“That night I read the Gospels out of fear but felt a change—I felt what I believed was the grace of Jesus touching my life—at least that’s what I thought it was, because the feeling was so glorious. I’m far away from that time now, but when I first read Matthew and Mark, and when I read the account of the baptism of Christ in Luke, I felt my life—felt like my chest just melted, like I’d been made of ice but some incredible warmth had broken through. I fell to the floor of my cell and knelt at the side of my bed, not knowing how to pray so I just said the words, ‘Jesus, help me, Jesus, help me,’ repeating His name in a hysteria, and with every word I felt His love overwhelm me. I was converted, that night. I felt protected by a power beyond myself. I reread the Gospels, then began in Genesis and when I next saw Timothy I confronted him about what had happened and told him that I’d report him if he ever touched me again, but his entire demeanor had changed. He smiled and laughed like he, too, was lit with an inner light at seeing me saved. At the end of our session we held hands and said the Lord’s Prayer.
“On his recommendation I was released from the facility and he placed me at Mrs. Waverly’s house. He thought that I might like living there in a community of faith. He introduced me to Mrs. Waverly, who we called Kitty—
“I realize, now. Kitty was the leader of the house but Waverly controled everything. He gave sermons about evangelism. He told stories about mission trips to Haiti and showed slides of past groups of girls in dusty villages. The people living at Kitty’s house were young, mostly college girls, girls who’d moved to Pittsburgh from other cities and other countries, lonely girls brought together because they were searching for fellowship. We were encouraged to socialize with one another, to recruit more people to our congregation but to limit our contact with people who weren’t interested in our faith. We took long hikes and trips to Ohiopyle. I was in love with it all, with the community. Eventually I adopted the name Albion and Timothy called me his sister in Christ—
“It was a Saturday afternoon when Timothy and Waverly visited me in the upstairs room. We prayed together, and Timothy explained what would happen. I still remember how calm his tone of voice was. Waverly crawled into bed and lay there while I went through with it. He kissed me like he was drinking me but fucked me like I wasn’t there at all. I wish I could tell you why I went along with it—but there is no why, that house was my life back then, my entire life. Even now I’m disgusted and relive that afternoon and wish I’d somehow taken control, had somehow done something, run screaming or refused or something, but I didn’t. I went through with it. Timothy took his turn and that was the first time he touched me since trying to choke me back in the center—he took me like I disgusted him. Afterward they prayed over me, these men. To heal me. The diseases in me. Asked God to be lenient with me.
“They visited every Saturday afternoon, and before they started they called me especially beloved, like the disciple ‘loved by Christ,’ but afterward I had to endure their prayers on my behalf and Timothy waiting for Waverly to leave so he could finish. Waverly was quick, but Timothy was violent and some nights I couldn’t help him finish until he hit me. He said he could get me Percocet—he never failed to bring pills and I don’t know if you’ve ever used Percocet but those sessions became the trigger for pills. After, he’d send Kitty into the room with me, to sleep in my bed with me, to make sure nothing happened while I was using. She’d spoon me and hold me like I was her child, sometimes stroke my hair or cry with me. I remember she smelled like ointment and hair spray and I could feel the abrasive skin of her legs touching mine as she curled her toes up close to me. But she would talk to me, whispering to me while we lay together. I learned from Kitty that Timothy had another family, that he was married. He was married again even before that. He had some sort of troubles in his past—”
“When did you move to the apartment in Polish Hill?” I ask her. “That’s where I first started looking for you—”
“Timothy broke my arm,” she says. “Dr. Waverly asked me to move out of the house because of it. He rented that apartment for me, paid for my classes at the Art Institute. Timothy still visited me—there was a café downstairs from the apartment and we’d have coffee, just talking. He apologized for what had happened. He told me he needed to clear up a few things about his life. He stayed late at my apartment almost every night and I let him. He would berate me if I was late coming home or if I was supposed to see any of my other friends—”
“Peyton?” I ask.
“She was the reason he broke my arm. He didn’t like how close we were, said I was trying to make a mockery of him—”
“What happened?”
“There was a morning I didn’t have classes and Timothy made breakfast and told me that he wanted to marry me. He said he was going away for a little while, that he was taking a road trip down south with his wife and that he would return to me a stronger and better man, a free man. We would live together through Christ when he returned, he said. I asked where he was going, but he wouldn’t tell me. All he said was ‘far.’ ‘A week or two, that’s all,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll be back for you—’”
“You’re Timothy’s wife?” I ask her.
“The world ended first—”
5, 4—
“I died that day,” she says.
“I died with everyone I knew and loved.
“I was downtown. I had a fashion photography class that morning, working with lighting. The weather was beautiful like a spring day even though it was October, and standing on the corner of the Boulevard of the Allies, I remember thinking that Timothy had left, that there wasn’t anything I needed to rush home to, no one expecting me, and wanting to go to the Galleria, to the South Hills—to some of the boutiques in Mount Lebanon, anywhere but just home to my apartment, anywhere. I was interested in vintage looks at the time and Mount Lebanon had a location of Avalon that I didn’t get to as often as the Squirrel Hill store. A beautiful afternoon, do you remember? I could spend all afternoon just walking, if I wanted to—
“I had a quick lunch at the Bluebird Kitchen. I remember figuring out which bus to take because I hadn’t made the trip all that often and wasn’t familiar with the route. I remember catching the bus and remember the bus was crowded that day. It was almost too crowded, and I remember second-guessing whether I should even go. I was fearful of what Timothy would think if he found out I didn’t come straight home after class—but I’d already paid my fare and had already worked my way through the crowded bus aisle, threading among people’s legs and backpacks and shoulders until I found a free space to stand. Holding the nylon strap, swaying with every turn. I remember everything, every detail of that bus ride. We inched corner to corner through downtown, more passengers boarding, crowding me farther toward the back. The faces of the passengers are seared into my memory. I have dreams about them—even now I dream I’m still on the bus with them. At the time I remember wondering why so many of them weren’t at work—I remember wondering where they were going. I’ve ridden that bus in the Archive. I feel a desperate need to see those people again, to visit them, to remember them—and they’re there, perfectly preserved because of the bus’s security camera. I see myself among them and wonder why, wonder who they were and what their lives had been before they boarded the bus that afternoon.
“We left downtown—no more stops until the far side of the tunnel. An old woman in front of me was clicking her tongue for a child in front of her. Most people kept to themselves, looking out the windows or into the streams or at their cell phones. I remember riding across the Liberty Bridge, the Monongahela flowing beneath us like a ribbon of mud, the downtown skyline receding behind me. I remember Mount Washington looming like a great and expanding shadow. I remember plunging into the Liberty Tunnel, the smooth tube of concrete cutting through the mountain. The sunlight is cut off, replaced by an unnatural fluorescent glow. The taillights of cars are exceptionally bright. The sound is odd—a reverberation of wind and engines, like a cocoon of sound. The smell is motor oil and stale air. It’s twilight here. It will always be twilight here.