Page 44 of And Still Her Voice
To spite Grandma Phoebe or maybe just because I’d run out of answers, I stepped into the church. Wasn’t a church, after all, sort of like out of bounds for the authorities? An olly, olly oxen free zone? I remembered my Old Testament catechism mentioning something about safe havens at the altar for criminals who commit accidental murder. Under the domed ceilings, rainbow prisms of light streamed from the arched stained-glass windows. It felt cool inside and the familiar smell of incense infused me with a sense of peace, luring me back in time. I braced myself as I moved forward up the red-carpeted aisle, and when I reached the altar, I knelt down and called upon all the saints and angels I’d ever prayed to in my whole life.
I looked off to the side where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood. I walked over to light one of the penny candles at her feet.You can light them all, but it’s not goingto work, darling.Ilit a votive anyway and then kneeled down to pray to St. Joan, my patron saint I’d chosen at confirmation when I was twelve.
I closed my eyes. “Dear St. Joan, please help me holdup my sword against my assailants and this invader ofmy thoughts.” I pictured myself in armor holding up a sword, jabbing at the air. I was never good at praying, my mind was always flitting all over the place like a captured beetle bug in a mason jar. Soon, all I could hear over the silence were my thoughts. I opened my eyes to look around as I adjusted my knees, remembering my First Holy Communion. I closed my eyes again, to squeeze out the memory, but still my mind drifted to that picture of myself resembling a little seven-year-old angel in my virginal mantilla, like a halo over Shirley Temple curls.
We’re all lined up, boys on one side, girls on the other clicking in white patent-leather shoes over the cool, snow-colored tiles up to the altar. Ahead, penny candles flickered from little strawberry jelly jars, the color of the blood dripping from Jesus’ palms up on the cross. And there, in the pew, sat Mom, wearing her Coty red lipstick and sporting a pair of sunglasses to shield eyes that weren’t just brown, but black and blue. In Mom’s lap napped baby sister, Patty.
“There she is!” Maggie shouted as I made my way up the aisle, little white-gloved hands steepled together in front of my nose in silent supplication. I haven’t seen my father yet and pray he won’t be a no-show.
Absent for my birth, and my baptism, I’d learned, why would this sacrament be any different? But like the traces of frankincense that permeated the church, my father would only be a hint of a memory.
I hadn’t eaten the morning of my First Holy Communion so by the time it’s my row’s turn to stand and make our way to the altar, my stomach growls like Dad with a hangover. This time thescent of the burning incense nauseates me. I stand and wobble like a drunk before staggering up to the Communion rail where I genuflect, look up to Father Reynoso, and stick out my tongue. The wafer tastes like a tortilla. I’m so hungry.
In the name of the Father—touch your forehead—and the Son—touch your heart—and the Holy Spirit—touch eachshoulder.I return to my pew and bow my pin-curled head.
That morning, I’d floated out of the church into a brighter world with all of God’s newest little saints-in-the-making. In the span of an hour, I’d transformed into Saint Anna, patron saint of drunken fathers. At seven years of age, my only mission had been to make Dad stop. I’d felt an energy so powerful that if I only prayed harder, he’d never get drunk again. It didn’t work.
But now maybe if I only pray harder, Grandma Phoebe might leave me alone. I had a new calling as I walked out of St. Ignatius Church. I looked up at the sound of squawking seagulls, imagining myself as part of the flock. I followed them until I hit the dock of the bay.
***
The Golden Gate Bridge loomed large to my left and I wondered if that might be a sign from St. Joan. My father once told me how he’d tried to jump off the Colorado Street “Suicide Bridge” in Pasadena. “It’s the only way I thought I could get rid of the voice,” he’d told me. “When you die, they die.”
I’d need to find a different sign.
CHAPTER 16
Don’t Jump
A briny smell blew in from the bay evoking a memory of the fishing trip with Dad before everything took a dive. What was it about mixing all of these smells with disasters that unearthed these memories? I shook my head, trying to wash away the echo in my mind as I drifted toward the bridge, the mist cooling my face. I reached a boatyard where a sign read ‘Point Golden Gate’ and found a bench where I set my bag down. I took a seat to catch my breath, resting my guitar on my lap. Boats of every type, size and shape sailed, chugged and cruised back and forth beneath the bridge and then the memory bubbled up.
On our fishing trip, Dad had shared how the police showed up at the bridge just before he was going to jump. Someone had reported the car he’d been driving as stolen. He was saved by the red flashing lights, he said.
I wondered what it would be like to jump. Would death be instantaneous, painless? Or would I hit the water only to slowly drown?
I felt a scratch in my throat. “Not a good idea, Darling. Besides you know it is a sin in the Catholic Church. And nothing changes, except that you are on the other side, even more miserable than here on Earth.”
“Years later, Dad did eventually succeed in getting rid of his father’s consciousness.”
“Yes, and if those brave surfers had not rescued him and then brought him back to life, he wouldn’t have survived. He would have died like Wesley. I would advise you not to do anything crazy.”
Apparently, sometime after the bridge fiasco, Dad drove out to Santa Monica and swam out past the breakers where he got spun around as if he were in a giant washing machine. The next thing he remembered was a couple of surfers performing mouth-to-mouth on the shore.
I strummed my guitar. “Yeah, you mean, don’t be like Dad, be more like you.”
“Must you be so contrary?”
“Must you always butt in?” I sang, plucking the strings.
“You would only be worse off on the other side. You are not prepared. You would not have time to transfer your consciousness should you end it all here.”
I thrummed so hard I thought I might have sliced my fingers. “Oh God, why on Earth would I want to transfer my consciousness?”
Silence. I’d won this debate. Chalk one up for me, I thought as a man in a blue uniform marched toward me out of some white government-looking building. I couldn’t tell if he was a cop or not. I wanted to bolt, but he stood close enough to shoot me and not miss. I twanged the strings. “Grandma, someone’s coming. Be quiet.” He got closer and I noticed he wore navy blue bell bottom jeans and a light blue chambray shirt. Not the police, thank God.
“Hello.” He tipped a little blue ball cap. His face tilted up and the spotlight above his blond head seemed to shine on him alone as if he’d been cut out of sunshine and pasted onto a watery background canvas. Close enough for me to see an eagle sitting ina “V” on his upper sleeve; he appeared to be as tall as the bridge in the background.
“Hi.” I removed my hand from my mouth.
