I walk with head bowed low, down the center aisle of the church, my hands clasped as if in prayer. I don’t know how to pray, though. No one’s ever taught me. I imagine it has something to do with high words and flowery details, and I’m good at that. I mutter my favorite line from Julius Caesar under my breath, "Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.”
I’m so caught up in mourning the pretend loss of my own life, tears actually blind my vision.
I kneel on one of the kneelers before the altar, and lift my face heavenward. I breathe in the cleansing smell of the church—that unique blend of incense, candle wax, and wood polish. I exhale in contentment, and pull out my mobile.
I swipe it on and go to the camera. I’ve never used it as a phone. I certainly have no one to call or text. It’s a hand-me-down from one of Father MacGowen’s friends, who upgraded my phone and said he liked the pictures I took. I marvel at its capabilities.
The altar’s still adorned with faded poinsettias from Christmas, though that was weeks ago. I forgot how long the Christmas season lasts in the church, but the Catholics don’t like to pack things up on December twenty-sixth. This weekend is probably the last weekend of Christmas or some such thing, I forget how they name it all.
I kneel on one knee before the altar, amazed that the vibrant red flowers have lasted this long. I lift my phone, zoom in on the camera, and hold my breath as one of the flower petals falls to the ground. I click the button that makes a shutter sound, and glee fills me when I realize I caught it. It’s perfect, metaphorical and symbolic, the end of a season.
I get lost in the moment, snapping pictures of the altar. Moonlight filters in from above, and it glints the edge of the golden tabernacle, shining like a beacon in the darkness of the church. I take picture after picture. The shadows beneath the statues, looming like omens from above. Melted wax on the side of the candle, a symbol of our mortality. The greenery around the altar, a sign of life eternal.
A door opens, and I start, shaking myself for once again getting so caught up in my mind that I didn’t pay attention to details. I turn, looking for a place to hide, when Father MacGowen enters the church. He’s a young man, just around forty-years old, the youngest chaplain that’s ever resided at the Cathedral. Tall and thin with wire-rimmed glasses, he’s studious and quiet.
If I could, I’d say something to him to alert him, but I’ve been cursed into silence.
He doesn’t see me at first but walks toward the altar, his keys in hand. I watch as he kneels, makes the sign of the cross, then when he stands, his eyes meet mine.
“Oh, hello there, Cairstina,” he says with a warm smile. “Gave me a wee bit of a startle, lass. I didn’t know you were there.”
I nod in greeting, and I hope he knows I’m sorry for scaring him. His eyes go first to my phone, and he smiles.
“Taking pictures of the flowers? Good timing, as they’ll be cleared away by the weekend.” I smile at him, wishing he knew how badly I wish I could speak to him. He’s the only one who understands me.
He steps closer to me, when the moonlight shifts, falling right on my cheek. He gasps.
“Oh, my,” he says sorrowfully, reaching a hand out to me. “Who did this to you?” At first, I don’t remember what he’s talking about, then quickly realize with shame that my brother left a mark. A swollen lip, perhaps, a reddened cheek. For a brief moment in time, I’d disassociated myself with that girl, so much so I’d forgotten the altercation before I came.
If I could speak, I’d ask Father MacGowen not to ask questions. If I could speak, I’d gently push him away and change the subject. Instead, when he reaches for me, I turn away from him. He pauses before speaking again.
“I see, lass,” he says quietly. “I won’t ask any questions.” He doesn’t finish the sentiment. I couldn’t answer him if I wanted to.
“Well, now, it’s a good job you’re here since I could use a bit of help closing up for the night, you know, and I—” His words are cut off by a slamming sound, and heavy footsteps entering.
“Get down, Cairstina,” he says quickly, nearly shoving me behind the altar before he steps out into the open. His face is grim, as if he knows exactly what to expect. My heart thunders as my knees hit the rough burgundy carpet behind the altar.