Confession
It started with a confession.
Not a confession in the romantic sense of the word— like the type Mariano had a habit of proclaiming whenever he was within Dolores’s hearing range. Which was everywhere. He proclaimed his love for her everywhere. It was kind of annoying, but Dolores seemed utterly enamored with him and his proclamations so on he went.
She was getting off track.
This confession was made in a cramped wooden space on a hot summer day, back when her dress was still that atrocious shade of lavender and all she knew was that she had to be perfect.
“En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo,” Padre Josué said. His slightly nasally voice carried through the screen separating them, pulling her out of her thoughts.
With the scratchy seams of her dress brushing against her arms and the distinct smell of wig oil permeating the space, she followed his lead, daintily touching her fingers to her forehead, then her sternum, and across her shoulders.
“Bendígame padre, porque ha pecado,” she began, and she could almost see her words curling around in the dusty air. “Hace una semana que me confesé y estas son mis pecados.”
Dimly, as her confession went on, Isabela wondered if he could see through her facade and pick apart her lies. No doubt He with the capital ‘H’ could but Padre Josué? She wasn’t so sure.
“Are there any other sins you’d like to confess?” he asked.
Isabela felt the words push insistently against her lips. She should say it. She knew that no matter what she thought, it was still considered ‘wrong.’ A small spark of anger appeared and she barely stopped said anger from manifesting in the form of a plant. Carnivorous and spiky. Not ideal for the Golden Child’s image or the varnished wood of the confessional.
It wasn’t the fact that she loved girls— well one girl in particular— it was the fact that she had to lie about it that grated on her nerves.
“No, Padre,” she replied. The words settled heavily in her chest and she bent her head to receive absolution.
It was the first time she had lied in the confessional.
It would not be the last.
----
Okay, so maybe it didn’t start with a confession. Maybe that was just her wanting to be dramatic. Fuck you, she could be dramatic if she wanted. She had earned that right with all the crap she has had to put up with for literally her entire life.
Truthfully, Isabela didn’t know when it started. ‘It’ being the hollow feeling as Padre Josué spoke about the merciful God and recited the Beatitudes as if he had done that a thousand times before. And he probably had, considering the number of Masses he’s had to preside over. The disconnect from her prayers and the fact that she could never seem to focus on what was happening whenever 'El Señor' was involved.
Her mind started wandering, first only during the homily— if only because Padre Josué was terrible at making his points clear and concise. Then it spread to the readings, the prayers, songs— until she was physically forcing herself to pay attention as Padre Josué raised the host into the air for consecration.
But she was not the only one. Isabela was nothing if not observant, especially when she had nothing to do except listen as Padre Josué droned on about the root word of something and how it related to El Sacrificio de Cristo, so she found herself watching her familia instead.
Despite Abuela’s tireless efforts of making sure each and every one of her familia lived in Temor del Señor, a few were bound to slip through the cracks.
Tío Bruno was the most noticeable one since he straight-up refused to join them for morning mass long before he disappeared. Although, now that she thought back on it, that may have more to do with the nasty glares Padre Josué and the rest of the congregation would send him rather than any actual doubt in his faith.
She was young when that fight happened, but it was one of the few times she could remember Tío Bruno actually arguing back with Abuela, all clenched hands and glowing eyes.
But there were some who were more subtly bored such as Tio Félix, who looked to be dozing off once the homily hit, and Dolores who had her head tilted in a way that showed she was listening to something or someone who was distinctly not present. Three guesses as to who she was listening to, and the first two did not count. Luisa, who absentmindedly played piano notes on her skirt, and Mirabel who was restless and constantly shifting around. A flash of metal caught the light and Isabela glanced down to see her sneakily embroidering the edge of a handkerchief.
She had to bite back a laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Mirabel caught her looking and raised a challenging brow. Are you going to rat me out, Señorita Perfecta? she seemed to ask. Isabela narrowed her eyes and sat up straighter. She flicked her finger and a daffodil appeared in the palm of her hand. She set it on Mirabel’s lap and pointed at it. Her sister grinned.
After mass, when they had arrived back at Casita, Mirabel presented her with a finished daffodil in the corner of the handkerchief.
That tradition continued for a while, with the adults none the wiser as Luisa’s frame kept both of them hidden from sight. Luisa, being the angel she was, said nothing. She merely rolled her eyes, hid an amused smile, and went back to miming her notes. It was nice, not being at Mirabel’s throat for once. The monotony of the service was enough to make them push aside their differences— to put it delicately— and just exist in the same space, creating and sewing various small plants.
But it soon came to an end, as all good things tend to do, especially when Mirabel was involved. Abuela happened to look over at the wrong moment and saw Mirabel holding her stitching up slightly to squint at it and it all went downhill from there.
The next mass, Mirabel was sent to the altar to assist Padre Josué and Isabela was now made to sit next to Abuela, front and center. Privately, Isabela mourned the entertainment Mirabel provided but seeing her hermana at the altar decked out in an alb with a pout on her face made her snicker.
----
“Stay with me a moment,” Abuela said one morning after Padre Josué had exited. The last strains of the piano echoed through the church and Isabela nodded. Abuela smiled and patted her hand before lowering the kneeler and kneeling down. Isabela took her cue and joined Abuela, as the rest of the family dispersed and Mirabel rushed through the task of extinguishing the candles.
The familiar beads of a rosary were pressed into her palms and Isabela quietly sighed, resigning herself to spending at least half an hour more in the church until her knees were numb and her Padre Nuestros bled into her Ave Marias.
She did not particularly care about the meanings behind why Abuela prayed el Rosario or la Divina Misericordia, but she did notice how Abuela seemed to be lighter after the fact, less demanding, and more forgiving so Isabela was willing to stick it out if it meant that everyone was getting some slack.
“One day, mi vida,” Abuela murmured, thumbing the rosary beads, “when you are leading this family, you will understand why I do this.”
Isabela blinked and the familiar weight of everything pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe.
When you lead this family, Abuela had said. No doubt, no hesitance, just complete trust.
Her lies, her secrets, laid heavily in her chest and her gift pulsed beneath her veins. Isabela clenched the rosary tighter, feeling the smooth beads press into her palms.
No quiero! She wanted to say. Wanted to scream it from the rooftops. Anyone would be better than me!
“Sí, Abuela,” she replied, instead, straightening her shoulders. "¿Deberíamos empezar?"
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