Holy Moleskine

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned...”

4:00PM: Apostles Creed, Our Father, 3 Hail Mary’s, Glory Be, Our Father. 10 Hail Mary’s, Glory Be, Our Father. Repeat five times.

Jane gripped her rosary tightly, murmuring to herself and methodically rocking back and forth on her worn cot. The voices swirled around her, guilt constricting her throat and tightening her chest. She didn’t deserve to live. She’d never see Heaven.

Pen shaking, she finished her last entry into her moleskin notebook. A little black book that followed her everywhere. Her secrets etched in black ink. In memoriam. Grief and tears filled each page. As the ink soaked into the paper she knew her hours were numbered.

She placed the capsule in a small glass of water on her bedside table. It fizzled slightly then dissolved without a trace. She’d seen this countless times in the sacramental wine. The red liquid bubbling for mere moments before settling unsuspectedly. Ironic that the blood of Christ could kill so many.

With her final confession written, she grabbed for the glass. Her hand trembled as she raised it to her lips. She closed her eyes, forced it down, and rested her head on the flat pillow, mumbling before her imminent death:

O Almighty God, merciful Father, I a poor, miserable sinner, confess to You all my sins and iniquities, with which I have ever offended You and justly deserve Your punishment now and forever.

***

He washes her body with a disinfectant solution then massages her limbs to relieve the stiffness. Glancing at her vacant eyes for a moment, glue is meticulously placed along her eyelids before pulling the skin over her retinas to permanently close them from the world. Moving to the mouth, he threads a needle then punctures her lips with the sharp end, pushing through with just enough pressure to get to the other side. Working quickly, he seals her mouth into a solemn look. She doesn’t look peaceful like the other nuns who have graced his table. He inspects the body for foul play but the autopsy determined she died of natural causes, and he can’t find any evidence to the contrary.

Jane. What a simple name. . . He thought to himself as he continued.

After removing the blood from her veins, the mortician makes a small incision in her lower abdomen. Inserting the trocar, the organs are punctured and drained, then a formaldehyde solution is injected. He steps back to examine his work, feeling satisfied. Clothes and makeup are next. He opens the oversized ziplock bag, removing the habit. Checking the black cloak pockets for any remaining items, he remembers the crucifixes, worry stones, prayer cards and rosaries that he typically found from women of the cloth. You’d never know how many pockets they have until it’s your job to empty them.

Typical findings. Some beads. Prayer card for Saint Anthony. Coin with Saint Christopher. The usual.

He continues rustling through her gown and discovers an envelope. With gloved hands, he sees that it’s unsealed and takes a glance inside.

An audible gasps escapes his mouth as he fumbles the envelope and hundred-dollar bills flutter to the ground around him. Scooping up the money, he runs first to the nearby window and closes the blinds, then darts to the door. He clicks the lock and freezes in shock.

Collecting himself, he begins counting the money.

$20,000.

Eyes shifting, he continues searching for more money and comes across a little black moleskin notebook. He reads to himself:

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

The pages following have names. Just names. He starts to realize he recognizes these names. Men, women and children from the community who died unexpectedly or of seemingly natural causes. These were all people he had on his table. A shiver shoots through his body. The hairs on his arms and neck stand at attention.

Placing the money back in the envelope, he gets in his car and drives to the church. Sunday mass is taking place, so he sits in the back pew. Feeling the bulk of money in his pocket, his mind goes a mile a minute:

Would anyone even know she had this? I should give it to the priest and he’ll know what to do.

He waffles between the angel and the devil on his shoulders. Before he realizes, his pew stands to join the line for communion. “Taste and see” drones on in the background. He mindlessly walks toward the priest as the last person in line. Humming along while he walks, with clasped hands, he approaches the altar. Taste and see, taste and see. The goodness of the Lord.

Father John: “The Body of Christ.”

Adam: “Amen.”

Grabbing the host from his left hand, Adam places it on his tongue. He finds himself in the next line for the sacramental wine. They wipe the cup with a white cloth and Adam notices it’s empty. Another nun stands by and hands her sister a new chalice.

Nun: “The blood of Christ.”

Adam: “Amen.”

He bows his head slightly, clasps the cold metal in his hands and brings the cup to his lips. Sweet red liquid fills his mouth, and as he swallows he notices a look in the nuns eye that he can’t quite place.

Walking back to his pew he decides to keep the money. Saying one rushed Our Father and one mumbled Hail Mary.

He goes back to the embalming room to find Jane laying with her robe on, as he had left her. Applying cosmetics, he brings life back to her face with some blush and neutral tones. The priest arrives two hours later asking to see Jane in the casket.

Father John: “I can’t believe she’s gone so soon. But God always has His own plans.”

Adam: “Yes, Father. At least she went peacefully.”

Father John: “Let us pray. We must surrender to God’s Divine Plan and His timing.”

At that moment, Adam feels oddly dizzy and dismisses himself to lie down. Father John accompanies him until his heart stops beating. Calmly patting Adam’s suit jacket, he casually takes the envelope and places it in his robe. Finding the little black notebook, he pens the name:

Adam Smith.

The next morning Adam’s daughter finds him cold in his bed. The autopsy shows that Adam died in his sleep. She takes over the family business.

***

Years later, a familiar priest ends up on her table and she finds a little black Moleskine notebook with her father’s name in it.