Hallow Springs

Twenty-seven

The front door's creak echoed through the knave of St. Jude's. There was an eerie silence in the Church as I walked in, as if I walked into a party that I wasn't invited to. The pews were empty and the lights were dimmed, expect for lights shining up at the stations of the cross lining the walls below the stained-glass windows. I walked up the center aisle and found the back of a little girl's head, kneeling in prayer. She broke her prayer and faced me – it was Suzie. She smiled, as if happy to see me there, and then bowed her head back to prayer. I passed and made my way to the foot of the cross, hanging from the ceiling.

The carved statue looked down on me with the same painful yet serene expression that most crucifixes held. But for some reason this time, Jesus's eyes consoled me with a different glint – the glint of pity. I was shaken from the sight and only snapped from it at the echoing greeting from a familiar voice.

"Amanda?" I jumped, startled by the voice, but spun to meet a warm, blushing face.

"Father O'Reilly..." He stepped toward me, shaking his finger in the air at me.

"I knew that lost sheep would be comin' back eventually." He flashed a grin. "They always do."

"Oh no, I'm here on business." For some reason, I felt like I needed to correct him.

"Aren't we all?" he asked. I chuckled over my discomfort. He showed me to a seat in the pew and sat next to me.

"Tell me, what sort of business brings you back to the Church?" Father O'Reilly didn't mind taking any chance he had to remind me of how much I am missed in the pews.

"As you know by now, Jeremy Wilson has gone missing. His phone was last pinged via satellite within 100 feet of that alley. Did you see him three nights ago? Or since?"

"No... I haven't. I was saying my Liturgy of the Hours in the confessional and only heard a couple of confessions that night, apparently no one sins anymore these days." I remembered that Catholic priests are bound by the seal of confession – an oath to not disclose anything to anyone that they hear through the sacrament. If Jeremy lifted the tip jar from Ansel and confessed to him, Father O'Reilly wouldn't be able to tell me anything. Priests are surprisingly obedient to this, so it's great if you're confessing, it's not if you are trying to get information from them.

"Have you found any cell phones laying around by chance?"

"Can't say that I have, I'm sorry I'm not any help." Being in his presence was awkward enough, a pit of guilt welled up in me. I felt like a disappointment not only to him but to God. I didn't like facing this lost side of me, because I was truly happy back then, when I had my daughter, my husband and my faith. I knew that my happiness came from all three sources but what I didn't know, before it was too late, was that each of them were tied to each other. One domino fell and the rest tumbled after.

"How have you been since Suzie's death?"

His question came from a place of care, but also was a targeted shot to the heart. He was the first person who has said her name since I had gotten back. I rotated in the pew to see if Suzie was still praying behind us – she was. She was always perfect in Church. Father O'Reilly noticed that I had glanced behind me and so he followed over his shoulder but only to see an empty church.

"I'm doing okay, Father. Staying busy with work."

"Do you still blame God?" I prided myself on asking direct questions in the interrogation room, but I was no match for an Irish priest.

I searched for a distant thought deep within myself.

"Yes..."

"You know Mary lost her child too." I found a statue of the Blessed Virgin standing in a nook on the high wall behind the Altar. "She had to watch as her son was scourged, mocked, stripped and crucified... to thee do we cry, poor banished of Eve: to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears..."

Something deep within me stirred. That was my life – a valley of tears and all you got for me is a prayer. It's not even a real prayer. It's a request to someone who lived over 2,000 years ago to pray for me. My daughter is dead, my life is in shambles and all I hear is that God has a plan.

"How can we call God an all loving being when He has let so much suffering into this world?" I finally faced Father O'Reilly knowing full well that I had asked the unanswerable question of Christian theology, but I shuddered upon seeing his stone-cold expression. He was not taken off guard by the question and was obviously not going to cater to my misery. "The Church says God is infinitely merciful and infinitely just? What is just or merciful about letting my daughter be murdered. If He has the power to intervene and come down from heaven and stop some madman from killing my daughter! Why wouldn't he? Just and merciful? How about cruel and lazy."

He didn't blink an eye, as if he encountered struggling faithful every day.

"You know most people fall away from the faith because they don't understand that if God is all powerful and all good than how could He let so much suffering in the world?... Do you know what freedom is?... Freedom is the ability to choose the good. But with that freedom comes the ability to choose wrong – the ability to do bad things, evil things... If God didn't let us act freely in the world He has made for us then we are just prisoners to it aren't we? What I'm trying to say is... God didn't murder your child, Amanda. Some terrible person who freely chose evil over good did... You will see her again though, Amanda, in heaven."

My insides quaked, my gut trembled as I tried to maintain my composure. I had to get out of there before I broke – the walls were coming down and I had to leave before they collapsed and buried me.

"God doesn't want me in heaven. If He did, He wouldn't have made my life a living hell." The pew creaked as I raised to my feet and began my escape.

"God has a plan, Amanda."

"A plan! God has a plan! Do you know how many times I've heard that? If God has a plan for me that involves me burying my daughter, I don't want any part of it!" My yells echoed through the Church. Once they faded, we both fell silent. There was nothing left to say, so I nodded curtly and turned on my heel. I made it about halfway up the aisle before I heard Father O'Reilly ask a question that froze me to the spot. He wasn't going to let me have the last word.

"Are you still seeing her?"

I consulted Suzie in the pew – she shrugged as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar. My heartbeat slowed and the shock continued to spread through my limbs. I had to remind myself to breath as his question pushed me off rhythm. And then a tear began to well up in the eye that looked at Suzie.

Father O'Reilly is the only person I ever told that I had visions of her. This was back before my marriage fell apart and before I left Hallow Springs. He was a good man that I trusted and he was the only persons who hadn't given up on me after all of these years. The tear gave way, streaming down my cheek to the Church floor.

"Yes..." An Irish grin spread across his face. "Why does God let my daughter's ghost haunt me?"

��8�<>

             "My child, don't you see. He's hasn't sent a ghost to haunt you... He's sent an angel to help you..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How do you like Father O-Reilly?

Vote, Comment, Share!