Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

was Hope St. Germaine; the River Road house was far away. Part of a previous lifetime, someone else’s lifetime.

      Hope drew in another deep breath, the effects of the nightmare still clawing at her. In it, she had been back at The House, crouched low and spying on a couple having sex. Only, in the dream, it had been her daughter on the bed, her daughter performing the lewd sex acts.

      Yet, when her whore-child had looked over her shoulder, as if sensing Hope’s spying gaze, it was her own face Hope had seen staring back at her.

      Making a helpless sound of fright, Hope pulled herself into a sitting position. She clutched the bedding, willing away the image from the dream. She knew what was happening to her; she knew why, night after night, she was being tormented with nightmares of the past she had left behind.

      The Darkness was upon her, taunting and challenging. It thought it had won already.

      No! Hope brought her trembling hands to her face. She wouldn’t let The Darkness win. She couldn’t. She had worked too hard for all she had achieved to succumb now.

      Hope hugged her knees to her chest. She rocked, her head pressed to her knees, her mind whirling. Who could she turn to for help? Who could she trust? Philip was losing patience with her. Their family and friends were acting strangely, distant and suspicious. She saw the questions in their eyes. She saw the disapproval in their expressions. How long until someone uncovered the truth about her past? How long until the life she had built for herself crumbled to bits beneath her feet?

      She had to accept her child; she had to behave like a doting, besotted mother. She had to behave as if she didn’t see her daughter’s vile core, pretend she didn’t see that the beautiful fruit was spoiled by worms.

      Tears, hot and bitter, welled up in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. But when she held her daughter, how would she keep her revulsion from showing? How would she be able to hide her despair and feign affection? She couldn’t; she knew she couldn’t.

      Hope threw aside the covers and climbed out of bed. She crossed to her half-open door, the linoleum floor cool against her bare feet. She peeked out at the deserted hallway and nurses’ station. She heard a woman’s weeping from down the hall, heard another’s comforting murmur.

      The Vincent woman had lost her baby. Philip had shared that information with her earlier today, she supposed in the hope of making her thankful for their own baby’s good health. Instead, she had wished it was her own child who had been taken. If the Lord had chosen her baby, her problems would have been solved.

      But the Pierron daughters were strong with The Darkness that beat inside them; the Pierron daughters never died.

      She had to escape, she thought, frantic suddenly. She had to get out of this place and breathe fresh air; she needed to be away from the constant prying, the insufferable compassion, of the hospital staff. She had to find someone who would understand and help her.

       The church. She could turn to the church. The priest would help her. He would understand.

       And in the anonymity of the confessional, she would be safe. Her secret would be safe.

      Whimpering with relief, Hope turned away from the door and moved blindly to her closet. She rifled through it, pulling out her street clothes, tugging them on as quickly as she could, fumbling in her haste. Throughout her life the Church had been her solace, her rock during times of turmoil and confusion. Surely this time would be no different. Surely the priest would know what she should do.

       But what if, this time, the priest couldn’t help her? What would she do then?

      Fear pumped through her, taking her breath, her ability to think, to act. She struggled to get control of her emotions; she couldn’t afford to fall apart now. If she did, The Darkness would have her.

      Never. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Hope crossed to the phone and as quietly as she could, called a cab. That done, she collected her purse and tiptoed to the door. Luck was on her side—the nurses’ station was still empty. Smiling to herself, she ducked out of the room and went quickly to the elevator. She didn’t want Philip alerted to the fact she was leaving the hospital. He would try to stop her; the hospital staff would try to stop her. None of them understood.

      As she had hoped, the elevator was unoccupied. It whisked her to the lobby; she stepped out and started for the double glass doors directly ahead. A security guard stood at the front desk, flirting with the receptionist. Neither spared her more than a glance.

      Hope pushed through the doors and stepped out into the humid New Orleans night. Air, thick with moisture, enveloped her like a womb. She breathed deeply, grateful, so grateful, to be free.

      She moved away from the building, out of its circle of light, and the dark swallowed her. Moonlight glistened on the wet pavement; tree branches, their leaves heavy with a recent rain, hung low, their loaded leaves splattering her as she walked beneath them.

      A streetcar rumbled past; a youth darted across the avenue, shouting a greeting to another passing in a car. From the canopy of oak leaves above her came the sound of some small animal scurrying for deeper cover.

      The cab drew to the curb. Hope slid inside. “St. Louis Cathedral,” she instructed, then settled against the worn seat. In hopes of catching the faithful either in anticipation of their sin or in repentance of it, the Jackson Square cathedral heard confessions into the night. She had always thought it ironic that New Orleans’s oldest, and to her mind, most awe-inspiring cathedral stood sentinel at the very heart of debauchery.

      Hope clenched her hands in her lap. The cab smelled stale, like old cigarettes and mildew. The driver said little; his silence saved her having to rebuff him. She turned her face to the window and watched as the grand residences of uptown gave way to the high rises of downtown, then to the old-world architecture of the Vieux Carré, or French Quarter.

      Within minutes, the driver drew the cab to a stop beside the cathedral. Hope asked him to wait, then stepped out into the night. She lifted her gaze to the church’s mighty spire, feeling a measure of relief already. St. Louis Cathedral stood watch over Jackson Square, just as a chaperon would over a pair of anxious teenagers, just as the Catholic church had always stood watch over the eternal souls of the faithful. Rebuilt twice from ashes and once from the rubble wrought by a hurricane, its rigid lines provided a stark contrast to the whimsical ironwork of the buildings adjacent to it. Hope had always thought of this church as a type of anchor, its rigidity balancing and securing the lives of the laissez bon temps roullé Creoles who had once inhabited the Vieux Carré.

      Taking a deep breath, she hurried toward the church’s welcoming portal, her heels clicking on the cobblestone walkway. From the Mississippi River, located just beyond the square to the east, came the lonely call of a barge; from nearby Bourbon Street, she caught the strains of Dixieland jazz and raucous laughter.

      As she entered the church, those sounds faded, leaving a silence that echoed, that reassured. A sense of calm, a feeling of serenity flowed over Hope. Her agitation, the desperation that had held her in its grip for days now, melted away. Here, The Darkness couldn’t touch her. Here, nestled in the arms of the church, she would find her answers.

      A marble cistern stood inside the entrance. Hope dipped her fingers into the holy water. She crossed herself, and started for the confessionals that flanked each side of the sanctuary at the front.

      She slipped into the first she came to and drew the curtain closed behind her. She knelt, facing the interior wall, and bowed her head. A moment later, the panel slid open. Obscured by a screen, she could make out the priest’s form, but not his features. Just as he could not make out hers.

      “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

      “What sins do you have to confess, my child?”

      Hope twisted her fingers together, her heart thundering so hard it hurt to breathe. “Father, I…I’ve come to you under false pretenses. I’ve come not to confess my sins, but to seek your counsel. You see,