Sister Theresa nodded, shrugged, and made room on the pew. Sister Agnes knelt instead, and wrapped her arms around the disconsolate young woman. Rose looked up into another dark, worried face.
Why had she come here? Whatever made her think that these women—these wives of the church—could understand her world? She wished she hadn’t come. She wished she was back in the bathroom, naked and staring at the battered stranger reflecting in the mirror. The bruises were the least of it. Couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they see the shadow hanging over her, blacker than any bruise? She had thought that the shadow would be visible here. That the holy sisters would make the sign of the cross and drive it out. But they looked at her face, not the shadow. There was no help here. No hope.
Rose knotted her hand in her hair. She pulled until strands ripped loose and tears began to flow from her eyes again.
Sister Agnes recoiled in horror. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She was at the altar when I came in. I asked her what was wrong. It’s been all downhill since then.”
“Is she hurt? Do you think we need an ambulance?” Sister Agnes asked.
“It’s not the bruises hurting her. She’s been beaten before—God help us all—and didn’t come to us. No . . . something’s struck her soul. It’s still there.”
Rose heard the words she longed to hear, the words confirming her darkest fear and shame. The voice of her God-given conscience wanted to confess everything, but when she opened her mouth a single, scarcely human scream came out instead.