Page 22 of One Last Breath

“Of course He does. People often confuse justice with righteousness, but Jesus made it clear that an eye for an eye was a poor system and one designed for a people who didn’t have the Holy Spirit to guide them.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I snap. “We’re to love those who persecute us and pray for those who spite us. But are we to just accept that the wicked go unpunished?”

“The wicked are punished, my child.”

“Oh yes, in a lake of fire and brimstone, right? And we must accept at face value that such a place exists?”

“The wicked are punished on this Earth, Mary, long before they reach their eternal torment. We may not see their punishment, but sin tortures the evildoers. It follows them like a specter and haunts them everywhere they go.”

I’ve just about had it with these allusions to ghosts. “I’ve done with specters, Father. I’m tired of seeing through a glass darkly. I am lied to by those who should love me. I am asked for answers I can’t give. I am accused of abandoning those I love when they are the ones who abandoned me. I am so tired of feeling guilty. I’m so tired of feeling responsible for the actions other people take. When am I to think of myself? When does my pain start to matter and that of others stop?”

I close my mouth and stare ahead at the wall of the booth. How did this happen? I came here to find answers about the Greenwoods, not to unload my personal trials. I am not Catholic. I haven’t been for more than half my life. I didn’t come here to confess, so why is that exactly what I’m doing?

“The wicked flee when no man pursues,” Father Doyle replies. His calm is both soothing and infuriating. “But the righteous are as bold as a lion. Understand I don’t mean to accuse you, Mary. I only wonder, is it truly the actions of others that cause you to feel persecuted, or is the guilt you carry your own?”

I don’t reply. It seems I’ve finally regained enough self-control to keep from blurting out any more dark secrets.

After a long moment, Father Doyle suggests, "Why don't you come to Mass this Sunday? There is a daycare at the Church for the younger children and a Sunday School for the older children. The servants here are all parishioners. They won't mind if you take their children to Mass, even if they don't attend as often as I like. Perhaps you'll join me in the booth at the Church, and we can talk a little more about what truly concerns you. Or perhaps you won't. Either way, I think you would benefit from knowing that at least one Ghost truly loves you and wants what's best for you. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this thought: guilt can consume you if you're not careful. But if you give guilt nothing to consume, it will waste away."

I hear more shuffling, and a moment later, the door opens. I take a breath and open my own door. Father Doyle is kind enough not to stare at me as I walk out of the chapel and hurry to the stairs and out of the suffocating basement.

I don’t understand what happened to me down there. I am not the sort of person who loses self-control like that.

But there's no denying that I was under the spell of forces greater than myself. It remains to be seen whether those voices intend good for me as the father suggests, or whether the hostility I feel when the basement door opened was more genuine than any love the Church ascribes to God.

Either way, do I really want to surrender my will to a Ghost, Holy or otherwise?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next two days pass in a fog. I don't suffer any more nightmares, but my waking hours feel dreamlike. I smile and laugh and play along with the children, but even my interactions with them feel… off, somehow.

I feel like I’m floating through a fantasy world. I’m not dissociated. I know that I wake and shower and eat and work and play and talk. I know that I am on the Greenwood Plantation in Savannah, Georgia. I know there is a summer thunderstorm on Friday that gives way to boiling sunshine on Saturday. I am aware that all of these things are real and not fabricated, but they all seem blunted, almost like I’m under the influence of a very powerful painkiller that mutes my nerves so I can’t quite feel anything fully.

The last time I recall feeling this way is in the months following Annie’s disappearance. For several weeks, I urge police to look for her, but eventually, they convince me to let her go. For some time after that, things feel as they do now, blunted and muted and not entirely real.

According to my medical record, I spent three of those months committed.

I decide I will visit for Mass, even if it’s only to remind myself that a world exists beyond these walls. Father Doyle’s church is in Avondale, a modest, though not poor neighborhood a few miles southeast of the estate. I’m surprised that the Greenwoods select this as their home church and not the Cathedral Basilica, but that fits with their secretive nature. They’d rather not rub shoulders with the other wealthy families of Savannah.

The children aren’t enthused about going to Mass, but I lure them with the promise of ice cream after the service. Wharton offers to help me with the children today and seems quite pleased that I’ve chosen to attend Mass. Evidently, he is quite devout.

“I do hope you’ll enjoy it, Miss Mary. Father Doyle is a wonderful priest, and the people there are kind and accepting of everyone. And don't worry about the children. They're perfectly well-behaved in the house of God."

“You’re sure of this?”

“Oh yes. Lila and I used to take the older ones when they were little, and sometimes I still take them when their families aren’t able to go.” He grins. “They scammed you into that promise of ice cream, I’m afraid to say.”

I smiled wryly. “Well, I suppose they deserve to reap the rewards of their hard work.”

We take the bus to Mass since none of the Greenwoods' cars have seating for eleven. As promised, the children are gentle as lambs. Father Doyle beams when he notices my presence, and the sermon he delivers is no doubt intended for my ears as it is entirely about casting all of your cares upon Christ.

It’s a good sermon, but I’m here to speak to Father Doyle privately. I want a chance to ask all of the questions I failed to ask on Thursday.

I get the chance to ask my questions, but not from Father Doyle. After the parishioners are dismissed, I see Wharton talking with a pretty blonde girl around Annabelle’s age. As Wharton is in his forties and a perfect gentleman, I can’t imagine he is flirting with a girl young enough to be his daughter. But perhaps he knows her through Annabelle.

My suspicion turns out to be correct. When I approach, Wharton smiles at me and says to his companion, “Miss Sylvia, this is Miss Mary Wilcox. She’s our new housekeeper.”

Syliva smiles at me and says, “Oh yes, Annabelle’s told me all about you.”

---