Danielle Steel - Malice

“I like this kind of work. It means a lot to me.”

“Do you know much about it? I suppose you do after two years at St. Mary's.”

“Enough, I guess, to be useful.” It was all too familiar to her, but she wasn't quite sure whether or not to say it to him. She almost wanted to. She trusted him more than she had anyone in a long time.

“How many times a week or month did you volunteer at St. Mary's?”

“Two nights a week, and every Sunday … most holidays.”

“Wow.” He looked impressed, and surprised. Priest or no, he could see easily that she was young and beautiful, too young to be giving up so much of her life to a home like this one. And then he looked at her carefully. “Is this a special mission for you, Grace?” It was as though he knew. He sensed it. And she nodded.

“I think so. I … understand about these things.” She wasn't sure what else to say to him, but he nodded, and touched her hand gently.

“It's all right. Healing comes in many ways. Blessing others is the best one.” She nodded, and her eyes were blurred with tears. He knew. He understood. She felt as though she had come home, just being here, and being near him. “We need you, Grace. There's a place for you here. You can bring joy, and healing, to a lot of people, as well as yourself.”

“Thank you, Father,” she whispered as she wiped her eyes and he smiled at her. He didn't pry any further. He knew all he needed to know. No one knew better what these women were going through than one who'd been through it, battered and abused by husbands and fathers, or mothers or boyfriends.

“Now, let's get down to business.” His eyes were laughing again. “How soon can you start? We're not going to let you get away from here that easily. You might come to your senses.”

“Right now?” She had come prepared to work, if he wanted her, and he did. He led her back into the kitchen, where they left their empty mugs in one of the dishwashers, and then he walked her out to the hallway and started introducing her to people. The three girls at the desk had been replaced by a boy in his early twenties, who was a medical student at Columbia, and there were two women talking to a gaggle of little girls, whom Father Tim introduced as Sister Theresa, and Sister Eugene, but neither of them looked like nuns to Grace. They were friendly-looking women in their early thirties. One was wearing a sweat suit, and the other jeans and a threadbare sweater. And Sister Eugene volunteered to take Grace upstairs to show her around the rooms where the women stayed, and the nursery where they sometimes kept the children, if the women were too battered to deal with them for the time being themselves.

There was an infirmary staffed by a nurse who was a nun, and she was wearing a clean white smock over blue jeans. The lights were kept dim, and Sister Eugene walked Grace in on soundless feet, as she signaled to the nurse on duty. And as Grace looked around her at the women in the beds, her heart twisted as she recognized the signs she had lived her entire life with. Merciless beatings and heartrending bruises. Two women had arms in casts, one had cigarette burns all over her face, and another was moaning as the nurse tried to bandage her broken ribs again, and put ice packs on her swollen eyes. Her husband was in jail now.

“We send the worst cases to the hospital,” Sister Eugene explained quietly as they left the room again. Without thinking, Grace had stopped to touch a hand, and the woman had looked at her in suspicion. That was another thing Grace was familiar with too. These women were sometimes so far gone and so badly treated that they didn't trust anyone anymore not to hurt them. “But we keep whoever we can here, it's less upsetting for them. And sometimes it's only bruises. The really ugly stuff goes to the emergency room.” Like the woman who'd come in two nights before whose husband had put a hot iron to her face, after hitting her with a tire iron on the back of her head. He had almost killed her, but she was so terrified of him, she had refused to bring charges. The authorities had taken their children away from them, and they were in foster homes now. But the woman had to be willing to save herself, and many of them didn't have the courage to do it. Being battered was the most isolating thing in the world. It made you hide from everyone, Grace knew only too well, even those who could help you.

Sister Eugene took her to see the children then, and in minutes Grace had her arms full of little girls and boys, she was telling them stories, and tying bows on braids, and shoelaces, as children told her who they were, and some of them talked about what had happened and why they had come there. Some couldn't. Some of their siblings had been killed by their parents. Some of their mothers were upstairs, too battered to move, too ashamed even to see them. It was a disease that destroyed families, and the people who lived through it. And Grace knew with a sinking heart how few of them would ever grow up to be whole people or be able to trust anyone again.

It was after eight o'clock before she left them that night. As she did, Father Tim was standing at the door, talking to a policeman. He had just brought a little girl in, she was two years old, and she had been raped by her father. Grace hated cases like that … at least she had been thirteen … but she had seen babies at St. Mary's who had been raped and sodomized by their fathers.

“Rough day?” Father Tim asked sympathetically, as the policeman left.

“Good day.” She smiled at him. She had spent most of it with kids, and then the last few hours, talking to some of the women, just being there, listening, trying to give them the courage to do what they had to. No one could do it for them. The police could help. But it was up to them to save themselves. And maybe, if she talked to enough of them, she told herself, they wouldn't have to go to the same lengths she had. They wouldn't have to wind up in prison to be free. It was her way of repaying the debt, of atoning for a sin she knew her mother would never have forgiven her for. But she had had no choice, and she didn't regret it. She just didn't want anyone else to have to pay the same price she had.

“You run a great place here,” she complimented him. She liked it even better than St. Mary's. It was livelier, and in some ways warmer.

“It's only as great as the people who work here. Can I interest you in coming back? Sister Eugene says you're terrific.”

“So is she.” The nun had been tireless working there all day, as was everyone Grace had seen. She liked everyone she had met there. “I don't think you'll be able to keep me away.” She had already signed up for two nights that week and the following Sunday. “I can come in on Thanksgiving too,” she said easily.

“You're not going home?” He looked surprised. She was awfully young to be so unencumbered.

“No home to go to,” she said without hesitation. “It's not a big deal. I'm used to it.” He watched her eyes, and nodded. There was a lot there that she wasn't saying.

“We'd love to have you.” The holidays were always rough for people with bad home situations, and the number of people they saw come in often doubled. “It's always a zoo here.”

“That's just what I want. See you next week, Father,” she said, as she signed out on the logbook. She was going to be reporting to Sister Eugene, and she was thrilled that she'd come here. It was exactly what she wanted.

“God bless you, Grace,” Father Tim said as she left.

“You too, Father,” she called, and closed the door behind her.

It was a long, cold, somewhat scary walk back to the subway again, threading her way through the bums and the drunks, and young hoods looking for fun. But no one bothered her, and half an hour later, she was home, walking down First Avenue to her apartment She was tired from her long day, but she felt renewed again, and as though at least for some, the horrors in her life had been useful. For Grace, knowing that always made the pain she carried seem worthwhile. At least it wasn't wasted.