SIX
* * *
The oath.
There, in the darkness of the broom closet, we swore it.
Never Ben. He must never know, never suspect. Kevin must be the perfect older brother, and I the perfect sister. Our surrender must protect him, and we must never protest.
Never.
Never.
We swore it to God almighty.
#
A year, two years, three years. A part of you dies each time, in the shame and the disgust. And a part of you grows thick, like a scab, and this part becomes all you are, when you are with the one who touches you. This part of you is there, but the rest is not. The rest learns to be far away, and in time the scab is all there is, all that you know how to show the world. I think this was easier for Kevin than it was for me, because what a man is supposed to be is cold, unemotional. That Kevin became more so than most matters little. That Kevin's life became the lie that it became is unimportant; he is a man, and men are not supposed to cry.
Three years, then four. I was no longer a little girl, Kevin no longer a little boy. But in a sense we both still are; he hides behind his wooden facade, and I fled our family for the West Coast. There was no choice for either of us, for in the end, our abuser escaped us.
#
Do they laugh at you from the grave?
I wondered this, as I and Kevin and our parents and Ben joined with the community in remembering him. He was not so old, they said. Not so young, of course, but not so old. There was a future in the church ahead of him; perhaps she would have been a bishop, even a cardinal. He was a loyal, devoted man of God. He was loved by his flock, and he ministered to them well. One by one and again and again the people said these things, gave testimony to his selflessness, to all that he had given to young and old alike.
A career cut down by a weak heart. He had always loved his rich foods.
The new priest was a good man, honest and hardworking and caring. But it was too late for Kevin and I; we had been betrayed by the very thing we most needed. I remember one day, kneeling in the foremost pew of the cathedral, my hands clasped in prayer as I looked up at Christ on the cross.
You bore so much, took on our sins, endured the humiliation and pain of the crucifixion. But as I pray to you now, you do not answer. Where is your love, the love of the Mother Church for its weakest, for those most vulnerable, those most in need? The Pope and the Cardinals and the Bishops wrap themselves in power and wealth, and their servants are free to do what was done to me? Where is the justice of your church, God? What price will the priest who abused my brother and I pay for his sins? Has he received your forgiveness while we live in pain?
* * *
The oath.
There, in the darkness of the broom closet, we swore it.
Never Ben. He must never know, never suspect. Kevin must be the perfect older brother, and I the perfect sister. Our surrender must protect him, and we must never protest.
Never.
Never.
We swore it to God almighty.
#
A year, two years, three years. A part of you dies each time, in the shame and the disgust. And a part of you grows thick, like a scab, and this part becomes all you are, when you are with the one who touches you. This part of you is there, but the rest is not. The rest learns to be far away, and in time the scab is all there is, all that you know how to show the world. I think this was easier for Kevin than it was for me, because what a man is supposed to be is cold, unemotional. That Kevin became more so than most matters little. That Kevin's life became the lie that it became is unimportant; he is a man, and men are not supposed to cry.
Three years, then four. I was no longer a little girl, Kevin no longer a little boy. But in a sense we both still are; he hides behind his wooden facade, and I fled our family for the West Coast. There was no choice for either of us, for in the end, our abuser escaped us.
#
Do they laugh at you from the grave?
I wondered this, as I and Kevin and our parents and Ben joined with the community in remembering him. He was not so old, they said. Not so young, of course, but not so old. There was a future in the church ahead of him; perhaps she would have been a bishop, even a cardinal. He was a loyal, devoted man of God. He was loved by his flock, and he ministered to them well. One by one and again and again the people said these things, gave testimony to his selflessness, to all that he had given to young and old alike.
A career cut down by a weak heart. He had always loved his rich foods.
The new priest was a good man, honest and hardworking and caring. But it was too late for Kevin and I; we had been betrayed by the very thing we most needed. I remember one day, kneeling in the foremost pew of the cathedral, my hands clasped in prayer as I looked up at Christ on the cross.
You bore so much, took on our sins, endured the humiliation and pain of the crucifixion. But as I pray to you now, you do not answer. Where is your love, the love of the Mother Church for its weakest, for those most vulnerable, those most in need? The Pope and the Cardinals and the Bishops wrap themselves in power and wealth, and their servants are free to do what was done to me? Where is the justice of your church, God? What price will the priest who abused my brother and I pay for his sins? Has he received your forgiveness while we live in pain?