Page 7 of Soft Tissue Damage
“AuntAstrid,” she corrects, not looking up from counting the money I just gave her.
“Aunt Astrid, will you please tell me?” I ask, with as much patience as I’m able. I don’t want to sit here and drink coffee with them. I just want to pay off my debt and never see my guardians again, but they insist on this charade because we’re “family.” Neither woman is my real aunt, but I’ve addressed them as such ever since they took me in as a baby. They’re sisters, and distant relations of my mother Sybil, though I’ve also heard them call her Sally. When I asked about the discrepancy, they told me that Sally is short for Sybil, but when I looked it up, I found out that Sally is short for Sarah.
“Have you been going to church?” Frieda asks me.
I keep a polite smile plastered on my face while internally screaming. “No, but will you please answer the question about the debt?” Ever since I moved out of this house two and a half years ago, I’ve been paying off the money my mother owes them for raising me. Sybil—or Sally—gave them a certain amount of money to cover raising me for a year or two, and she promised to come back for me. When she didn’t, she wrote and told Astrid and Frieda that she would send more money, but she didn’t do that either. All my life, my aunts have told me that if they’re not careful, I’ll grow up as irresponsible and lazy as my mother, and I must pay off my mother’s debt to them to prove my worth.
I don’t want their cookies or their sour coffee. I don’twant to sit in their kitchen while they pick apart my life choices. I don’t want their judgment or to attend Mass with them. What I want is my mother’s full name and contact details so I can finally meet my real family. I have no original birth certificate, and my legal last name is Astrid and Frieda’s. Last year I sent my DNA away to one of those genealogy websites, and it returned four hundred distant relatives, but no close ones. I checked what their definition of “close” was, and it included up to second cousins. There were dozens of third cousins listed, people I share great-great-grandparents with. Those aren’t people who would hug me and cry when we meet. I was hoping for a parent, a sibling, or at least a cousin.
Astrid tucks my hard-earned tips into her handbag. “Why haven’t you been going to church?”
Because I don’t know if I believe anymore, and all I get is judgment from Father Connell since I moved out. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had time. I’m working as much as I can so I can afford to live and give you money as well.”
The resentfulness in my tone makes Frieda’s eyes flash in anger. “We are doing this for the sake of your immortal soul. How will you ever grow into a good and honest person if you don’t keep your promises?”
It wasn’t my promise, it was my mother’s promise, but we’ve had this argument before.
“I am a good and honest person,” I say quietly. I am worth something, despite what they’ve told me all my life.
“Such arrogance out of your mouth. If you’re not goingto church, you are godless,” Frieda tuts. “Who will want such a woman?”
This is another familiar refrain. I’m so awful that no one man will ever want to marry me. I know better than to rise to the bait, but I’m feeling defensive today, and the words accidentally spill from my lips. “Actually, I have a…”
Their faces transform in outrage. I trail off, but it’s too late.
“A boyfriend? You let a boy touch you?” Astrid screeches.
Frieda clutches the rosary around her neck and makes the sign of the cross, like I mentioned Satan at her kitchen table. “We are going to church right now and you are confessing to Father Connell, and then we will attend Mass.”
“I can’t, I have to do laundry before my shifts tomorrow.” But my aunts are putting on their coats and combing through their hair and they aren’t listening to me. “Will you please just tell me how much debt I have left to pay off so you can give me my mother’s name?” My voice grows shrill and my insides burn as I beg them for the one thing I truly want.
“You’re a long way off yet, girl. We’ll tell you when you’re getting close.”
“We’re teaching you a valuable lesson. You’ll thank us one day.”
A gray cloud settles over me as I let them push me out the door and into their car. As we drive the short distance to Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, I promise myselfthat next time I’ll think of a way for them to tell me something.
Inside the church, my aunts push me loudly and forcefully toward the confessional, as if I’m an emergency case who can’t wait another moment.
I go behind the curtain in the booth, get on my knees, and look up at Father Connell through the mesh that’s supposed to conceal our identities from each other. There’s no chance he doesn’t know who I am. I’ve been coming to this church for as long as I can remember.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…” I think for a moment.
“Well?” snaps Father Connell.
“I can’t remember exactly. Father, I don’t want to offend you, but I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
On the other side of the mesh, his lips thin in disapproval. “Think, girl.”
“I think it was three weeks ago. But I’m not sure if I believe in confession anymore. I don’t know if I still have faith.” I can feel Frieda’s and Astrid’s furious gazes burning me through the curtain. The guilt heaped upon my head is eating me up from the inside. I try to be a good person, but it feels like no matter what I do, I’m never enough.
“Then you must pray for the Lord to be in your heart, but He cannot reveal the truth to you if you do not confess your sins. Or are you so arrogant that you believe you’re already free from sin?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Then confess.”
I glance at the booth’s curtain. If I go out there now, my aunts will know I didn’t do as asked, and they’ll be angrier with me than ever. I long for the day when I never have to see them again. Never once have they told me they love me. When they look at me, they see a sponge, hungrily sucking up all the money out of their hands. I dared to need food, clothing, and shelter as I grew up, and they’ve always resented me for it. I feared their cruel, snapping words and coldness that would last for days whenever I grew out of a pair of shoes, so I always waited too long to tell them and ended up with foot cramps and blisters. To this day, I break out in a cold sweat if I accidentally tear my clothing, lose a pen, or a seam becomes unstitched.
