The Accidental Siren

9.4 Night Terrors and the Flooded Confessional

The storm was chasing us. If Mom was awake at home, she was freaking out.

Streams of water followed us down the second hill, eroding miniature canyons between the roots, rocks and fallen bits of bark.

There were no puddles in the second valley, but a lake. Patches of saturated dirt protruded from the sea like a herd of giant snapper turtles. The water was not still, but alive with raindrops--trillions of them--providing the cesspool an eerie, rippled texture as if it was boiling.

“Come on!” Mara said and grabbed my hand.

I stumbled to keep up, dipping and dodging limbs and trunks, feet galloping through mud, heart racing like a ticking time bomb.

“There,” she said and nodded to a distant pine. Over the next hundred feet, the maples, oaks and sporadic birch trees gave way to pointed conifers. Clumps of brown needles created an undulating crust on the water's surface.

We reached the tree at the base of Mara's hill. She ducked beneath the lowest branch and pulled me inside the sanctuary of the thousand-year-old pine. (I was certain that if we cut it in half, the rings would prove its age.)

My teeth chattered, not because it was cold, but because that's what teeth do when the body is drenched in rain. We stood in a foot of water but the conifer's trunk was dry. The thick awning held back the downpour and muffled the sound of falling rain.

The droplets on Mara's face were crystalline, uniform, and evenly spaced... I looked like I just pulled my head from a hippo's butt.

She unstrapped the sack from her shoulder, removed two candles, rosary beads, and a matchbook stolen from the top shelf of the buffet. She placed the candles side by side on the lowest limb.

“What are you doing?”

“I can't go up there like this.” Her hands trembled as she struck the match. The flame colored her face with its initial bold burst and illuminated every raindrop on her cheek like polished rubies. She crossed herself. “I want you to hear my confession.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I nodded.

“Don't look at me,” she commanded. “Turn around.”

My feet sloshed in the flood as I faced the shroud of needles. Through the thunder and pelting rain, I heard Mara's soft but rapid breath.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been sixty-three days since my last confession.”

“What do I do?” I whispered.

“You're supposed to ask me questions.”

“Like what?”

“Like what I did wrong this week, or questions about my body.”

My mind leapt headfirst into the possibilities. I wondered if “confession” meant she had to tell the truth. I was certain I had seen enough priests in movies to put on a believable performance.

Before I could think of a question, Mara gave me one. “Just ask me what sins I've committed.”

I cleared my throat. “Tell me, child, what sins have you committed?”

She sighed. “I sleep in on weekends,” she said.
“Sometimes till noon. I said the word 'asshole' twice. I said 'lesbian' three times, ‘shit’ four times, and 'butthead' six. And I stole the matchbook from the top of the buffet.”

I grinned, but Mara couldn’t see my face so it didn’t matter. “Is that all, child?” I asked.

“Lust, father.”