Heaven on Earth
© 2004 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: Book is Jeffrey's; film is Sofia's. Prayers are those I
remember from my days at Catholic private school.
Dedication: For dear darling Petal.
--
She sought peace and found none.
My sister Bonnie really meant the prayers she said at church. While my sisters and I stared at plates in the stained glass windows or the nails through Christ's hands on the cross, Bonnie was lost in prayer, fingers wound around her rosary. Her lips moving silently; her eyes squeezed closed. Her knuckles white, cheeks bloodless, spine straight.
Forgive me Father for I have sinned . . . it has been three heartbeats since my last confession.
Lux never repented for anything. The manipulation, seduction, lies. Nothing fazed her. She flipped her sins off her shoulder like a toss of her blonde hair on a spring day. Bonnie prayed for her; hoped that one day she would let all the impurity of her life be absolved. Lux knew this and paid no mind. She told me once as we descended the church steps, "Ceel, why do we go to church? I mean, really, who gives a flying fuck?" She'd said the same thing after the service on the day our mother incinerated the rock records. With the rising of smoke into the air, she'd cried like a baby. Bonnie prayed for her then, too.
Forgive us our trespasses. . .
"Bonnie, why do you pray so much?" Mary asked my sister once, without looking at her. Mary's vanity – of both glass and heart – was too consuming. "Is it because Mum wants you to or because you really believe all that bullshit?"
"I believe in it." Her soft reply, her downcast eyes. Her knuckles white, cheeks bloodless, spine straight. Mary and Bonnie were inseparable in every way except for religion. Mary's was prettiness, Bonnie's was piety. With a mention of God or Heaven or prayer, Mary's back turned, hand rising to touch her mouth, to assure herself that her lipstick shone. Bonnie's hand rose to draw a cross over her heart.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners . . .
In lockdown, Bonnie left the world like my sisters. Instead of traveling to foreign tea houses and rushing waterfalls, in her imagination she was confined in the confessional. Her hair covered with a shawl, the rosary tight around her fingers, dirty brown holy water on her forehead. Father Moody heard her tongue and lips and teeth click and hum as every sin rushed forward like hot tea and cold water.
I kissed a boy at homecoming. I didn't like it, Father. I didn't. But I kissed him. I drank schnapps, drank alcohol, Father. Forgive me.
Tears welling in her eyes, hands gripping the beads. I wished I could escape like Cecilia. Wished I could escape God's plan for me. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. . .
She sinned least of all in our household, and was the one who was sorry for things that didn't beg forgiveness. Pressure from classmates, my sisters, my parents. Confusion and pain and awkwardness.
With the rosary she sought peace and found none.
"Never be ashamed of what you believe in," Therese told Bonnie just after they hacked down my elm. My elm, with its golden leaves like the halo around Bonnie's head, its strong trunk like her unchanging faith.
Suicide was her greatest sin, though it released her from pain. She choked on her resentment, fear, unhappiness. Choked on schnapps, kisses, hurt. And when it was over, when the blood no longer flowed, she floated free. The clouds were her rosary beads; she walked on prayers up to me. Up to pureness. Her throat healed, the tears stopped.
Those at church did not respond kindly to the actions of my sisters, but they all knew deep down that Bonnie had lived as faultless a life as possible. Had meant every prayer she said at church, knuckles white, cheeks bloodless, spine straight.
And now from all the cruelty, she is pardoned.
I pray the Lord my soul to take.