Chapter Text
Beverly Keane.
Fucking Beverly Keane.
You hated her. You hated her more than anything else on this entire island— more than anything on the entire planet. She was a fucking bitch, and what was worse was that she really, really didn’t care. She’d argue with anyone and everyone as if she were God’s personal mouthpiece. She certainly acted entitled enough to be.
As far as everyone knew, you’d taken a two-week vacation in New York. Not very big news. You’d made up a few stories about things you saw, and did, and that was that. No one prodded any further.
In all reality, you’d had a stay in a mental health facility after a crisis. The only person who knew the truth was Sarah Gunning, and that was because she was the one who referred you. You trusted her enough as a doctor and a friend to confide in her. One night, when you’d gotten a hold of a bottle of brandy and an exact-o knife, she was the one you called when your arm wouldn’t stop bleeding. She was the one who came over and calmed you. Tended to your wounds. Held you until you were ready to talk.
How Beverly fucking Keane found out that it wasn’t a vacation, you didn’t have any fucking clue.
+++++++
You weren’t exactly a devout Catholic, but you liked going to mass. It added routine to your week, and you liked the occasional conversation with the Flynns, Erin Greene, and the Scarbouroughs. St. Patrick’s was a quaint, pretty little church. It only had a few rows of pews, an altar, and an organ, but it was built in a way that made everyone feel closer when inside. Excited wouldn’t be the word you’d use to describe your feelings about a church service,
but today was different. Today was the day that Monsignor Pruitt returned from his trip from Israel, and considering you donated to the trip fund, you were interested in hearing about it.
He was essentially the keystone individual for the community. Only a select few families in town attended mass every week, but everyone was kind to Pruitt. He was a gentle man with a kind heart, and everyone knew that. The trip to Israel was much deserved, and the townsfolk were happy to pitch in. And so, you prepared yourself for the sermon surrounding the things he experienced.
Except, when the music began and the altar boys made their way to the front of the church, following them was not Monsignor Pruitt at all. It was another man— considerably younger. He was confidently singing the hymn along with the rest of the congregation. You would have been lying to yourself if you said he wasn’t handsome. Dark eyes stared straight ahead to the altar, the skin on either sides of them wrinkled slightly as he smiled. His slightly curly hair was pushed back out of his face. He seemed unsure of himself, and looking around the congregation from where you sat in the back, everyone else seemed unsure of him, too. Your brow furrowed.
After the last hymn, the priest addressed the small congregation.
“Good morning,” He stated with a smile. “I know I’m not who you expected to see this morning.” He explained that his name was Father Paul Hill, and he was sent to fill in for a few weeks. Monsignor Pruitt was apparently ill, and recovering on the mainland. Hushed murmurs overtook the few people in the sanctuary. You supposed it made sense. Monsignor Pruitt was an elderly gentleman, now, and things happen. It was a rumor around town that he had Alzheimers, or dementia, or something serious. Everyone knew that he had memory problems. He’d started using index cards during mass a little less than a year ago. Six months ago, he began struggling even with the cards in front of him. You didn’t exactly know how bad the problem was. Poor man.
The Father did an adequate job of leading everyone in prayer and passage. It was an average mass. You didn’t know what you expected. Catholics were nothing if not to the letter. Everyone seemed happy with the service. Of course, the concern for Monsignor Pruitt remained, and newcomers were always subject to the scrutiny and hesitancy from the townsfolk, but the sermon was successfully concluded and communion was announced. You stood from your pew and joined the line.
You passed a quick glance and a small smile to Riley, who still sat in the pews. His return was enough to draw the attention from the entire town, but you were shocked to see him at Sunday mass. You were less shocked to see him sit back from communion.
Humming along to the hymn being played, you took a few steps at a time as each person partook of the wafers and wine. When it was your turn, you nodded a hello to the Father, and to Beverly, who stood beside him (of course).
As you reached up to steady the wine glass the Father held in his hands, another snatched yours. Your eyes darted up to see who it belonged to. Beverly. But before you could even get out the words ‘let me go’, she had taken your sleeve and shoved it up your arm. Immediately, a cold chill ran through your body, freezing you in your place.
“Was this your idea of a vacation?” She almost hissed. She wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from everyone, but a few people had looked up. You had memorized the scars on your wrists. You didn’t need to look down to see them exposed. “Destroying the body you were so blessed to have been given? How dare you.” Her jaw was tightly set and fire burned behind her eyes. Tears burned in yours. Of all the places, and of all the times, she had to pick today. In public. In church. As you tried to pull your hand back, her grip only grew tighter. “You aren’t worthy of communion. Someone so selfish should confess and repent before they’re allowed to partake.”
The third time, you pulled your arm back hard enough that her grasp fell. You pulled down the sleeve of your cardigan as fast as you could, but you knew the Father had seen. One glance to him told you he was just as surprised at Beverly’s boldness.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered to the Father, who still holding the cup. “I’m sorry, excuse me.” With your head ducked down, you turned and quickly left the church. You didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes, or try to listen to the whispers in the pews. You just needed to get home.
As soon as the doors to St. Patrick’s shut behind you, you allowed yourself to cry. With wet cheeks, the autumn wind felt especially cold.
Fuck her.
Fuck her, thinking she was so much holier than everyone else on this damned island. Fuck her for knowing. You knew that new priest saw the extent of your scars. You knew he was probably disgusted, and if anything, he agreed with Beverly. You couldn’t show your face in that church if he were in it.
By the time you’d finished the short, 10 minute walk to your house, you were hyperventilating. As you pushed your way through the unlocked front door, you tried to see through your tears to make it to the kitchen. Pills, you needed your pills. Your medication. You were supposed to take it at the start of a panic attack, but maybe if you took more, it would still work. Maybe if you took more than that, it would kick in faster. With shaking hands, you threw open the cabinet above the sink and pushed over bottles until you found the right one. You unscrewed the cap and emptied an unknown number of little white capsules into your hand. And without much hesitation, you tipped them into your mouth and swallowed.
After two failed attempts at a breathing exercise (fucking pointless, you thought), you began to feel dizzy. It wasn’t the good type of dizzy that a high could produce. It was like your head was detached from your body and spinning rapidly through the air. You couldn’t focus on anything. Even the living room just a few steps away looked like it was pulsating and swaying.
A glass shattering brought you back to reality enough to realize you’d pushed a drinking cup onto the floor in an attempt to brace yourself agains the counter. God, you were tired.
So fucking tired. Of everything. Of Beverly, of this town, of this world. If you could just make it to your bed, you could go to sleep, and everything would be okay for a little while…
++++++++
The first thing you noticed was the sun. Light pierced through your closed eyelids and it fucking hurt. With a small groan, you lifted your wrist to shield your face. Now you were able to sense just how shitty you felt. Nausea crept its way up your throat from your stomach, and a massive headache was only growing by the second.
“Fuck,” You sighed out loud, reaching over to your bedside table for your phone. Except your hand fell through thin air and against the edge of your bed. You let your other hand fall from your eyes so you could open them. Not your bed. Not your house. Sitting up, you scanned the room. You were alone. An IV drip was attached to your right hand, and outside, the main residential street of Crockett greeted you. Across the street, your house sat like a tomb— dark and silent. So you were at Sarah’s, then… Why—
Realization hit you like a ton of bricks. Church. Beverly. The pills. You didn’t remember anything after that. Fuck, did you pass out? You started to stand from the bed.
“Sarah, what the hell happened?“ You called out. “Did I pass out or someth…” Your voice faded out as an individual entered into the one-room clinic. The Father. From St. Patrick’s. You swallowed.
“Sorry— Mrs. Gunning made her way up the stairs again; Sarah is tending to her,” He said quietly, pointing behind him.
For a moment, you simply stared at each other. Trying to size each other up. “I don’t suppose you know how I got here,” you asked, eyes unmoving from the man’s dark ones. His lips pursed together and his expression was grave. He nodded.
“Ms. Greene found you. She was concerned when you left mass and excused herself. Left probably ten minutes after you did.” As he spoke, he stepped further into the room. Father Hill motioned silently to the edge of the bed. You nodded, and he sat. After he cleared his throat, he continued. “You were on the floor, unconscious, foaming at the mouth. Sarah was at home, thank the Lord. She managed to tend to you in time.”
In time.
Your brow furrowed, and you shook your head. “Wait, so— why are you here?”
He smiled a sad sort of smile. You had a feeling he did that a lot. Somehow, you could tell he’d tried to help a lot of people. “I was at the church. I heard what Beverly said to you.”
“Right,” You whispered, letting out a sigh as you rubbed a hand down your face.
“Don’t.” He added quickly, so as not to let your mind wander. “I- I wanted to help. We didn’t exactly meet under ideal circumstances, and I wanted to make my intentions clear. I think Ms. Keane was completely out of line.” Although he was looking you in the eye, you knew he could see your arms. Since you didn’t have your cardigan on, you assumed Sarah or Erin had taken it off. Father Hill sighed softly. “St. Patrick’s is open to all. God is open to all. And God sees you. I see you.”
Your lips started to tremble. How did three fucking words hit you so hard? I see you. Maybe it was because you’d been waiting to hear them for years. Maybe it was because you knew he meant it.
You weren’t the hugging type, but when he opened his arms, you didn’t hesitate. As if the moment would be gone in a second, you swiftly buried yourself in his chest, your eyes squeezed shut. His arms wrapped around you tightly, securing you in an embrace that was unlike anything you’d felt before. “I see you,” He whispered.
“I see you.”