Emma Lainge is one of the last two writers (both of the romance genre).
Confession is Good for the Soul
It’s finally done.
My spirits lighten as my knees sink into the cushions in front of the small wooden altar. This simple act of supplication further lifts the burden I’ve been carrying.
“If God is real, He’ll help me find justice.”
How young and jaded I was when I made that pact! How broken and angry, and yet, I have found justice – seven times over. So God must be real, and that’s why I’m here.
Now how do I do this? I’ve never tried praying before, I don’t know where to start. Can I just chat to Him? Is it that easy or do I need someone else to open a direct line for me?
Almost on cue, I hear the firm footfalls of someone large and male. Weird how your brain picks up stuff like that! Within seconds the clean scent of soap, laced with hints of pipe tobacco and whiskey fill the air.
I’d recognise Father O’Malley anywhere by smell alone. He’s haunted the hospital corridors and wards for decades, steadfastly servicing the spiritual needs of the sick, the dying and their families.
“Lucy?”
He shuffles his podgy frame into the first pew and sits down, sounding a little short of breath. From this angle, I can see his ankles rolling over the top of his very worn, but shiny shoes. The clinician in me evaluates the evidence of heart and probably liver failure I see, and I find myself wondering how you tell a priest he could do with losing some weight, cutting out the smoking and definitely reducing his liberal doses of whiskey.
“What brings you here at this time of night, child? Are you on a break?”
The dimly lit chapel has a comforting atmosphere despite the soft metallic hum of the hospital air-conditioning system. I nod as I get up and lower my butt onto the space the old priest makes for me on his pew. The wood feels cold through the lightweight material of my scrubs.
“I guess I need to learn to pray Father.”
“What kind of prayer were you wanting?” His deep Irish brogue belies his flabby androgynous appearance.
“Grace … adoration … thanks … petition … ” He watches my expression carefully, before saying, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“Are you nuts?” I choke. “I can’t tell anyone. This is between me and God because … well, because not many people would understand … “
“Lucy, it’s easier to come to God in prayer when you confess your sins. When was the last time you went to confession?”
“What? Like you see in the movies? What good would that do?”
“Confession is good for the soul, Lucy. Whatever is told in confession stays between God and you. I decide what your penance will be and give you absolution. Then we pray for your forgiveness, and you walk away with a clean slate.”
“Just like that? Where’s the catch?”
His whole body wobbles when he laughs. “There is no catch child. You treat sick and broken bodies the way you know, and I treat the ailing and damaged spirit the way the Lord guides me. I can guarantee you’ll feel better for the experience.”
I’m doubtful, but hey … “And anything I say will never, ever be repeated?”
He nods encouragingly as we stare into each other’s eyes.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I’ve never been to church or confession. Tonight I killed a man.”
My gaze doesn’t waiver from his unchanging expression. It’s as if I just told him I ate the last cookie in the jar.
“The man we just transferred to ICU from Resus, Father.”
He smiles kindly. “Lucy dear, he’s not dead. He’d be in the morgue if he was.”
“He will be when they withdraw treatment on Monday. They’ll soon find out he’s brain dead!”
“Lucy. The man was drunk and combative when he came in. They only sedated him and put a tube down his throat to treat his head injury and do a CT scan. ‘Twas the only way they could keep him still.”
“I know. I was there.” The excitement I’d felt at finally having him at my mercy instead of the other way around, was resurfacing and feeling just as pleasant as it did the first time. “When his blood pressure dropped, we quickly ran some intravenous fluids. But I’d primed the line with a whole vial of insulin. His blood sugar would have dropped low enough to starve his brain, and that was why he needed to be resuscitated. His heart was okay, so it kick started again quite quickly.”
“But wouldn’t his blood sugar level be detected with all the blood tests?”
“Probably, if they’d got the sample soon enough, but his oxygen saturation didn’t change so the team were confident in their work. His shock processes had already taken over by the time they did get an arterial line in, and although it was lower than normal, it wasn’t significant.”
“Lucy, why would you have done such a thing to a patient?”
“Huh. I’ve never thought of my stepfather as a patient, even though he actually presented as one. I couldn’t believe my luck! I had no idea how I was going to do it before. He would have been on tender hooks knowing he was the last of them. Then he was just handed to me on a platter.” A smile bursts onto my lips at the irony of the situation. “Well, gurney really.”
Finally his expression changes from neutral to astounded.
“You planned to kill him? Wait a minute. You said he was the last of them – the last of who?”
“That bastard married my mother when I was only six. My mom was a nightshift nurse. She’d put me to bed at eight, and went to work at nine, and that’s when “Daddy Dearest” would come and visit me.”
My heart starts pounding as shocking memories of the awful things that man did to me floods my brain. The terrible secrets I’ve kept for years pour out, and horrifying tales of debauchery at the hands of my stepfather and his friends are purged from my system. Tales of how each man would bring a child to “The Party” in order to enjoy the pleasures of the other children in the room.
“It’s taken me nine years Father. Nine years, but I got each and every one of them for what they did to us. I tried to tell my mother, but she didn’t want to listen. She didn’t believe me. I learnt it was easier to do what I was told to avoid being hurt or put in the ground like one of the other kids.
Then, one night she came home early because she was ill. She found me dancing naked on the dining room table for him and his friends while they played their usual sick game of “Lucy Poker”. She was mortified. He told her I was slut – that I threw myself at him and his friends. That he hadn’t wanted to break her heart by telling her what I was really like when she wasn’t home. And she believed that mongrel!
I was 15 when she kicked me out onto the streets. My own mother went to her grave believing her only child was a brazen hussy! I made friends on the streets. I toughened up. I survived on my own and finished school. But I learnt a lot more than most kids and here I am.”
Father O’Malley looks pensive. “These other men – you killed them too?”
“One way or the other, yes,” I say with a shrug.
“How did you lure them into the hospital to do it?”
“I didn’t,” I smile. “My stepfather was the only one I got on ‘home turf’ so to speak. I caught each one at their own game. Hell, with two of them I even got a little help.”
“You convinced others to help you do this?”
“Not directly. One of those idiots was living on borrowed time and abusing every second of it. Every Friday night he’d stop at the bar and drink until he could barely stand, then stagger home. If he couldn’t unlock the door, he’d collapse on the bench on the front porch and sleep it off, so demagnetising his pacemaker was easy. Bastard didn’t die that night though. His heart only gave out when he went surfing the next morning.”
“What about the other?”
“Not much to tell really. He had an anaphylactic reaction to the Penicillin I mixed into his wife’s Vagisil.”
The old priest looked astounded. “The police chief! Lucy, his wife is being indicted for manslaughter. You can’t let an innocent woman go to trial for something she didn’t do. This will plague your conscience for the rest of your life.”
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh. “She used to make the children ‘treats’ and encourage us to keep smiles on our faces. She introduced us Vagisil to make us ‘more comfortable’! She consoled my mother when she threw me out on the streets. There’s nothing innocent about that woman.”
I find that Father O’Malley is right. Confessing is good for the soul, and the more I share with him the cleaner I start to feel. Years of heaviness I’ve become so accustomed to, disintegrates as I tell him all I’ve kept secret.
He produces a string of Rosary beads, and teaches me how to use them. I learn the “Hail Mary” and relearn the Lord’s Prayer. After another hour of prayer, I’m taught about absolution.
“Your sins are forgiven my child.”
I feel like a new woman. For once, I actually feel like I have a future. A future with no plans or schemes of revenge and hate. A happy future, where anything wonderful could happen.
“Thank you Father.”
He smiles indulgently, patting my knee. “I told you confession is good for the soul.”
I beam back at him, joy radiating from every pore.
“Your secrets are safe with me Lucy dearest,” he murmurs as his hand glides surreptitiously up my leg, to nestle snuggly between my thighs.
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