We’re several miles down the road before either of us dares to speak. The windshield wipers are our only soundtrack besides the slowing of our pounding hearts.
“I thought today was it,” Grant admits. I grunt my agreement.
“I hope whatever this is for, it’s fucking worth it,” I mutter, wiping my glasses again when the condensation fogs them.
ONE
Levi
“Father,forgive me for I have sinned.” Her voice is soft and sweet as it comes through the divider of the confessional. I’d recognize it anywhere after months of stalking her every movement through her phone and weeks of observing her here on the grounds of the convent, even if the swath of copper-spun hair wasn’t visible through the grate as I pull it back. “It has been one month since my last confession.”
I slip two fingers under my white collar, attempting to buy myself breathing room. But it won’t budge. The heavily starched fabric is like a vice, scratching against my skin as I flip through the notes I quickly scribbled down about the sacrament before I entered this medieval cage of secrets. I just have to hope I have enough of an outline to get me through. If hell exists, I’m certainly going after this.
I was only able to gain extended access to the remote island in the middle of an alpine lake by pretending to be a priest on pilgrimage. The convent is famous for its numerous reliquaries and shrines established behind the towering stone walls thatseem more like a fortress than a home for a religious order. When I arrived, I claimed that I was on sabbatical, practicing reflection while I researched a book I was writing on the lives of saints. The massive archive in one wing of the convent had proven to be the perfect alibi while I tried to make sense of everything I knew about her so far.
The only problem with the plan is that on days like today, when the priest who usually takes English speakers’ confessions is out sick, I’m politely asked to take over the duty—with no good reason to say no. So now, I’m trapped here right along with all the salacious details and inner workings of the penitents' personal lives. The confessions run the gamut. Taking extra desserts on a bad day. Laziness when it comes to the recitation of prayers because they hadn’t slept well. Anger at being made to clean the toilets for the fourth time this month. There’s a long list of supposed sins that seem more like an account of the human condition. It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that she’d be one of the penitents. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my smile at bay.
She shifts on the kneeler, unclasping her steepled hands to a laced and folded position, and clears her throat before she speaks again.
“And lastly, I’ve been having impure thoughts about someone. Someone I shouldn’t.” She pauses, taking a breath before she finishes her confession. “A priest.”
“A priest?” I finally speak, wanting to be sure I heard her correctly. Thankfully, it comes out more strained than I intend and masks the sound of my real voice.
“Yes, Father. I know how it sounds. Iknow,” she laments. “It’s been weighing on me. I’ve been praying. But I have dreams.” She sounds flustered, and I can imagine the creep of a blush spreading over her cheeks. I’ve seen it more than once in the archives when I’ve caught her off guard. I only regretnot being able to see through the privacy screen well enough to watch her color change now.
“Dreams are out of our control. You can’t sin in your dreams. Have you acted on them?” I do my best to mimic the altered tone I used before.
There’s a long pause. One that makes me feel like she’s about to admit to the sin of betraying her vows. But I haven't done anything with her. Not yet. And if it’s not me, which priest? Is there someone else she's seeing that I don't know about? The drip of panic enters the back of my mind as I try to figure out who might have that kind of hold on her. I need it to be me.Only me.
“Not with him.”
Not with him? My brow furrows and I shift on the worn cushion as I try to make sense of it.
“Without him?” I ask, gritting my teeth when I realize I spoke in my normal voice.
“Alone,” she answers so softly I can barely hear her. “At night.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
I clear my throat and then shutter my eyes. I’m already imagining her hands moving under the sheets of her dormitory-style bed in her tiny room. It’s not like I haven’t heard her before, making those little noises when she thinks no one is listening in. But now I’m wishing I’d been able to watch too.
Fuck.I’m making this awkward for her by leaving her in silence. If I were a real priest, this would be a run-of-the-mill, if not a little extra-spicy, confession, and I sure as fuck would not be imagining it.
“Is there anything else?” I cover, trying to pretend like I was waiting for the end of her confession.
“No.”
“Then for penance, say three rosaries.” I've been doling out rosaries left and right today. It’s the best I can remember from the few times my mother took us when we were children. Two was the highest I’d given all day, but three felt fair given her sins. “A day. Until the dreams stop or for a full month. Whichever is longer,” I tack on at the end.
I hear the sound of her nodding behind the wall, the rustle of her hair, and the soft whoosh of movement, and then she begins to recite the act of contrition. Her voice is beautiful. I could listen to her talk for hours, repeating prayers, talking about the archives, giving a tour of the reliquaries on the convent grounds—the content doesn't matter much. She has a soothing voice and an almost melodic laugh. One I've grown rather fond of while I've been getting to know her better over the last few weeks as she served as my personal archivist, guide, and occasional lunch companion.
We’ve managed a few walks alone through the garden, too, when I volunteered to help her gather ingredients for dinner. A chore she seems to get assigned more often than not around here. She loves to cook, and she lamented the fact that she can't make some of her favorites from back home in the States. It was nice, she said, to have someone else who could relate to her cravings.
She finishes her recitation of contrition, and I repeat the words of absolution from the notes in front of me that I've been practicing all day, trying to slow them in a way that makes them sound more profound and to buy myself some more time in quiet reflection.
A few moments later, we share the sign of the cross, and she scurries out from the darkness of the confessional back into the bright light of the church. A stream of stained-glass-soaked sunbeams floods through the small grate, and I shut the window to block it out, shrouding myself in darkness again. I lean myhead against the wooden wall behind me. I can't think too hard about what she confessed. My mind would wander to places my body would follow. Things I can't act on while I keep up with the ruse of confession. I'll save that for later.
