Operation Oleander (9780547534213) by Valerie O. Patterson

Author:Valerie O. Patterson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

SAM’S WAITING by the door like he said he would be, even though I’m almost late. Mrs. Johnson insisted on driving me, and then she got stuck in traffic. Sam hands me a candle that sits inside a plastic holder to catch any wax that falls. So we don’t burn our fingers. I inhale, but the candle doesn’t have a scent, not beeswax or perfume. Not even plastic. It’s odorless.

Inside the church even the little children are quiet. That’s what impresses me when we first walk in. Then it’s the coolness of the sanctuary on my skin, and I think of that word. Sanctuary. A place of safety, a refuge.

The lights are low enough so everyone has to slow down. Our eyes adjust from the brightness outside. The crucifix hangs in front, and the scenes along the wall are carved in relief. Once, Sam walked me through the Stations of the Cross. I don’t remember all the steps. But closest to us is the figure of Christ carrying his own cross. He staggers under the weight.

Sam genuflects and enters a pew near the back that’s not yet full. I don’t bend my knees, but I lower my eyes as I follow him. In the row in front of us are other students from school. They don’t look back.

I turn my head looking for Meriwether or her dad, but I don’t see them.

Almost every pew is filled, and people stand along the back in neat rows. Father Killen leads everyone in prayer, and Sam points me to the preselected list of hymns and prayers on the back of the paper flyer.

An usher lights the candle of the first person in every row. Then each person shares it with the next person. When the time comes, I tip the wick of my candle into the elderly woman’s to my right. Her freckled hand shakes, and I hold my breath, afraid the flame will go out. But the wick catches. Shielding the candle from the draft of my own movement, I turn to my left and pass the light to Sam. Soon the only light in the sanctuary comes from flickering candles. Pure light, and then voices fill the room in song.

This isn’t a regular mass, but Father Killen speaks of coming together, of remembrance, mystery, pain. Of healing. Of prayer. Mostly, though, we are singing. “Amazing Grace” I know. But also “Holy, Holy, Holy” and “Peace Is Flowing Like a River.”

When it’s over, I find myself separated from Sam as we walk out. I’m going through the door, and suddenly, I’m standing next to Father Killen as he greets everyone leaving through the main entrance.

I shake his hand like the person before me did. I expect his hand to be cold, but it’s warm.

“You’re a friend of Sam’s?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, surprised that he knows. “I’m Jess.” I want to ask how he knew.

“We’re praying for your father,” he says.

Thank you comes to my lips but not out of my mouth. Instead I say, “I don’t know how to pray.

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