2. Alena
The Past
10 years ago
Boston
My eyes burn and swim with tears as I stare into the mirror connected to my white vanity. Holding my hair up in a ponytail with my left hand, I drag my pink brush through it, smoothing out the small bump of hair in the middle.
Only to create a new bump on the side when I relax my fingers around the ponytail to pull the brush through.
Desperate to get this right, I smooth out the bump that popped up and create a new one going down the middle again.
Frustration bubbles up inside me, urging me to give up.
It’s hopeless. I’m too stupid to get this right.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get everything smooth. I don’t know the magic trick to this.
But if I don’t…
Casting a nervous glance over my shoulder, I peek at my closed door.
My mother is bound to check on me at any moment.
It feels like I’ve been at this for hours.
Arm growing tired, I turn back to my mirror and make two more attempts to get my hair right before I hear the sharp snap of my mother’s heels on the marble stairs.
A soft cry flying out of my mouth, I move closer to the mirror and jab my chest into the edge of the vanity. Hoping it will help me.
Please God, I silently beg, give me the power to do this.
I’m a good girl, I swear.
I smooth out the bump in the middle again, then toss my brush down. Grabbing a dark elastic, I wrap and twist it around my ponytail. Securing it in place just as my bedroom door opens.
“Alena,” my mother hisses behind me, “what on earth is taking you so long?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, perfect reflections of each other.
Until hers narrow with anger.
My heart drops into my stomach and my tears threaten to spill over.
But I know if I start crying it will only make things worse.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I will my tears back.
Stepping into my bedroom, my mother slams the door shut behind her. “What have you done to your hair?”
Forcing my mouth to stretch into a smile, I spin around, purposely making my white dress twirl and flap around my legs.
“I did my hair, Mother, so you don’t have to. Isn’t it pretty?” I ask, hoping she sees my efforts as a good deed.
She’s always complaining I make too much work for her. That life was easier and better before I was born.
And punishing me for it.
I do my best to take care of myself. I’ve learned how to make my own food and always clean up my messes.
I even clean up after her.
But it’s never good enough.
I’m dumb and don’t know anything. Even after she shows me. Even when I check what I do a million times to make sure it’s perfect.
No matter how hard I try or what I do, I mess it up somehow.
My mother looks pointedly at my hair, then drags her angry gaze down my body. Lingering on my white lace dress.
The white lace dress my daddy bought me for my second Judging.
We spent all day picking it out. Going from shop to shop. Trying every white dress we could find on.
It was the best day of my life.
An entire day being hopelessly spoiled, as my daddy put it with a twinkle in his eye.
An entire day without Mother.
Her lip curls up with disgust, and I know I’m done for.
Stomping so hard I fear her white heels might crack against the floor, she marches up to me then grabs me by the ponytail.
With a vicious yank, she forces me to spin back around to face my mirror.
“It’s a mess, Alena,” she snarls as she rips the elastic from my hair, taking a few chunks with it. “All you’ve done is create more work for me!”
Stabbing her fingers into my hair, she yanks them down, ripping more roots from my scalp as they snag on the knots she created.
“And on this day of all days!” she complains, her voice growing louder with every word.
Making my eyes go wide to keep my tears at bay, I watch the tight, angry expression on her face transform into one of fury.
My chest aching, I snap my eyes to the pictures tucked into the gold frame of my mirror. Pictures of Daddy and me. Happy, with smiles on our faces.
The pain I can take. I’m used to it.
Every day, she finds some way to hurt me.
It’s her disappointment and hate that makes me cry.
Why doesn’t she love me?
Is it because I’m an idiot?
Will she love me if I become smarter? If I somehow find a way to make myself better?
If I become like her? Never making a mistake and doing everything perfectly.
I love her. Even when she hurts me, I love her.
Why am I not like her?
Is it because I’m not beautiful? Because I look like Daddy? With my pale skin and dark hair?
I have her blue eyes, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.
If my hair was blonde like hers, would she be able to love me? Would I be worthy?
Should I dye my hair to make her happy?
“Stupid little brat… You can’t even get this right. What kind of little girl can’t do their own hair?” my mother nearly shouts as she picks up my brush and roughly pulls it through my hair.
Intentionally or unintentionally grinding the bristles into my scalp.
“If today wasn’t so important…” she warns.
Grabbing my hair up in one hand, she furiously brushes my ends.
I think half of my hair comes out, falling upon the shoulders of my dress.
But I bite the inside of my cheek harder, tasting blood.
Each pull of the brush making her angrier, my mother tears into me. “Why did I get stuck with such an idiot for a daughter? What have I done to deserve this? Am I being punished for something?”
The next couple of pulls of the brush are so hard I wobble on my feet. Out of instinct, I reach out and grab the edge of my vanity to keep from falling over.
My mother suddenly stops and holds the brush up.
I look back at the reflection of her face in alarm.
Her eyes flash and her knuckles go white around the handle.
She’s so angry with me, she’s shaking.
“I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do,” she exhales harshly, as if she’s struggling to find breath. “It’s you . You who ruins everything.”
My teeth cut deeper into my cheek.
The coppery taste flooding my mouth somehow soothing.
My heart calms and I know I can take her hit without flinching or crying like a baby.
“My darlings! Where are you?” Daddy calls out, his deep, booming voice echoing downstairs in the foyer. “We’re going to be late!”
Mother stiffens and glances over her shoulder.
When my father’s footsteps begin to thump up the stairs, she makes a sound of disgust in her throat.
Tossing my brush away, she releases my hair and snatches up my hand. “We’ll finish this discussion later.”
She yanks me away from the mirror, and I trip and stumble, my head spinning, before I get my feet under control.
Having no patience, she drags me up to my door and stops.
Shoulders straightening, spine stiffening, she takes a moment to collect herself and soften her expression before finally opening my door.
“We’re ready, honey!” she calls out to my father, her voice so syrupy sweet it makes my teeth ache.
Without sparing me a glance, she tugs me into the hall.
My father huffs. “It’s about time.”
“I’m sorry, we had a little hair emergency,” my mother apologizes as her hand squeezes painfully around mine, warning me not to contradict her.
Stopped on the landing in the middle of the staircase, staring down at his phone, my father bobs his head in understanding. “Now we can’t have that.”
“Of course, we can’t,” my mother agrees, her smile tightening for a split-second.
Wearing a black suit and shoes so polished I can see some of his reflection in them, my father is dressed in what he usually wears for Mass. The only change being the white rose blossom pinned close to his heart.
When he looks up and smiles at us, his eyes warming, all the sadness and anxiety inside me melts away.
I swear he’s the most handsome man on earth.
Even more handsome than Prince Charming.
Tucking his phone into his pocket, my father spreads his arms wide. “There’s my beautiful girl.”
I tug on my arm, my feet itching to run to him.
My mother’s expression tightens and she gives my hand one last painful squeeze before releasing me.
Free, I race to my father and throw myself at him.
Wrapping his big warm arms around me, my father tips his head back and laughs.
His chest rumbles against my cheek as I squeeze him harder. Wishing I could somehow squeeze myself inside him.
There, I know I would always be safe.
I would always be loved and protected.
My mother sighs and says impatiently, “We’re going to be late.”
Exhaling his own sigh, my father pats me gently on the back. “Yes, dear, we are.”
Purposely ignoring the cue, I hug my father harder. Not wanting to let go.
He’s my only light in the world, and I rarely get to see him. He’s always too busy working and leaving me alone with Mother.
If I could somehow bind myself to him so he had to take me everywhere with him, I’d do it.
I’ve tried in the past to hide in his car before he leaves for work. Begging to go with him. Promising I wouldn’t be in the way.
But I always get caught. My father has made it a habit to check his backseat now before leaving the house.
He thinks it’s adorable, so I never get in trouble with him.
But Mother is never amused. She hates how my father ‘overindulges’ me.
“Charles,” my mother hisses, reaching the end of her patience.
Setting me on my feet, my father pries me away from his chest and holds me out in front of him.
His eyes remain warm and loving as they roam over my face. But once they land on my shoulders, something causes him to frown.
Fingers plucking at my dress, he holds up a few long strands of my black hair. “A little hair emergency, Catherine?”
My mother waves her hand in the air dismissively but seems a bit flustered as she quickly explains, “Yes. Alena took it upon herself to do her own hair and you can see for yourself the mess she made.”
My father’s frown deepens. “I see.”
“Come, we will truly be late if we don’t leave now.” Sweeping past us, Mother walks down the stairs.
My father turns his head, scowling at her back, before returning his attention to me. His gaze full of questions.
Questions I wish he would ask.
Questions I’m dying to answer.
But something must hold him back.
Letting out a long sigh, he shakes his head. “Your mother is right. We should be on our way.”
Grabbing my hand, he urges me down the stairs with him. But he keeps me close as we approach my mother, tucking me protectively into his side.
Lips thinning as we near her, my mother sticks her nose high in the air and walks out the door ahead of us.
“Did your mother explain how important today is?” my father asks as he helps me into the back of the black car he hired.
Scooting into the middle, being careful to keep as much distance between my mother and me as possible, I hesitate before I answer. “No, Daddy.”
Pressing herself up against the opposite door and crossing her legs, my mother shoots me a dirty look. “There wasn’t time, Charles. I was too busy fixing her hair.”
Sliding in beside me, my father nods, as if he’s accepting that answer, but I see his jaw clench.
I jump a little when he slams his door shut, my pulse fluttering with nervousness. But he’s quick to grab my hand again and gives me an affectionate squeeze.
Watching us closely, my mother snorts softly before jerking her attention to the window at her left.
I fight the urge to squirm, all the tension making me feel sick.
My father remains silent, his thumb stroking against my hand, until the car starts rolling forward. “Now that you’re ten and officially a big girl, it’s time for your final Judging. Do you understand what the Judging is?”
Sucking in my bottom lip, I try to remember if I’ve been told before. I know I had a Judging when I was a baby. But I don’t think anyone has taken the time to tell me what a Judging is.
What am I being judged for? And why do I have to do it again if I’ve already done it before?
My mother huffs with impatience, then says snidely, “The Prophet will look into your future and know if you’re dirty and tainted. You won’t be able to hide anything from him .”
“Catherine,” my father snaps in disapproval.
Continuing to stare out her window, my mother shrugs her slender shoulders. “What? It’s the truth. The Prophet sees all.”
Worry suddenly filling me, I peer up at my father. “What happens if I’m tainted?”
I’m not dirty. I wash myself every day. But I’m unsure what tainted means.
Is it like stupid?
Will the Prophet be able to tell that I’m dumb and worthless? Will I get in trouble?
Will I be punished?
Glaring at the back of my mother’s head, my father squeezes my hand. “You’re not, sweetheart. Just do what the other little girls do and you’ll be fine.”
My father has never lied to me. So I have no reason not to trust him.
But when my mother huffs quietly, my stomach clenches even harder with unease.
Does she know something he doesn’t? She seems to know me better than him…
Stuck between them, I can’t help but give into the urge to squirm and shift around. The tense silence making me more and more uncomfortable.
The car ride lasts far too long, stretching out an eternity, but also seems too short.
When we come to a stop and my father opens his door, I want to puke all over my white dress.
Seeing the look on my face as he helps me out, my father frowns. “It will be okay, honey. I promise. Once we’re done here, we’ll celebrate with some ice cream.”
I nod, but I can’t stop feeling like something bad is about to happen.
Is it what my mother has always been warning me about?
That one day everyone will see me for what I really am…
“Chin up,” he says more firmly. “You have nothing to be afraid of. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Doing as my father says, I lift my head and feel grateful to have him beside me as we approach the giant cathedral we attend every Sunday.
I’ve never said it out loud, because I know it would make Daddy sad, but the place has always given me the heebie-jeebies.
The building is huge and dark, with sharp spires pointing like knives up to the sky. The stone walls are old and blemished with splotchy green stains.
All the stained glass windows could be pretty…
If they didn’t show awful, scary things, like God’s only Son being crucified.
Plus, there are gargoyles.
Mean looking gargoyles that stare down at everyone like they wish they could eat them.
I’m always afraid one will suddenly come to life and eat me.
Tipping my head back, I stare at the stone monsters, watching them for any sign of movement as my father leads me into church.
And feel them staring back even when we pass through the huge wooden double doors.
Their wide, hungry eyes burning into my back.
My father squeezes my hand and murmurs quietly, “All will be well.”
Looking up at him, I see a tenseness in his shoulders that isn’t normally there. My father is usually happy, unless he’s arguing with my mother. Quick to smile. Quick to laugh.
It’s part of what makes him so handsome. His eyes sparkle like my dolls. There’s a light inside them that warms me and makes my mother’s iciness more bearable.
There’s no sparkle in his eyes right now, though, as he stops inside the little room between the doors and the main cathedral.
Here, a silver fountain of holy water has been placed beneath a silver cross hanging on the wall. A perfect circle encloses the cross and each of the cross’s four ends bears a nail.
I once asked Daddy what the cross means, and he told me it’s the symbol of our religion, the Order of Saint Benedict. We’re a very special religion and not everyone can join.
Unlike the Catholics, only the most devoted to God are welcome in our flock.
Dipping his fingers into the fountain, my father closes his eyes and makes the sign of the cross over himself while he murmurs something quietly.
The only word I can make out is, “Please.”
And the desperation chills the blood in my veins.
Is my father worried about me?
Has he been pretending not to be worried this entire time?
Opening his eyes, he lets out a deep sigh, then begins to tug me with him.
Only to suddenly stop.
When he turns to face me, I feel every little hair on my body standing on end.
Eyes locked on my face and full of a strange emotion I don’t understand, my father dips his fingers in the holy water again. Then he steps up to me and dabs it against my forehead, making the sign of the cross over me.
Blessing me.
He’s never taken the time to bless me before. Usually, my parents dab the water on themselves, then rush us to their favorite pew tucked in the center.
Do I deserve it now?
Or is it another sign that he’s worried?
“May God be with you, Alena,” my father says, his voice thick with a heavy emotion.
“And with you, Daddy,” I respond, the words just popping out of me.
His face lights up and he smiles, little crinkles appearing around his eyes.
For a moment, one glorious moment, he’s my sunshine again.
The heat melting all the ice in my veins.
But his smile quickly wilts with sadness.
Turning quickly from me and making me feel like I’ve done something wrong, he leads me away from the fountain.
“Ah, about time you decided to show up, Charles,” a man calls out from the very back row of wooden pews. “We were starting to fear you might have decided to make a run for it…”
The man flashes his teeth at my father to show that he’s jesting, but there’s a predatory glint in his eyes. Like he actually hoped my father would do such a thing.
My father offers his own amused smile as he walks us over to him. His entire demeanor suddenly relaxing. “Worried about my eternal soul, Howard? How considerate of you.”
“Of course,” Howard says, his smile fading. “It’s my Christian duty to worry for my fellow Brothers in the Order.”
“You shouldn’t have,” my mother says with a breathy laugh as she comes up to join us. “We’re simply late thanks to a little hair mishap.”
Howard glances at my mother only for a brief second, quickly dismissing her, before asking my father, “Vanity delayed you? Vanity is nothing to be proud of...”
My mother scoffs and my father stiffens.
Releasing his grip on my hand, my father says, “Alena, darling, go take your place in line.”
Unprepared to be suddenly left on my own, I hesitate and linger beside him, not sure what to do.
Howard turns all his attention to me, and the creepy way he looks at me makes me want to hide behind my father. “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.”
Pushing his hand into my back, my father urges me forward with a firm, “Go.”
Stumbling, almost tripping, I hurry down the red-carpeted aisle between the pews. Wanting to obey my father and be a good girl.
But I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.
The front of the cathedral, where the priest usually stands and talks at us, is completely empty. There are no tables covered in pretty, embroidered cloths. No golden cups or flickering candles.
Only a strange, scary looking chair that looks like something an evil king would sit in.
The rows of pews are filled, practically overflowing with people, but they’re all grownups. Men dressed in dark suits with white rose blossoms pinned above their hearts and women wearing dresses the color of fresh snow.
There’s not another kid to be seen anywhere. Not even a boy.
My father told me to do what the other little girls do…
But where are they?
Nervously, I glance back at my parents.
His expression tight with what looks like anger, my father seems to be arguing quietly with Howard. Completely unaware of my need for assistance.
My mother, on the other hand, glares right back at me. Daring me to embarrass her.
Unable to go back, I continue forward. Praying God will lead me in the right direction.
Reaching the end of the long aisle, I freeze. Panic gripping me. There’s still no sign of any other little girls.
Spinning in a small circle, I search desperately for them.
Will I be judged for this failure before the Judging even begins?
Then I hear them. Quiet, hushed whispers come from behind a red velvet curtain to my right.
There’s usually not a curtain there. At least, not that I can remember. It must be special for today.
Heading quickly in that direction, it feels like my white slippers skim across the floor like a stone skipping across water. I’m so afraid of getting in trouble, I grab the thick velvet, yank the curtain to the side, and slip behind it.
Before the curtain falls back into place, Sister Agatha turns around to face me, her black habit swirling around her like a dark cloud of doom.
“It’s about time!” she hisses sharply and grabs my arm.
Her thin, bony fingers dig painfully into my muscle as she drags me along a line of girls dressed in white like me.
“We’re starting the ceremony late because of you!” Sister Agatha seethes as we reach the end of the line.
Then she releases me and gives me a sharp smack on the back of my head.
Not prepared or braced for pain, I cry out and tears sting my eyes.
Without thinking, I reach up, my hands cradling the back of my head while the line of girls in front of me breaks out in giggles.
Sister Agatha’s eyes spark with even more fury and she gets the same incensed look my mother gets before she slaps me again across the back of my hands. “There will be no crying! Stand there and be silent!”
Knuckles stinging, skin warm and throbbing, I bite down hard on my cheek and fill my mouth with blood.
Needing its bitter comfort to drag my hands away from my sore scalp.
Her body tense and ready to pounce on me, Sister Agatha watches me like a hawk, daring me to defy her again.
Once my hands are down at my sides, she gives a curt nod and turns to march up the line of girls standing in front of me.
Her thick heels thump against the floor as she snaps out, “Today, young ladies, you will be Judged before the eyes of our God, Almighty!”
The giggling ahead of me cuts off as if all the air in this small, cramped space was just sucked out.
Curtained off from the rest of the cathedral, we’ve all been squeezed into a dusty, unused corner as if we’re something that should be tucked away and hidden. The small area shadowed in darkness by the thick curtain, the only light we have is provided by an ancient, brassy candelabra.
The flames flickering at the tops of the candles dance an erratic dance, making everything look like it’s straight out of a nightmare.
Silently counting all the heads of curls, white ribbons, and ponytails ahead of me, I mentally add up nine other girls.
I recognize a couple of girls ahead of me from Sunday Masses, Michelle and Trinity, but I don’t actually know them. I’ve never played with them.
My mother absolutely detests playdates.
The other girls, though, are complete strangers.
“Our Prophet will look into your souls and he will know your future worth!” Sister Agatha declares as she reaches the beginning of the line and turns with a flourish to face everyone. Her gaunt, almost sickly, face flushed with righteousness. “All will be known to him. Your thoughts. Your prayers. Your desires. Your wishes. Your good deeds. Your sins! Your wickedness! You will not be able to hide anything!”
Some of the girls glance nervously at each other while the others look like they’re about to cry at any second.
“Only the pure of heart will pass the Judging. Only those truly devoted to God will be found worthy. All others will be doomed to burn in the fires of Hell for eternity!” Sister Agatha bellows, spittle flying out of her mouth.
Pausing to catch her breath, her hawkish gaze falls upon each of us.
Weighing us and judging us herself before she asks, “Do you know what eternity is, girls?”
Before anyone can work up the courage to answer, she goes on. “It is forever. It is never-ending! You will burn. You will suffer. You will feel unimaginable pain. You will want to die, but you will never die. And no one will save you. No one will help you. Not even your parents! All you will know is misery!”
Several girls burst into tears.
I’m so worried, so afraid, I can’t move. Terror gripping me.
Why didn’t my father warn me?
Sister Agatha’s thin lips stretch into a scary smile. “If you have misdeeds to repent for, I strongly suggest you repent now. Repent silently in your hearts! Beg our Lord, our Savior, for forgiveness! Or be Judged for them!”
A couple of girls begin to blubber and sob, begging God for forgiveness out loud.
Stomping her heel hard into the floor, Sister Agatha’s voice cracks like a whip. “I said silently! Unless, that is, you want to burn!”
Silence falls upon us once more, only interrupted by uncomfortable shifting and soft, wet sniffles.
The fist of terror squeezing my heart tighter, I mentally beg God to forgive me for all I’ve done. For being stupid. For not pleasing my mother.
For thinking bad things about her.
I’ll do better.
I promise I’ll be better.
Please, I don’t want to burn in Hell.
Sister Agatha walks up and down the line, her eyes narrowed to slits and her upper lip curling up in a sneer until there’s a commotion beyond the curtain.
The floor vibrates beneath my feet, and it sounds like everyone in the cathedral is rushing to stand at once. The smell of smoky incense fills the air, then the notes of a hymn sung by a single voice in Latin echoes off the walls.
At first, the hymn is as soft as a whisper, like the singer is giving everyone a chance to quiet down and listen.
But it quickly grows louder, demanding to be heard above all others.