Garden of Lies (7 page)

Sylvie, alone now with the baby, made her way through the crowd. In spite of her dazed

feeling, one thought stood clear. She must find her baby. But first Angie, to let her know her baby

was safe. My God, the poor woman must be out of her mind!

She spotted a familiar figure, shepherding two patients in wheelchairs. “Sister! Wait!”

Sister Ignatious turned. Her white habit was torn in a dozen places, streaked with black. And

there was something oddly naked about her. Then Sylvie realized it was because she wasn’t

wearing her wimple, and no eyeglasses. They must have fallen off in the confusion.

Sylvie, desperate to know if her child was all right, clutched at the nun’s filthy sleeve. “Sister,

please, the other babies ...”

“Safe, all safe, praise be to God.” Sister crossed herself.

Then Sylvie remembered the baby in her arms, Angie’s baby.

“Where can I find Mrs. Santini?” Sylvie asked.

She was about to explain, but Sister Ignatious’s naked eyes clouded with tears. “Mrs. Santini is

with God now.” She crossed herself again. “The explosion. It was too late. By the time they got

to the fifth floor she ... our poor Sister Paul, too. She died trying to save Mrs. Santini.”

Thinking of the warm, tough-talking woman who had occupied the bed next to hers, Sylvie felt

sorrow seep through her. How Angie’s brown eyes had lit up at the mention of her baby, despite

[31] her disappointment over its being a girl. Poor Angie! Sylvie felt tears well up.

Then Sylvie, for the first time, peeled back the sheet covering the tiny form asleep in her arms.

Peering up from the filthy folds was a face as exquisite as an ivory cameo. Sylvie drew her

breath in. Round blue doll’s eyes, a sweet little rosebud of a mouth. Light-brown hair like the

fuzz on a baby duck. Not all dark and crumpled like her tiny girl’s. She brushed a silken cheek

with her finger, and the baby turned her head toward it, mouth working.

Sylvie’s dry, burning eyes flooded with tears. In all this nightmare, a thing of wonder. She

touched a miniature hand, felt it tighten about her finger with surprising strength. She marveled at

the tiny fingernails, no bigger than seed pearls.

She felt Sister Ignatious’s hand against her shoulder. “God was with you. And your baby too.

It’s a miracle neither of you was hurt, climbing down all that way.”

Sylvie stiffened in astonishment. Sister had mistaken Angie’s baby for
her
child! But, then, it

was a natural mistake. She had come through hell on earth to save this infant. And who but a

mother?

Splintered images spun in her mind. Nikos. The dark, briefly glimpsed face of her own baby.

Gerald’s pale blue eyes, watching her as she undressed.

And then her brain cleared suddenly, like a shaft of light breaking through the clouds in a

medieval painting or an illuminated manuscript.

No one would ever have to know. If she kept this child as her own, who was there to dispute

her? Not Angie. Or Sister Paul.

Only perhaps Sister Ignatious, who was half out of her mind, and she’d already unknowingly

bestowed her blessing. There’d be no records either. The obstetrics floors had been destroyed by

the explosion.

Overwhelmed, Sylvie began to tremble. It was monstrous, how could she even think such a

thing? Give up her own child ... to whom? There were such crazy people in this world. But

Angie’s family—they had to be nice people, like her—and they would no doubt assume the baby

to be theirs.

[32] Could she do this? Could she? Never to see her own daughter again. Never to see her

grow up. ...

Then Sylvie thought of what her life, her baby’s life, would be if Gerald were to divorce her.

Strip her of his love, his protection. Send her off to raise her baby in shame, alone.

Alone. Without Mama. Without Gerald.

No,
worse
than alone. She would have a baby to take care of. A baby no one would welcome,

not even Nikos.

She remembered how sick she’d been after Mama died. What if she got sick now? Or died?

Who would take care of her baby? Who would love it?

Still, she could not believe she was thinking what she was thinking. To give up her very own

child, take another baby in its place. Why, it was beyond hateful, it was ...

The only thing to do. The only thing that makes sense.

No, no, NO, I mustn’t. I mustn’t even think ...

And Angie’s husband won’t suspect a thing. Remember, he hasn’t seen the baby yet. He will

accept it as his own, love it unconditionally. And didn’t Angie say something about other

children? Yes, that’s right. Two other girls. Your baby will have sisters, a family.

...
such a terrible thing, a sin against God ...

You will have Gerald. And a baby he will love, cherish, raise as his own.

Sylvie stared down at the beautiful cameo face asleep in her arms. Tears filled her eyes, and

dropped onto the dirty blanket, running into its folds. Her chest felt as if it were full of broken

glass, sharp cold splinters digging into her heart.

Yes, perhaps it would be better. ...

But how can I forget her, my own baby? Dear God, never to hold her, watch her grow up, love

her ...

The choice was hers. With terrible consequences either way, she turned. And she had no time.

Sister Ignatious was staring at her, waiting for her to say something. She must decide
now.

Blinking back her tears, Sylvie raised her head to meet Sister’s squinting gaze.

She had decided.

“Yes,” she said. “It is a miracle, isn’t it?”

Part I

I heartily detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishment, but most

of all because they offend Thee, my God, who an all good and

deserving of my love.

Act of Contrition, a Catholic prayer

I have been consumed by fire, but never so much as the heat of my

desire.

Jewish prayer for Yom Kippur

Chapter 1

BROOKLYN, 1959

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Sixteen-year-old Rose Santini, huddled inside the dark confessional, felt her kneecaps shift

painfully against the hard wooden kneeler. Familiar things, the mingled scents of beeswax and

incense, the faint singsong murmur of evening vespers drifting from the sanctuary, yet she felt

like she had her very first time, scared to death. Her heart thundered in her ears so loudly she was

sure Father could hear it even without his hearing aid.

She thought:
I know what you’re expecting, Father. The usual stuff kids tell you
—
I lied about

finishing my homework, I ate a hot dog on Friday, I cursed my sister. Oh, if only that were all ...

What she had done was a million times worse. A mortal sin.

Rose clenched her fist tightly about her rosary, the beads biting into her palm. She felt flushed

and hot, as if she were coming down with the flu. But she knew she wasn’t sick. This felt so

much worse. What were cramps and a sore throat compared to being doomed forever?

She remembered Sister Gabrielle in first grade telling her that confession was like washing

your soul. Rose had seen herself stretched out on a table while a priest stood over her, sleeves

rolled up and hands soapy, scrubbing away, and then giving her Penance, a few Hail Marys and

Our Fathers sprinkled on to get out her extra spots.

But today her soul had to be so black no amount of scrubbing would get it clean. The best she

could hope for was a dingy gray, like on those TV commercials where they used the wrong

detergent.

“... it’s been two weeks since my last confession,” she continued in a small whisper.

[36] Rose stared at the screen before her. She could just make out the shadowy profile of the

priest on the other side. She thought of how, when she was younger, she’d believed it was God

Himself in there ... well, almost ... more like God speaking through His messenger, sort of like a

long-distance telephone call, only a lot farther away than Topeka or Minneapolis.

Now, of course, she knew it was only old Father Donahue, who wheezed his way through

Sunday Mass and whose hand smelled of cigarettes when he pressed the Host onto her out-thrust

tongue. But knowing it was creaky old Father still didn’t take away the tight feeling in her

stomach. Because somewhere it was God who was passing judgment on her. He might cripple her

in a car wreck, or wipe her out entirely with cancer. Look at that poor girl Sister Perpetua had told

them about, the one who lapsed in her faith and thought she was pregnant, only to be cut open at

the end and found to be carrying not a child, but a hideous tumor (it even had
teeth
and
hair,

Sister said) the size of a watermelon.

And at the very least, there’d be purgatory. She imagined God recording her sins in a thick

black ledger with pale lined green pages, like the book where Sister Agnes marked tardies and

demerits. Purgatory had to be like school—everyone went. It was just a question of who passed

and who failed.

Rose recited in a rush, “Oh, Lord, I heartily detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishment,

but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of my love.”

She took a deep breath.

Father Donahue muttered something in Latin, then fell silent, waiting for her to continue.

Rose shifted her weight from one knee to another, and the wood let out a loud creak. In the

unbearable stillness it sounded like a pistol shot. This might kill him, she thought. Give him a

heart attack. PRIEST SHOCKED TO DEATH BY TEENAGER’S CONFESSION.

A pulse throbbed on the side of her neck. Her mouth felt very dry, and she thought longingly of

the half-finished roll of Lifesavers in her purse. Butter Rum, her favorite. But that was a

sacrilege, too, thinking about candy at a time like this.

She tried to think of a soul-cleansing thought instead. Thick heat clamped about her like a

sweaty fist, and an ooze began at her [37] armpits, working its way into the pinched flesh around

her bra, an old one Marie had given her that was at least two sizes too small. She thought of Saint

Joan, roasting at the stake.

Martyrdom. Rose remembered the day Sister Perpetua had first told them about it. Fifth grade,

and they’d been half-listening to Sister droning on, as they nodded over their dog-eared copies of

Lives of the Saints.

“Girls—” Her voice dropped suddenly to a dramatic whisper. Rose’s back stiffened to

attention. “I have a very rare and sacred relic to share with you. I’m going to pass it around, and

you may each kiss it.”

She made the sign of the cross, then withdrew a silver locket from around her neck. It had been

hidden under her black habit. What else was under there? Rose wondered. Breasts? Pubic hair?

But the only picture that came to her was of a shapeless sack stuffed full of the Kleenexes Sister

was forever tucking up her sleeve.

Rose, fascinated, watched as Sister pried the locket open with her thumbnail that was square as

a man’s. Reverently, Sister placed the locket in the dovetailed hands of Mary Margaret O’Neill,

who sat at the first desk in the front row. Mary Margaret, in her white blouse with sleeves ironed

to a knife’s edge, red hair clipped neatly back over her ears, was the apple of Sister’s eye, for she

already had received the Call.

A jittery silence filled the classroom as each girl, wide-eyed, took the locket, then bent to peck

it with a tightly screwed mouth. Sister explained that it was a scrap of flesh from a martyr burned

at the stake in Mexico more than two hundred years ago.

Rose, waiting for it to reach her, had churned with morbid curiosity. What would it look like?

Could she bring herself actually to
kiss
it?

After an eternity the relic finally was passed to her. It was horrible, far worse than she’d

imagined. Black and shriveled. Like a burnt shred of pot roast picked off the side of the pan. She

could almost smell the smoke, the rancid stink of scorching flesh.

And then Rose had been struck with a terrible thought:
My mother. That’s how she must have

looked when she died. God, oh God. And because of me. If I hadn’t been born that night, she’d

still be alive. That must be why Nonnie’s always telling me the mark of the devil is on me.