A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [18]
“Then why not put her back in her . . .” I couldn’t even say the word “coffin.” It sounded so ghoulish. I began to lose my appetite, and I panicked and kept eating.
“Timing,” he replied. He played with the end of my stole. “The girls had already been through so much, and the replacing of the body would too traumatic.”
I imagined a girl my age in the cold, cold ground, and shuddered. “Is there a graveyard here?”
“Yes. I presided over her burial myself.”
He gestured to the food. “Eat. Drink.”
“Why did she die?” I asked him.
“She had a weak heart,” he said, his voice dropping. He sounded sad and troubled. My own heart went out to him. I took several more spoonfuls; still hungry, I laid the spoon in the bowl.
“I want my mother,” I told him. I was dizzy, and I could barely keep my eyelids open. “Why couldn’t she stay here, too? She could earn her keep.”
He lifted my spoon to my lips. “Unfortunately, there are too many mouths to feed here as it is. Now listen, Bess—that’s your name, isn’t it? Others sacrificed so that you would be nourished. Not well-nourished, I’m afraid,” he added.
“I’m so tired. I’m too sleepy,” I said, which astonished me. Five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have believed I could say such a thing, but my eyes were closing.
“Come now,” he prodded. I didn’t answer. I was half-asleep already. “I’ll walk you to your room, then,” he said. “You shouldn’t be in the hallways alone.”
I wanted to ask him why. This was a convent, a holy place, wasn’t it? We were safe.
I couldn’t form the words. I felt as if I were dreaming as he took my hand and helped me to my feet. I imagined that he would carry me, like a princess. He was too handsome to be a priest.
That’s sinful, I thought, sighing.
“You’re troubled?” he asked me, as the walls of the dormitory floated past me.
“Everything . . . is troubling,” I said. “Who was Sarah?”
“Another girl. She passed away six months ago.” He paused. “There was a washerwoman, too. A young Irish woman. The girls seemed to have forgotten about her.” He crossed himself.
“That was before the crash.” I stumbled; he steadied me, but I began to fold up, like the accordion our old priest at Sacred Heart used to play, like a tired, wan survivor. “How did she die?”
I knew he answered, but I didn’t hear him. Then hands came around me . . . was he undressing me? Was someone else? I couldn’t seem to see anything. I remembered that my bed was unmade, yet now I lay in starched, bleached sheets. They made my skin itch, and my eye water as they closed . . .
... and I woke up suddenly, my lids half-opening, as whispers wafted through gloomy half-light:
“This is the one.” It was Mother Mary Patrick. “Such a troublemaker.”
“Perfect.” The young priest.
I opened my eyes. My head was at an angle; light from the hallway spilled into my room, and a shadow fell across my face. With terrible effort, I slowly turned my head and raised it off my pillow, almost grunting.
Their backs to me, Mother Mary Patrick and the priest stood at the head of the bed beside Annabelle’s. They were gazing down at the occupant; then Mother Mary Patrick pulled a piece of white cloth from the sleeve of her habit and handed it to the priest. He draped it over the crucifix on the wall.
They turned, facing me, and I shut my eyes tightly. I could feel them moving past my bed; and my heart skipped beats as they stopped.
“She didn’t eat all her gruel,” the priest said. “She was too upset.”
“You don’t think . . . ?” Mother Mark Patrick replied, sounding anxious.
“No. She’s asleep.” He snapped his fingers. “Bess?” he whispered. “You see? It’s fine.”
“Poor lamb, poor lamb,” Mother Mary Patrick murmured, her voice far kinder than I had ever heard it. “All my poor lambs.”
“It’s for the best,” the priest replied. “You know that.”
Then they left the room, shutting the door, taking the light with themselves. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t force my eyes open again. I was trying