time,” he said, “it will no longer be a lie.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t need to. You need only believe in God. In his unfailing goodness and light. Believe that if you repent for your sins, you will receive the healing power of his forgiveness, and everything else will fall into place. But don’t wait too long, Astrid.”
He dragged his eyes down the length of my body like a tailor appraising the fit of a garment. His gaze lingered on my lacy hem as he said, “Hell is no place for a girl.”
I laughed at him then. It gurgled out from between my lips and I did not place a hand over my mouth to stop it. “If hell is where the lesbians are,” I said, “then I think I’d like to burn.”
Despite everything that happened afterward, I’m really proud of that.
But thirty minutes later, back among the chaste and chatting guests, I regretted it. If Father Murphy relayed the details of our conversation to my parents, who knew what they’d take from me next. They’d already taken Bridget, and my doorknob. Maybe next would be the door itself. Or perhaps they’d try a different tactic and lock me in instead, reinforce the wood with steel bars, keep the key on the same chain as the cross that hung from my mother’s neck.
I looked for Father Murphy. I planned to pull him aside, the way he’d pulled me, and put on a meek and mortified face. I planned to stammer and apologize and promise to come to confession the following week. But I couldn’t find him anywhere. Not on the front lawn. Not at the food table. Not even in the house. I asked one of the old ladies if she’d seen him, and she said, “No, dear, not for a while. Oh, but twirl for us, won’t you?” I did, and I smiled, and I excused myself.
Had I offended him so much that he’d left? I stood on the curb, peered up and down the line of vehicles, searching for the Lincoln that Father Murphy drove. The cars stretched down the block farther than I could make out, so I walked down the street until I could see them all, until the laughter from the party began to fade. Then, even when I found his car and confirmed he wasn’t inside it, I kept on walking. Just a few steps at first. Just to see how far I could get without my mother calling me back. But I didn’t hear my name. So I didn’t stop. And it was like the air became easier to breathe, like the band of my pantyhose no longer pinched my waist.
Nobody noticed, I said to myself, rounding a corner. Nobody noticed, nobody noticed.
At an intersection, I turned left, onto another street altogether, and I moved forward and forward and forward. It was completely quiet now—no kids in any yards, no dogs that yipped or barked—and when I reached the stretch of the road, Kimble Lane, that was a few acres of trees, I inhaled and inhaled and walked and walked. I didn’t even pause when I heard a car driving slowly behind me. Every step between me and that party, my parents, that priest, was a step I took unchained, and suddenly I could not stop for anyone.
The car rolled to a crawl. Then its brakes squeaked. But I didn’t turn my head. I figured it was someone from the party, there to bring me back. I didn’t look at the driver, not even when I heard the door open, the footsteps clomping behind me. I never saw a face, only a hand, as it was placed over my mouth to usher me into the dark.
six
The inside of my car feels like a greenhouse. I haven’t turned it on yet to get the AC flowing. I’m punishing myself, I think. For coming all this way just to end up in a church parking lot, no closer to remembering anything than when I first arrived. I’m leaning against the headrest and my eyes are closed, but burning on the back of my lids is the red door that Father Murphy didn’t allow me to open.
I could have tried harder. I could have knocked on his office door and pleaded with him to hand over the keys. But what could I say to convince him? I think someone who worked at, or went to, your church might have kept Astrid down