Driving on, the stores thin out—Foster Flowers, Cuts by Christy—and now to the right there’s an ample parking lot and a sign with gilded letters: “St. Cecilia’s Roman Catholic Church.”
I lurch to a stop. I’ve heard this church’s name twice already today. It’s where Astrid and her family went.
Cars honk and veer around me as I stare at the building. Brown brick and white trim, ornate windows and stone steps. But none of that is what holds my attention. It’s the door—painted a vivid, almost violent red, like the one on the cover of Astrid’s book.
I know it’s not the same one. Astrid’s led to a basement—not a large, open room where people worship and pray. But a red door on a place where Astrid spent so much time? Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s leading me somewhere I wouldn’t have thought to go on my own. And right now, as I pull into the driveway and ease into a spot, “maybe” is still the only lead that I’ve got.
* * *
The church is not air-conditioned. There’s no relief from the heat as I enter. The temperature of the dim vestibule behind the red door is indistinguishable from outside. As I move into the main church, the air cools slightly, aided by the fans whirring noisily on the altar, but my forehead still beads with sweat.
It’s a weekday, so there’s hardly anyone here. Only a few elderly women dot the wooden benches, hands clasped in prayer, as I make my way down the aisle, and I realize that this might be the first church aisle I’ve ever walked down at all. Eric and I weren’t married in a church; we had our ceremony in the same room as our reception—a hotel banquet hall in Boston. I didn’t loop my arm through Ted’s that day. Didn’t walk with him down a path sprinkled with petals. The wedding coordinator had insisted I could, that it’d be easy to rearrange the tables to create an aisle. But I told her no. I didn’t want to risk Ted telling me that the tradition of a father giving away his daughter is antiquated and unnecessary, all “dog and jackass show.” He’d have been right, I think. But I couldn’t bear to hear him say it.
The carpeted aisle at St. Cecilia’s is the same shade of red as the door. And now I see crimson touches everywhere: in the panes of stained glass that line the walls, in the floral arrangements at the front, in the books that are tucked into the back of each bench. This aisle is a bright red tongue stretching toward the altar, and when I reach the tip of it, I stop. Stare at the wooden lectern, the thronelike chair where I imagine the priest sits, and—in the center of it all—the huge marble table that looks like a tomb.
One of the bench women is looking at me. She has a long beaded necklace braided between arthritic fingers, and her squint is full of suspicion. Noticing an open doorway off to the right, I ignore her stare to keep on searching—for what, I still don’t know.
The doorway leads to a windowless hall. It’s dark and narrow. Soupy with heat. The walls are lined with wood paneling, and I run my fingers along it as I shuffle forward. My nails catch in the grooves between boards, and a drop of sweat slithers down my back.
Then I see it. Even through the shadows. At the end of the hallway is another red door.
My feet fumble toward it, and I grab the knob, listen to it click as I turn it. It’s locked, clearly, but I keep on twisting as if my wrist were strong enough to break through any bolt.
“Can I help you?”
I whirl around to see a man about Ted’s age. He’s wearing all black—button-down shirt, pants, belt—except for his white collar. It’s difficult to tell in the dim hallway, but I imagine his bald head is shiny with sweat.
“Is there something I can do for you?” he tries again when I don’t respond. “I’m Father Murphy.”
I clear my throat. Croak out, “What’s—what’s behind the red door?” Then I wince at the words, how I’ve parroted Astrid’s title, not a single trace of Social Worker Voice left inside me.
Father Murphy cocks his head to the side. “It’s our basement,” he says, and my eyes widen. “We hold Youth Group and CCD classes down there. But it’s