“I see.” He tilted his head, regarding me somberly. “Max here told me what you did in that house. I believe him, because I’m called to believe him. But that doesn’t make you equipped to do more.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
He smiled gently. “There’s always a choice.”
“That’s beautiful. But in this particular situation,Ido not have achoice. A man died because of my fear.” Something in my voice must have changed, because Max glanced sharply at me. The priest seemed to notice it too.
“There are people who can help, people who are trained.” He shifted his glance to Max. “In Chicago. I will contact them personally.” His expression had turned wintry now. “My memory is affected, but not yet my mind. They trust me. They will come and do this work.”
“Good,” I said, with equal frost. “That’s good. In the meantime, I still need whatever you can spare. Anything that’s blessed will do.” I felt tears unaccountably start up in my eyes, and I pressed a hand to my stomach. “Seriously. Anything.”
“But I don’t see how this can help you?—”
“It’s not for me!” My voice was like a whipcrack. “It’s forthem. The people in that house. The ones the demons are preying on.Theyneed it. They need you, more than anything, but they don’t have you, so they’re stuck with me. But at least you could help give them some weapons to carry into the battle against evil that they’re fighting every goddamnedday.”
That little speech took more out of me than I planned, and I drew in a raspy breath to give me enough ballast to launch into a new tirade. That was the only reason the next words I heard were so clear and sharp, they seemed like they were banging my head like a bell.
“Helloooo! Anyone home?” Everyone turned as a sensible, square-tipped set of pumps clicked up the main aisleway. “It’s really so?—”
Claire’s voice cut off sharply, then revved up again. “Oh my God, Delia, what happened to you? You’re bleeding through your shirt!”
I stared as she rushed toward me, my head starting to spin. She was still wearing her clothes from the pharmacy—thin sweater, stylish slacks. No white smock at least, but the aura of it floated around her, a nimbus of assurance probably provided by the drug companies as a freebie with every large order of pills.
“And who are you, dear?” Mrs. Bell asked while I made fish movements with my lips. Claire’s smile brightened to include the whole group as she shook the priest’s hand.
“Claire Bickwell, Delia’s best friend,” she lied crisply. “You have a lovely church. The courtyard in particular. Do you also have a hospital? With actual doctors who have tetanus shots?”
The priest gaped at her. Claire could do that to the best of people.
“I’m fine, Claire. I cut myself on some chunks of wood, that’s all.” I hauled myself a little straighter in the pew. “Why are you here?”
“You don’t look fine. You look terrible.” She held up her phone. “I got a bad feeling, and I wanted to check on you, so I tried to call you. You didn’t pick up, and neither did, um, anyone. I wasn’t going to call a dead rabbi more than once. So I went to your place and met your housemate, Steve. He’s so nice! He preferred to wait in the car—churches make him nervous, apparently. He brought me.”
“Steve?” Max asked, but I could only peer at Claire.
“You—what? Steve came back?” I tried to focus on her as the priest murmured something and stepped away. He opened the door of a confessional chamber and went inside it. I envied him.I think I’d lock myself in a box on a regular basis if Claire stuck around. “This really isn’t a good time.”
“Of course it is. Hello, Claire, is it? I’m Max, Max Graham.” Max held out a hand and Claire took it, straight-up batting her eyelashes at him. Oh geez. “And this is Mrs. Bell. We live a bit outside of town.”
“I’ve heard,” she said meaningfully, then looked around with bouncy expectation. “And you all decided to bring Delia to bleed here instead of a hospital—why?”
“God’s house is always open.”
We all jumped and refocused on Father David. He had returned from his hidey hole and now held a large, padded envelope out to me.
“Gifts for the family,” he said, and I glanced from him to the confessional box. Was there, like, a secret doorway back there into a Catholic cabinet of curiosities? “And I will place the call to the archbishop when I return to the office. You were right in coming here.”
When he gave me the envelope, his hand touched mine. My gut spasmed, and the clot in my shoulder popped again, blood breaking through its thin healing membrane. I winced, gritting my teeth, but I didn’t feel bad, really. More…electrified by the holy man’s touch. What was that about?
“Thanks,” I managed, but when I looked up, the priest’s eyes were strangely clear. He gazed at me with a fierceness I wouldn’t have expected in someone so old and sick.
“God protect you, Delia,” he said. “You were right to come here, and you remind me—you remind me of who I am. Who I am, still, no matter how I may forget sometimes.”
I drew my hand away sharply, clutching the package. My wounds felt—itchier, somehow. As if the skin had already begun to draw together. “Thanks,” I said again.
I sensed his gaze on me the whole way out the church. Early onset Alzheimer’s, he’d said. So, could be I’d helped him too. Me, or God. I didn’t so much care who got the accolades, if the result brought hope.
Everyone deserved hope.
