I couldn’t make them stop.
Scaredy-cat.The voice in my head was mocking and sad at the same time.
“Scaredy-cat,” I repeated. Was it fear making my hands shake?
“What do you have to be scared of?” the nun in front of me asked. “You should be thanking God that you found your way into this place and are able to be helped by men like Father Benedict. His heart is so true and pure, he doesn’t mind treating even the lowest of filthy sinners.” She shot me a glare that made it clear she was referring to me.
I just followed her without comment. After all, my mind was still foggy and would be for a good bit longer... unless I took my medication, in which case, I’d start all over again.
The nun ushered me into Father Benedict’s office, shaking hands and all, and shut the door behind me.
“Katarina. Sit down.” Father Benedict stared at me from across the room.
I slowly approached his desk and sat in the chair opposite him. The leather squeaked faintly, and I knew I’d been there before. I couldn’t always remember specific things, but sometimes the details were crystal clear. I also knew I’d sat in this chair before, many times, I was willing to bet, by how familiar the creak of the leather sounded.
“How are you doing?” Father Benedict asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m okay, I guess. The same, anyway.”
The priest sighed. “Are you any closer to working out whose name it is that you write on your wall?”
“Ivan Markovic,” I dutifully repeated, and shook my head. “I just can’t figure it out.”
Father Benedict sighed again like I was the most disappointing case of crazy he’d ever encountered. The name on my wall was one I’d never forget, no matter what they gave me. I’d never forget. Ever. But this was Benedict’s little test to see if I was taking my medication. There was only one acceptable answer.
“Tell me what you do remember,” he prompted.
I hesitated and then told him about my mother. Her, I would always remember. Her and the little apartment we’d lived in after leaving Bulgaria and arriving in Italy. In my memory it was clear as day. The smell of the small wood burner spitting, the taste of black tea, the feeling of the scratchy, stiff blanket on the tiny sofa in the living room.
Father Benedict nodded as I spoke, but I had the feeling he wasn’t really listening.
“I’m sorry, have I told you this before?” I wondered, suddenly self-conscious.
“Only every day.” He gave me a tight smile. “But don’t worry. The therapy that we do isn’t a fast process. It takes time, and I’m committed to helping you get better so you can go home to your mother and fiancé.”
The suggestion that Ivan was my fiancé boiled my blood, but I knew better than to fight back. I had to wait, bide my time, find the right moment. If I didn’t, my mother would pay the price, or I’d end up drugged up to my eyeballs and lost for three months.
So I nodded. I nodded like marrying Ivan was what I wanted. Like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Have you had any other... licentious thoughts?” Benedict tried to sound disinterested, but a catch in his voice gave him away.
I shook my head quickly. My fingers shook again, so I tucked my hands under my legs to hide them.
“No? I find that hard to believe, given the kind of behavior that brought you to us.”
I shook my head again. “I don’t think those kinds of thoughts anymore.”
Father Benedict watched me for a long moment before getting up.
“I will be the judge of that,” he said, and came to stand behind me.
I stared out the window behind his desk and focused on the spiny branches of a frozen cherry blossom tree.
Benedict leaned against my back, pressing his midsection intomy head, and his hands touched my hair. I dug the small, delicate chain I wore around my neck out of my clothes and gripped the tiny crucifix on it, pressing the shape into the pad of my thumb.
“To cleanse the sinner, a good man must take the sin out himself, with his hands,” he murmured.
I stared at the branch. It was dead. Gone.