I flip over on the lumpy mattress. The scratchy wool blanket and starched sheets have me rating this resort one out of five stars.
The clock below the crucifix on the stone wall reads four-forty, and I haven’t managed a single wink of sleep in the two hours I’ve been in this room for what Father Martin called, reflection time.
I’m running on empty but laying here in my silent quarters at Saint Margaret’s, my mind is racing as I piece together the last twenty-four hours. A pervasive dampness covers the stone walls while a musty smell hangs in the stale air which does nothing for my already sour stomach.
As my hangover subsides, there’s a stinging spot that throbs on my scalp from where my hair was pulled and my upper arm aches where I’m sure bruises are starting to show.
You fought back. You’re okay.
Damming up the broken memory of what happened in the stinky bar bathroom last night makes the pressure behind my forehead balloon.
As if that’s not enough, the crushing grief sitting on my chest as I wonder where Baby might be right now has tears springing to my eyes. I press the heels of my hands to my eye sockets, forcing sparks to flicker behind my lids.
Is she scared? Does she think I abandoned her?
Is she even still alive?
Or, did someone adopt her? Are they nice and she already loves them, and she’s forgotten about me?
Or, are they horrible, and she’s—
“Katherine?” A female voice cuts through my sorrowful haze, paired with a knock on the wooden door.
“Yes.” I brush the backs of my hands over my wet cheeks, wrapping my arms around my belly against the ripping feeling in my chest as I jerk my sore body into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
“It’s almost five o’clock. Father Martin expects promptness.” The door opens a few inches and the older woman in a nun’s habit I met when we arrived steps just inside the room.
Her skin tone matches her gray dress and she’s paired it with the most god-awful black shoes that look like she could kick a hole in the stone wall without breaking a toe.
“Yes, I know.” I wave at the clock. “I learned how to tell time in Kindergarten.”
Nathalia purses her pale lips, narrowing her eyes. “Rudeness will not be tolerated. I understand you do not wish to be here, but you are here, for reasons I’m sure you understand whether or not you wish to admit them to yourself. First days are hard, Father Martin will go over the rules with you. Make no mistake, he will hold fast to what is best for you. Now, I suggest you change your clothes.” She eyes my boots, then sniffs at my exposed belly. “Do you remember where the session room is? Off the headmaster’s office on the first floor?”
I nod, she nods back. We stare at each other for a few seconds in a game of ‘whoever moves first loses’, which I refuse to lose. After an uncomfortable sixty-four seconds—I counted—she rolls her makeup-less eyes then closes the door and I push to my feet in a huff.
What is this bullshit? I mean, I’m eighteen, what did I sign last night?
I was drunk, so whatever it was is not technically binding since I couldn’t really consent. I’m going to march down there and tell this ‘Father’ I’m leaving first thing in the morning.
How? You gonna hoof it?
There were twenty minutes of nothing but trees and a winding road with no one else in sight on the way here.
I march across the stone floor, a scraping, clumping sound bouncing off the cold walls with each step as I approach the window over a rickety wooden desk with a bible on top next to a hard-bound leather journal and a thick, expensive looking pen, both of which I was instructed by Father Martin to bring to our first ‘session’ today.
I reach forward, the iron crank on the window cool in my sweaty palm as I twist it on a grunt, the ancient leaded glass panel squealing as it opens and a whoosh of fresh, salty ocean air puffs around my face. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks at the foundation of one of the stone buildings to the left of where I’m being housed fills the room.
This place could be a killer vacation spot. Turn these stone monolith buildings into ocean front hotel suites and I’m all in.
Still, if I can put away the ragged sadness about Baby, along with the shame or fear or whatever is left from the near assault in the bathroom last night, underneath there’s a humming tug toward the dark, broody clergyman that is awaiting me downstairs.
We will have two sessions a day. Together, we will figure out what is best for you. For who you want to be, not who you are now. There are rules here, and you will follow them. I assure you, I have ways of making sure you do.
I mean, I should dig in and pull his card. See what all this ‘I have ways’ means but, honestly, I’m tired.
I’m too young for this sort of full body fatigue. Partying and feeling lost and losing my scholarship and my future while watching my mother move on with her life and totally forget about her husband—my father—is a lot. I’m exhausted. So, while Father Martin showed me through Saint Margaret’s and finally here to my room, part of me whispered I should use this time. Like an all-expenses paid spa retreat.
After all, it’s on the ocean which I love more than breathing. Sad part is I can’t swim, but it’s on my to do list to learn.
“Fine.” I grimace at the stunning view out the window.
The juxtaposition of wanting to leave and stay makes my insides twist in the most uncomfortable yet titillating way. The whitecaps drift lazily to the shore, then disappear, seeping into the wet sand. They roll over and over and over as I take one last long breath as the sun begins its evening descent to the horizon.
I gather the journal and pen along with my phone and work my way along the eerily quiet stone hallway, then down the winding staircase that leads to the main level, where Father Martin’s office and meeting room are located. I didn’t bother to change my clothes like the good sister suggested, and suddenly I’m chilled, wishing I had put on a comfy pair of fleece pants with a fuzzy sweater which was pretty much my pre-Hoover style instead of the Harley Quinn slash streetwalker vibe I’ve adopted these last few months.
Wrought iron lights mounted into the stone in the halls flicker as I pass, making low buzzing sounds as my heels clomp clomp on the uneven slate floor, my heart lodged in my windpipe as I come around the last corner and see the open door to Father Martin’s office, and a warm tension creeps up my back.
I’m not sure if I should knock or just walk in. A clammy sweat gathers on my palms as I stand against the wall, my mind racing, wondering who I will be when I leave here in thirty days.
Not the same person I was when I arrived, I’m sure. But for better or worse?
That remains to be seen.
