know what the hell to do.
All I can think of is that I need to get some money somehow and find a doctor. Looking back on all of this—how I got myself in this situation—none of it makes any sense. Before I came to Harmony House, the things I thought and cared about were so simple. Now nothing is.
So I find a spot under the sink, back behind some old cleaning products and rags, to hide the used tests. Then I wash my hands in burning-hot water—forcing myself not to pull away as the skin turns red and the pain shoots up and down my arm. Steam rises up out of the washbasin, clouding the mirror, filling the tiny bathroom. Through the steam a vision comes to me. As the water runs, I close my eyes and through the scalding pain, I see this same bathroom half a century ago.
I see the showerhead spraying water down into the claw-foot tub.
Sunlight shines in through the window.
Birds sing in the surrounding treetops. The morning dew on a spiderweb catches the light and reflects like a cluster of burning stars.
An infant cries from somewhere not far off.
Beneath the steady stream of water steaming in the small white-painted bathroom Sister Margaret stands—her long, beautiful hair wet down her back.
She scrubs with a cloth at the skin of her thighs and belly. She lathers the soap and washes beneath her arms. Her skin is the palest, most delicate, perfect, unblemished white. Or it would be, if not for the raised, blistering, crisscross of welts along her calves and up the backs of her legs.
As she cleans herself, her hand carefully avoids these tender places. She shies away from them as though they were hot to the touch, like an open flame.
But still, she soaks up the water and feels the pleasure and warmth of it. She even sings to herself, though this is strictly forbidden. So she sings softly—a song she heard on the radio once and she has kept as a secret for herself to be sung only in these private moments, away from spying ears.
She mouths the words quietly.
“I . . . fall . . . to pieces . . . each time someone speaks . . . your name. I . . . fall . . . to pieces . . . time only adds to the flame.”
She smiles as she sings and, for now, she is happy here—safe and alone.
Except that she is not alone.
The steam filling the bathroom escapes from the tiniest crack in the bathroom door.
Out in the hall, the little boy—the quiet, shy little boy—crouches with his eye to the keyhole. He watches with the most painful, aching longing. Guilt and desire wrack his young body. He trembles, just wanting to take her away from all this—to free her—to run far away and never look back.
And then, from behind him, a voice calls out. It is the hoarse, ugly, vile croaking of the older nun—Sister Angelica.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouts, grabbing him by the shoulder and wrenching him around.
She stares down at him, looking his whole body over.
“Aw, Lord protect us,” she says. “You are disgusting.”
The boy’s body vibrates with terror. His hands shake. His mouth quivers.
“Just look at yourself,” she says, almost smiling now—showing off her brown-stained, yellow teeth.
The boy tries to speak, but no words come out.
“Sick,” she says. “Sick. You wait ’til Father Meyers hears about this.”
Sound comes from the boy’s mouth now.
“P-please,” he says. “No.”
“Well, then how about I tell Sister Margaret? I’m sure she’d love to know how her star pupil lusts of the flesh after her.”
“No, please,” he cries again, his voice even more tremulous with panic. “It’s not like that. She’s pure and holy. She’s more pure than anything.”
The old nun laughs cruelly.
“Get up against the wall,” she says.
“What?” the boy asks, with tears coming down now.
“Do as I say,” the old woman sneers. “Up against the wall. Face away from me.”
The boy does as he’s told. He presses his face and body up against the wall.
The old nun takes a steel ruler from behind her back, the edge sharpened to make almost a knife’s point.
“For every lash,” she tells him, her voice calmer now, “you will say one Hail Mary and one Our Father. Is that understood?”
The boy cries, pressing himself in against the cold wall.
“I said, is that understood?”
The boy nods, snot running down his nose.
“Then we shall begin,” the nun says.
She draws back her hand