Confession of the Monaghans

By Zoe Schultz

Somewhere near Huntsville, Alabama, is a nunnery. Dull in color and stocky in shape, the buildings were tinted in age. There weren’t lots of nuns here, but they all gave off warm smiles. This didn’t stop me from calculating that at least half the sisters were sleeping with Father, but don’t tell my mam I thought that!

Salty water and sage reek from the sanctuary in the deepest part of the complex. Mother Mary weeps—her tears stain the glass around her and Joseph. The other figures, their names constantly slipping my mind, wear red, green, blue, and yellow robes. Their bodies stretch in sickly shapes, and their faces look too scrawny for satisfaction.

My family walks their way to the confessional. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned—a mantra in my family. Each member fidgets in the booth, and Nana is already a third of the way through her rosary. My curious eyes linger on the box and scan the area. I sneak away from myfamily on the booth and place myself directly adjacent to the box. No one can see me here. Soon, Father joins us for our appointment. He says a quick prayer and sits in the confessional. God only knows what he has heard from this family. Well, God and me—I can never help the temptation to listen in, and I have grown greedy in my need to understand this family’s dysfunctions.

Mam sits down and confesses she yelled at her sisters. This is her go-to sin, as she told me she had been saying this and only this from when she was young. Father makes a comment about consistency to which Mam scoffs. My aunt confessed she made my mother cry. Father hums in acknowledgment and, oh! is that disappointment I hear? Yes, I believe so! I have to agree with the priest on this one—the beginning confessions were always dull.

Nana’s eyes lock with mine, and a curse slips off my tongue. Her mouth twitches in a sly smirk, and I remember she used to find spots like this too. She stands up and makes her way to the box, throwing a wink my way. I find myself having to put my ear directly against the wall to hear her, and my mouth curls in betrayal. I knew she would do this. Father’s gasp must have used all the air in his cubicle, and coughs erupt from both sides. When they emerge, they hug. I think she’s sick again. She goes back to the booth and hugs her sisters without sparing a glance at me.

Papa slaps his thighs and stands with an exaggerated sigh, and I’m afraid my eyes will get stuck to the back of my head. He shuts his door, and Father suggests using the mouthwash in the kitchen. That’s when the deep chuckling begins. They speak as if they are old pals meeting at the pub. I hear their clever ways to hide red wine bottles and Irish-whisky breath as they plan their next meeting. Papa leaves after a hefty cheers.

Matthieu, for the first time in his thirteen years of life, finally has a good confession. Even Father cannot contain his exclaims of shock and disapproval, and my head becomes fuzzy from trying not to laugh too loudly. Leave it to my cousin to pee in the sacred garden just out back. The Jesus statue in the middle of the flowers seemed to be rusting quicker than the others. Oh my god! I look at the greenery and wonder how quickly they will die due to acid rain.

My turn is up, and I sit down with crossed arms. Father asks about my anger, and I snap out with a snake tongue that I’m managing. Father pities me, thinks I’ve lost my way at age eleven, tells me Mam and Nana are worried I’ll go to Hell. As if there is a Hell to send me to. I express how the womb of my problems remains in the Catholic church, and he responds with a condensing hymn called “that’s quite bold for your age.”

“Father, at least I didn’t pee in the fucking garden.”

My confession ends, and I sit with my great-aunts all dressed up in their black tunics.