’s.
Drinking
Fornication
I stop reading right there. I’ve lived her sins. I don’t need the reminder. “Mom, look, I’m sorry. But—”
“You should be reconciling your wrongs, missy. Before it’s your time, so you can spend an eternity in heaven, too. Look at that list—look at all the things I’ve never shared with anyone. We all have secrets, don’t we?”
My body stills at the word secrets.
When I look up, she’s peering at me. Glaring at me.
“I know you’ve been a sinner, too. You never know when your time is. You should repent. Ask forgiveness. You never know when the past might creep up on you.”
Despite the old air conditioner keeping the house below eighty degrees, I go hot with sweat. It dampens my hands, makes my skin feel slick.
I’ve always sworn I never told anyone. But I did tell one person.
My mother, the night it happened. I came home shaking, in tears, and for once, she held me, hugged me tightly, and it spilled out. It’s one of the rare memories I have of her being loving toward me. I was just a kid who had done something unthinkable, and I couldn’t help but confess. In the morning, I woke with a violent start, realizing the mistake I’d made. But when I went to check on her, she was passed out—still drunk. Which meant she’d been drunk the night before. I broached the subject when she got up later that afternoon. “About what we spoke about last night . . .” But she didn’t seem to remember a thing. That was normal for her. Blackouts were a common occurrence. I never mentioned it again, chalked it up as lost to alcohol. It made sense. After all, she’d been drunk enough to pretend to love me that night.
Now, though, as I stare across the coffee table at her, as she suggests that we all have secrets—I have to wonder if she’s told someone my sins, too.
CHAPTER
10
It seemed so much bigger back then.
I stand looking up at the second floor of Minton Parish High School—a certain window, third from the end. It’s not like I’ve grown. I’ve been the same five foot six since ninth grade. Yet the building felt more substantial to me at seventeen, more intimidating.
“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice startles me, pulls my attention from the second floor. She’s petite, older than me by twenty or thirty years, with thick-rimmed, dark glasses that are too big for her tiny face, and a blunt pixie cut.
I’m not even sure where she came from. Inside? She’s standing in front of the main entrance, so that seems logical, but the door is shut, and I didn’t hear it creak open or clank closed.
As if she can read my mind, she gestures behind her. “My desk is in the main office, next to the window, so I spend a lot of time looking outside. We took the channel letters with the name of the school down a few days ago. Finally getting new ones after thirty some-odd years. I thought maybe you weren’t sure if you were at the right building because of that.”