Page 48 of Play Nice

Had he left?

“Father?”

The door slammed shut.

“Father!” I ran down the stairs and went to open the front door. The knob was hot to the touch, so hot that my hand came away sizzling, steaming. “Ah!”

“Mom?” I heard. Cici.

“Go back to your room!” I shouted. I pulled my sleeve down over my hand—which was still burning, throbbing—and twisted the knob. It was hot even through the fabric.

Father John sat on the front steps, hat in hands, staring straight ahead.

“Father? What happened?” I asked.

“Please, sit,” he said, and so I did. I sat on the step beside him, the wood creaking beneath our weight. “Alex. Why did you ask me here?”

He was white as a ghost and his voice was now hoarse.

“I…I’m afraid in the house,” I said. “Of the house. I feel…unsafe. I don’t know how to explain it.”

He nodded. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow, then turned it over and dragged it across his tongue, which I thought was strange. “I have a colleague who may be able to help you. He’s more experienced with these…phenomena.”

“What phenomena? What…why did you leave? What happened?”

He patted my knee. “I shall put you in touch with him. Father Bernard.”

“Father,” I said. He wouldn’t look at me. “What is it?”

He stood up. “I will pass along your address. He will come by at his earliest convenience.”

“Earliest convenience? Why? Why can’t you bless the house? What’s wrong with it?” He wouldn’t answer. He put his hat on and began to walk briskly toward his car, cutting across the lawn. I was at his heels, begging him to stay. “Please, Father. Don’t leave. Wait. Tell me. Tell me!”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled before getting into his car and closing the door. I banged my fists on the driver’s-side window as he started the engine. I could see myself reflected in the glass, my hair a frizzy mess, my eyes bulging. I looked desperate. Exhausted. Deranged.

“Please!” I said, chasing his car down the driveway.

It had started to rain, and I just stood there dazed and hopeless.

When I finally turned to wander back inside, my clothes were soaked.

I saw it near the foot of the stairs on my way in. Something small and gray and red. A dead mouse. Half a dead mouse. It’d been ripped in two, straight down the middle, its guts spilling out, its little face shriveled. It was wet, covered in mucus. In spit.

It didn’t occur to me then that Father John had coughed it up. Why would it?

I went inside and heard Cici softly singing to herself in her room. By dinnertime, she would be cured of whatever ailed her.

I went to the kitchen and drank the coffee I’d made for Father John. My hand was burned from the doorknob. It had already started to blister.

I poured the coffee down the drain and poured vodka into a mug. That’s what I drank. I knew I was drinking too much, but everyone copes in their own way. Alcohol was never my problem. It was a response to my problems.

Over the next few days, the blisters ballooned with yellow puss. They were so painful I worried they would erupt. I had to drain them with sterile needles. Then came the disinfectant. It stung and I cried alone on the bathroom floor. As I applied my own bandages, I ached in my loneliness. I didn’t miss my ex, who wouldn’t have helped me anyway. I missed someone who didn’t exist. An empathetic partner who would take care of me, listen, understand, believe.

I needed help. And soon, it would come. But it would come at a cost.

I missed Roy, though I hadn’t met him yet. It’s difficult to regret everything that happened because it led me to him. My great love. I tried to be honest with you girls about what to expect from men. Had I known Roy back then, maybe I would have been less cynical. Maybe. There are exceptions to every rule.

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