Immaculate Heart (33 page)

Yet the erotic scenes weren't even the most interesting ones. In a panel on the right, a trio of angels appeared to a man and his daughter, who shrank from them in fear and awe. Each of the heavenly figures wore a fiery crown, and each had splendid wings of orange and green and blue. The glances of the angels, stern and withering, fell not on the man and girl but on the viewer—as if to say you could hide nothing from them, there was no use trying. We live all our lives waiting for that one moment of supernatural intervention, the pivotal flash at which your life finally starts to mean something; but the people so transfigured are people alive only between the pages of a book.

I went a few paces into an adjoining room and sat on a bench so I could still see the window through the doorway. I took the diary out of my knapsack and turned to the last page. For weeks I'd been telling myself it wasn't legible, that I couldn't possibly read it without giving myself another headache. Yet another lie.

To begin with you only pinched her in places she would've hurt herself anyway—her elbows, her knees—but it didn't satisfy. You told her she was ugly and she believed you. She hid herself, she wouldn't even let your mam see her in her knickers, and then you went for her softer parts.

Your gran knew. She knew but she couldn't let herself believe it. You saw how she looked at you, at bedtime, after the day at Streedagh. She closed the door on you and she and Mallory shared the big bed, and in the room down the hall, in the dark, you shook with a rage you could not understand.

You'd seen her, in the dunes. You saw between her legs and it didn't matter that you'd seen her in the bath a thousand times, it was different now, after this you could only do worse. Home again, parents sleeping. It doesn't matter, sure it doesn't. That's what She told you. She said you could do whatever you liked because it was already done.

So you crept in, pressed your hand on your sister's mouth and pulled back the covers. You made the place inside her, you made the place, but no one else could ever go there.

I snapped the diary shut as a pair of chatty old women came by. One of them shot me a look, half suspicious and half I-don't-know-what-else.

It was wrong. I
wanted
to hate myself. But after the first time, there could be no undoing it—not for an ordinary mortal like me, anyway—and it felt too good to stop. Some nights, when my sister and I met eyes across the dinner table, I looked back at her as if she were just some girl sitting near me at the Burger King. And on the day when that old woman plowed into the side of that station wagon, the first thing I thought was
now no one will ever know.

But this is what religion is for, isn't it? No one's irredeemable, not even me. Síle knew everything, she'd seen “the stain on my heart,” and it made no difference. She still wanted me.

For a long time, I sat on that bench looking at the figures dancing inside the glass, running my fingers over the embossed leather cover on the diary, checking the time on my iPhone as if I were waiting for someone.

I
was
waiting, wasn't I? I waited for a dark-haired woman to round that corner, look at me and smile; I waited for a glimpse of a woman too serene, too lovely to be of this earth, a woman who couldn't possibly be there. And when she came, I rose to greet her.

 

 

ALSO BY
CAMILLE D
E
ANGELIS

Bones & All

Mary Modern

Petty Magic

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people have encouraged my love of Ireland, and I apologize to anyone I'm about to leave out.

So much love and gratitude to my grandmother's cousin Gene Murphy and his wonderful family for all their kindness and hospitality over the years: Betty, Sharon, Yvonne, and Justin, and to our cousin Dick Wahner (may he rest in peace) for putting us in touch to begin with. Love to my father for giving me that first map of Ireland to hang on my bedroom wall, and to my mother and grandmother for inspiring me with their commitment to their faith. (We may not agree on the particulars, but I
am
convinced there's a world beyond the five senses, and I suppose my Catholic upbringing provided the foundation for a belief system that fits me.)

Go raibh míle maith agat
to Pádraig Ó Cearúil, my Irish teacher at NYU, and a shout-out to
mo chara
Jennifer “Ní Bhlathanna.” Kristen Couse and Tom Haslow, thank you for helping me get to Ireland for the first time in the spring of 2000 to check out the sights and pubs and hostels so I could write about it all. Ditto to Grace Fujimoto and the folks at Avalon for giving me another opportunity with
Moon Ireland
in 2006.

Seanan McDonnell, your friendship is one of the greatest joys of my life, and this story is so much better for your insight and thoughtful suggestions. Bán, JP, Fergal, Pádraig, Cían, Ann, Bríd Tynan, and the McCulloughs—you've always made me feel like a part of your family, to the point that “thanks a million” feels woefully insufficient. I've made many more dear friends through the MA in writing at NUI Galway: Ailbhe Slevin and Christian O'Reilly, Deirdre Sullivan and Diarmuid O'Brien, Shelley Troupe and James Mullaney, Patrick Curley (who, with his lovely sister Tara and mother Breda, kept me well and happy on a recent visit to Sligo), and Brendan O'Brien and his parents Margaret and Joe, who were always so kind to me on my visits to Carrick-on-Suir. Adrian Frazier, Mike McCormack, and Sinead Mooney: thank you for all the knowledge and insight you shared during my MA year. Emily Goldstein and Vince Murphy, you are terrific. I am also grateful to Celine Kiernan for advising me as to the finer points of Irish slang as well as which brand of cold cream an Irishwoman would use in 1987.

To my old-as-in-longstanding friends Kelly Brown, Aravinda Seshadri, and Leah Smith, and my sister Kate: thanks for your company (not to mention hijinks) on Inis Mór and elsewhere. Love and thanks to McCormick Templeman, Nova Ren Suma, Mackenzi Lee, Elizabeth Duvivier, Olivia White, Kelly Turley, and Amiee Wright.

Kate Garrick, you are
the best.
Sara Goodman, thank you so much for your seemingly limitless patience during the revision process. I feel so blessed to have you for my editor! Thanks to all the other wonderful folks at St. Martin's Press: Alicia Clancy, George Witte, Joan Higgins, Brant Janeway, Angie Giammarino, Angela Craft, Lisa Pompilio, and Lauren Hougen
.
And thank you, as always, to Brian DeFiore and Shaye Areheart.

In addition to plumbing my mother's shelves for prayer books, hagiographies, and (rather too enthusiastic) tracts on the nature of hell and purgatory, I learned a lot from the following books: Patrick Tracey's
Stalking Irish Madness,
Nancy Scheper-Hughes's
Saints, Scholars, and Schizophrenics,
Russell Shorto's
Saints and Madmen,
Nicola Gordon Bowe's
The Life and Work of Harry Clarke,
Lucy Costigan and Michael Cullen's
Strangest Genius,
and Michael Walsh's
The Apparition at Knock.
Síle quotes from Keats's poem “The Eve of St. Agnes” in chapter six, and the fairy story Tess tells in chapter eight is very much inspired by Susanna Clarke's
The Ladies of Grace Adieu
and
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.
I was reading John McGahern's
The Dark
while writing Síle's journal entries, and if they're the best writing in the book then perhaps I can't take any credit for it. I must also thank Dr. Brian Hatcher at Tufts University, who gave me so much to feed my imagination in his Intro to Hinduism course.

To Memory Risinger, Debka Colson, Mary Bonina, Alexander Danner, and my other friends at the Writers' Room of Boston: I am very grateful for your warm welcome. Thanks to the WROB I was able to finish the first draft of
Immaculate Heart
in record time, and I have the loveliest memories of drinking coffee and watching the snow fall from my cozy little cubicle whenever I resurfaced out of the story.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Camille DeAngelis
is the author of the novels
Bones & All, Mary Modern,
and
Petty Magic,
as well as a first-edition guidebook,
Moon Ireland
. A graduate of NYU and the National University of Ireland, Galway, Camille currently lives in Boston. Visit her online at
www.cometparty.com
. Or sign up for email updates
here
.

    

 

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CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

December

Also by Camille DeAngelis

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

IMMACULATE HEART.
Copyright © 2016 by Camille DeAngelis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.