I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (7 page)

Shit.

I turn into the church parking lot and shut the memories from last night the fuck down. I park, yank the emergency brake up, rake my fingers through my hair.
Shit, shit, shit.
What the hell was I thinking? I work for this church now, I can’t avoid Missy forever. If she blabs that I was with her and she had cocaine, I know what everyone will think. They’ll think I’ve gone right back to my old ways. Hell, they’ll probably think I supplied her.

But why would Missy say anything to anyone? I’m sure her drug use is a secret. And I seriously doubt she plans on broadcasting what happened between us in that disgusting alley any more than I do.

So, I take a breath, then another. Yeah, everything might turn out okay. This secret should be safe.

I glance around.

Mass ended a while ago; everyone is gone. The lot is empty, except for one car, a blue Neon with faded paint that looks a little worse for wear. I don’t know who it belongs to, but I know it’s not Missy’s. I was enough of a gentleman last night to walk her to her car. Although I think she was pissed I didn’t ask for her number. Oh, well. Like I said before, what happened between us was a one-time deal.

The rain, though lighter than before, continues to fall. Hell, it’s as good of an excuse as any to hang out in the lot for a while longer. But I can’t kid myself. I just don’t want to face Father Maridale quite yet. I know he’ll ask why I missed Mass this morning. Guess I’ll tell him I forgot to set my alarm. It’s no lie. I just won’t be relaying the reason why I was too tired to remember.

I slouch down in my seat, flip the radio on. An Imagine Dragons tune comes through the speakers. I like this song, a lot, so I turn up the volume. The music soothes my mind, and I start to feel better, more relaxed.

As if the weather is in synch with my brightening mood, the rain suddenly stops.

Perfect.

The sun comes out and this really good feeling washes over me, like maybe today is some kind of a new start.

Getting out of the truck, I think,
bring it on
. I am more than ready for whatever this new life of mine may have in store.

Chapter Two

Kay

“Number one, you loved the color purple. Number two, you couldn’t sleep unless you were holding Peetie.” My voice breaks as I hold tight to a stuffed bunny with bent and floppy ears—Peetie.

I’d planned to leave him here—at the grave—but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Her
hands were the last to have touched him, that’s why he’s missing a nose. And there’s this faint hint of red on his tummy, from cherry Kool-Aid-stained-lip kisses.

Her kisses, Sarah’s kisses.

What if I leave Peetie here and someone steals him? What if he becomes ruined from the rain, faded beyond recognition from the beating sun? This stuffed bunny is one of the few reminders I have left of my little sister. So, no, I won’t take a chance and lose Peetie too.

I gingerly stuff the worn fawn rabbit back into a hobo-style bag that’s big enough to hold his plushy body, as well as all the other crap I keep in there.

Clearing my throat, I turn back to the grave, and say, “Number three. I was always Kay-bear, never Kay.”

A single tear falls.
God, why does it still hurt so much?

The dark veil of clouds that have been threatening to let loose since the conclusion of Mass finally do so, and a fine mist of raindrops begins to accumulate on the granite marker before me. I pull the cotton candy pink sleeve of the cardigan I’m wearing down over my hand and blot away the moisture from a name carved in stone—Sarah Stanton.

“Sorry, sweetie,” I say. And I am sorry, so very, very sorry.

I should go—before the rain picks up—but I just can’t seem to move.

Visiting this grave week after week, recalling and reciting three things about my little sister—lingering when I should leave—these are all parts of my Sunday ritual. One I’ve done for almost four years now. And today is no different.

I must never forget the things I relay to my baby girl each week, which is why later I’ll write in a journal the things I’ve just said: Sarah loved the color purple, couldn’t sleep without Peetie, and never called me Kay.

Using short phrases such as these, I’ve filled four notebooks in four years’ time. Last week I bought a fifth. The new one has a shiny purple cover and a glitter heart etched in the center. Purple, Sarah’s favorite color. Never forget, right?

I hate how time has a way of blurring the memories, easing the guilt. I deserve to suffer. My grief anchors me to my guilt. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Probably both, a never-ending circle. In any case, I rarely miss a Sunday visit to this little cemetery behind Holy Trinity Church.

And the routine—like a song—remains the same…

Following Mass, I exit through propped-open doors—heavy oak and painted red. A few steps down and I say good-bye to Missy Metzger and her mom, but not before being roped into promising to help out with whatever church fundraiser is coming up. Missy is the head of the bake committee, and her mom runs just about everything else. Seems like there’s always talk of cakes and cookies, and changes to be made on the church activities calendar. This week it’s sugar and spice and a cancelled picnic. I nod and smile, then slip away to the right and out of sight.

I catch my breath as I meander along the gentle curve of a stone pathway that leads to the back of the church. The cemetery is the first thing you come to. The rectory is back here too, but way off to the right. There’s a low gate made of iron marking the entrance to the cemetery. It’s deeply embedded in the ground, standing forever crooked and ajar. I always stop here and send up a silent (and selfish) prayer to be left alone, although there’s never any need. No one ever bothers me back here.

Most of the parishioners have witnessed enough of my routine at one time or another to know how much it means to me. Consequently, they tend to give me lots of space. I guess they feel bad. Yet another benefit reaped from when others feel sorrow for you.

The irony is that I don’t deserve their compassion, not an ounce of their sympathy. What they believe about me isn’t true. But only God and two other people (besides me) know the real reason why my little sister was left alone that night, why she ended up in a granite-marked grave behind a crooked and perpetually ajar iron gate.

These are usually my thoughts as I stand at the graveyard entrance. They certainly were today, as I hemmed and hawed and chewed at my lip. But finally—with a heart laden with guilt—I walked down the well-worn path, snaked past the graves, turned left where Jonas O’Neill has been resting in (hopefully) eternal piece for close to a century, and then continued to the very back.

I slowed, as I always do, when I reached the section where the wind chimes, the stuffed bears, and a rabbit that looks just like Peetie all reside. Gifts laid before the feet of children who will never know what their loved ones have brought them.
These
children will never hear the soft tinkling of the wind chimes tied in the trees, never hold the soft and furry animals close to their hearts. Because their little hearts no longer beat with life.

Still, the living persists and stuffed toys are placed and replaced. Most rest against, or on, the small markers. As time passes, the gifts tumble over. Some just go missing completely, which is why I can’t leave Peetie. As I look to the sky, I touch my purse and pat the stuffed bunny-shaped lump through the material.

I lower my eyes and stare at the wide trunk of an old oak that’s right in front of Sarah’s grave. I like to imagine the tall, gnarled tree is a guardian of sorts, watching over all the little children whose lives have been cut short, for reasons known only to God.

I don’t know. It’s a nice thought and all, but, when it comes right down to it, I know the oak is just an oak, no different from any other tree. I shift in my kneeling position and adjust the hem of the floral dress I’m wearing today. I don’t want the fabric to get wedged under my knees and end up soiled. While I strive to keep rose-print-on-linen clean, my bare knees sink another inch into the soggy ground.

I glance up into the branches of the old oak. Even through the kaleidoscope of leaves, the darkening sky threatens. Things are about to get a lot soggier in a few more minutes.

Okay, maybe sooner…

The rain begins to fall. The bushy canopy of leaves above me provides a modicum of shelter, but cold, fat raindrops still anoint my head.

It’s just a passing shower, but judging from the color of the sky it looks as if things will worsen before they get better. Still, I don’t want to leave quite yet. I know I should go, I’ve lingered long enough, but I have nothing really to do, no reason not to stay.

There are no tasks this day to fill my afternoon.

I teach first grade at the parochial school next door, and Sunday afternoons are usually spent preparing for the week ahead. But with the ring of the final bell this past Friday, the start of summer break was signaled. That means, this week, there are no assignments to grade, no lessons to plan, no fun projects to throw together, nothing. And there won’t be till fall.

How very unfortunate for me, since my Sunday tasks usually keep me busy, busy. So busy in fact that I’ve barely had time to pay any heed to the run-down basement apartment I call home. Today, though, with nothing to distract me, I fear my crummy living conditions may very well swallow me up, until I find myself in the belly of despair, faced with no choice but to acknowledge just how pitiful my living arrangements really are.

So, yeah, I am in no hurry to go home.

I shift again and lower my gaze to the ground. The grass all around me is so incredibly lush and so very, very green, thanks to all the rain. In this emerald sea of blades, a clump of wild violets captures my attention. The tiny flowers are within arm’s reach. I lean to my right and carefully pluck six—one for each year of my baby sister’s too-short life.

I bind the stems together with a skinny blade of grass and place the mini bouquet at the base of the headstone. I whisper once more, “You loved the color purple.”

The fine mist turns to a steady drizzle. I need to seek shelter if I plan to stick around and not get soaked. I rise to my feet, smooth out the wrinkles in my dress, and straighten my sweater. A breeze kicks up and I cross my arms. I know there’s a small covered bench on the other side of the cemetery. I’ve sat there a few times when the weather has turned inclement like this.

The rain picks up even more, hurrying me along. I snatch my bag up off the ground, spin around, and take off at a full sprint. Thank goodness for flats. I outrun the worst of the downpour, but by the time I plop down on the bench—thankful to be sheltered from the elements—my cardigan is damp and my ballet flats are soaked.

I kick the squishy shoes off, and bring my legs up until my dress shrouds almost every inch of bare skin. The cemetery is peaceful and quiet, especially with the falling rain. I close my eyes, listen to the pat-pat-patter on the wooden roof above me, and think about my life.

With no class to teach, the next three months threaten to be lonely and long. I have no real friends. Maybe Missy, but it’s not like we’re particularly close. Apart from church-related things, we don’t spend much time together.

It’s not Missy’s fault, not really. The blame rests with me. I always decline when she asks me to go places with her, places like the Anchor Inn, a local bar in town.

“We’ll have so much fun, Kay,” she usually says. “Come on-n-n. Maybe you’ll meet a cute guy. God, when’s the last time you even had a date?” An up-and-down appraisal always accompanies her words, along with a look of pity.

“You’re actually kind of pretty, Kay.”—
gee, thanks,
I think, but don’t say—“You should reconsider. You just never know who you might run into at the Anchor Inn.”

Maybe she’s right, and maybe one of these days I’ll take her up on her offer. Then again, maybe not. I haven’t had much luck with men, and I don’t foresee any change in the future.

I sigh and toy with my sweater sleeve. It’s sad really. Not much gives me joy.

Well, maybe teaching. That I love. I’ve only been doing it a year, but I enjoy it immensely. Far more than I ever thought I would back when I was taking education classes at college. But the kids are so amazing. They’ve won me over.

It saddens me to think I won’t be seeing the children that brightened my days until fall. Such a long ways away. Sure, I’ll probably run into a few kids around Harmony Creek, when they’re out with their parents. But I know I’ll miss the day-to-day interactions, some of which resulted in little joys I never would have expected. Such as Timmy’s silly-happy grin when he hears we’re starting a new art project or Hanna’s beaming face when she receives a gold star on a particularly tough math worksheet. And then there’s Colton’s palpable sense of accomplishment when he’s able to read an entire paragraph out loud to the class with not one mistake. That warms my heart beyond belief. Just remembering all of these special moments brings a smile to my lips.

I guess it’s fairly obvious my whole life is wrapped up in the church and the school. But it’s really all I have. That’s why I pray the day never comes when Father Maridale pulls me aside and tells me the church can no longer afford to keep me. And it could happen. I’m the newest hire, and enrollment at Holy Trinity is down, more so than last year. There’s less and less money coming in. I worry not just for my own job security, but for the future of the school in general. Goodness knows the building itself is in dire need of repairs. The red brick exterior is holding up well, but the inside is a mess—dull linoleum floors, burned-out lighting, peeling and scuffed paint on the classroom walls. It’s sad, really.

There’s a little bit of money set aside—that’s what Father Maridale tells me—but it’s not enough to hire workers with the kind of skills required. That’s why I was
so
thrilled when Father pulled me aside a few weeks ago and said he’d found someone who could fix up the school at a fair price.

First, I was worried this prospective employee would do a shoddy job, seeing as he was willing to work so cheaply. But then Father told me this guy was more than qualified.

I couldn’t believe our good fortune that day. I clapped my hands excitedly and just about gave the leader of our parish a hug. But then Father Maridale told me whom he’d hired, and I froze, wondering if maybe Father was exhibiting early signs of senility.

“You’re kidding, right? Chase Gartner? No way.”

I was floored. Didn’t Father know this guy’s past?

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to allow him to work alone in the church?” I pressed. “Not to mention in the school.”

I know who Chase Gartner is; everybody in this town knows. And just because he shows up in church every week now that he’s out of prison doesn’t mean he’s changed or reformed.

When I said pretty much this exact thing to Father Maridale, he frowned, and told me Chase was a good guy who deserved a second chance. He chastised me and reminded me that it’s our duty to help those in need, not to cast judgment.

That last part sort of shut me up. And struck a nerve. I reconsidered. Father Maridale had a point. After all, at least this Gartner guy paid
his
debt to society. And his offense was just some drug-related thing. Not that drug charges aren’t serious, don’t get me wrong, but they pale in comparison to the secret I harbor.

Yet I walk around a free woman, garnering everyone’s pity, when all along it was my negligence that led to my own sister’s demise. I hate it, I hate it.
I
should’ve been the person sent to prison. Perhaps it would’ve lessened all this guilt weighing me down now.

But that never happened, and it never will. Everyone just calls it what it was—an accident. I, however, know it’s one that could have been avoided.

I close my eyes. It bothers me still, and how could it not? Naïve and stupid, that’s what I was, but not anymore. Now, I feel older and wiser, and savvy enough to know to keep my mouth shut, not share secrets with anyone.

Back after Sarah died, I hadn’t learned this lesson though. Or maybe I just had a burning desire to confess. Was I seeking punishment? Maybe. More likely, I wanted absolution.