They catapulted me back to a moonless night slick with freezing rain. I saw her journey through her eyes as she ran. Fear thundered through her. As she climbed as high and as fast as she could, her shoes slipped in the mud. But someone caught her wrist. Someone else was with her. Another young novice like herself. One whom she loved with all her heart and soul. It was hard to see her clearly through the rain, but the nun had features similar to Beatrice’s. And she was just as scared.

Beatrice’s fear paralyzed me. Her heart beat so hard, it hurt. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill them both. One of them, and he didn’t know which, had written to the bishop, accused him of forcing himself upon her. He’d been drunk, he said. He didn’t remember doing it, he said, let alone which girl it was. But he was not about to lose his entire career, his livelihood, over a whore. And since he didn’t know which one he’d accosted, he was going to kill them both. They saw it in his eyes when he asked them for help with a pen outside. They’d gone with him, feeling safe since there were two of them. They’d been wrong.

He swung a hammer, hitting Beatrice’s friend on the temple, and they ran into the night. Holding hands, they found a spot and hid from him. But he was not about to give up the search easily. He kept at it for what seemed like hours. Eventually, he found them.

The girl she was with motioned for her to run and then lunged at the priest. Beatrice couldn’t, though. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t leave her friend. Instead, she attacked the man from behind. He was choking her friend. She beat his head with her fists and scratched at his eyes, but he elbowed her in the face. The force knocked her back against a tree and she lost consciousness for a precious few seconds. When she came to, her friend lay motionless, his fingers so tight around her throat, she’d turned blue.

He shook the girl, squeezing the last remnants of life out of her as hard as he could, then let her go and came after Beatrice. She no longer cared. She gaped at her friend, unable to process the fact that she was gone. The priest walked toward her slowly, suddenly interested in her again. He would have his way with her before he killed her. Or after. Either way, he would win.

No, she thought. She brought out the knife she’d taken from the kitchen. The one she’d been carrying around since that night. To use on him. To protect herself. But she decided to use it on a part of him instead. The baby he’d left inside her body. He stopped and watched as she took the knife into both hands and plunged it into her abdomen.

He watched for a while, surprised, then shrugged. She’d done the work for him. When she fell to her knees, a searing pain paralyzing her, he walked back to the girl and dragged her higher up the mountain. Beatrice watched as he pulled back a wooden cover of some kind and dropped her friend into a well. He turned to come back for her, but the rain had softened the ground. He slid, caught himself, then slid again and toppled over the side and into the well.

She heard him groaning at first; then he came to and started yelling for her to get help. Instead, she crawled to the well, her hands and stomach covered in blood, and pushed the wooden cover with all her might until it canopied the entrance. His screams faded as the barrier slid into place, but they were still audible. So she worked for an hour, dragging dirt and grass and tree branches to cover the wood. To insulate the sound.

Finally, his screams were barely a whisper on the wind. With grief consuming her, she walked farther into the woods until the sun came up and drenched her in its light. Dreaming that it was God. Dreaming that he would forgive her, that he would touch her face as gently as the sun and welcome her home. She took her last breath thinking only of one person. Her twin sister. The girl lying at the bottom of a well with a murderer.

Her heart contracted for the last time, and then she was no longer cold.

I jerked away from her, fought to catch my breath, struggled to keep at bay the wetness threatening to spill over my lashes. I lost. Fat, hot tears streaked down my face as I looked at her.

“Beatrice, I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head. Pointed to herself, and finger-spelled, “Mo.”

“Mo? That’s Beatrice in the well?”

She nodded.

“Are you Deaf?”

She shook her head, curled one small hand into a fist and held it over her mouth.

“You’re mute. And your sister?”

Her signing was archaic and not really American Sign Language. It was a jumble of signs she’d probably done at home with her family, gestures, and ASL. I did understand that her sister could talk, but that night, she didn’t want the priest to know which girl he’d raped. So she’d refused to talk, refused to give away which sister was the threat. She’d given up her life for her twin, who had been mute most of her life. The priest knew that, and had believed that disability would keep her from speaking up for herself. He’d been wrong.

“Mo, I’m so sorry.”

She was crying, too. All the emotions I felt came straight from her. Her heart had been ripped out that night. Her life and her happiness stolen. But the worst part was the loss of her beloved sister.

She signed to me again, and it took three times for me to figure out what she was asking. I felt stupid and inept for making her repeat herself so much. But I finally figured out she was asking me if God hated her because she let a man lie with her. Because she got her sister killed and then killed herself. Because she took away the life he’d given her.

“Can he forgive me?” she asked. “If I do something good?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, standing up, after some effort, and hugging her. “He doesn’t hate you. I promise with all my heart. You did do something good. You tried to save your sister.” I set her at arm’s length. “You can cross through me if—”

I heard something before I could finish. A crack. A sharp crack. Like wood. And I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be crazy if—?

Yep. The cover broke beneath my weight. My eyes wide, I gazed at Mo. She gazed back. Then I dropped.

11

GOD GIVES US ONLY WHAT WE CAN HANDLE.

APPARENTLY, GOD THINKS I’M A BADASS.

—BUMPER STICKER

The wood didn’t exactly break cleanly. It scraped across my back and arms as I fell, but I managed to grab hold of a slat on the way down. I hung there, my legs dangling. A jagged point had torn into my face by my ear and up across my forehead. I didn’t realize it until my vision blurred due to the blood gushing from my head.

Mo tried to pull me up, but there was simply no way. I weighed too much. It was Beep’s fault. Apparently, she weighed around eighty-seven pounds. My ribs burned and I had a difficult time breathing, but I took in a lungful of air and was just about to scream for my husband when the plank I held on to for dear life broke.

I dropped longer than I thought I would have, falling into a deep pit of darkness. In that instant, I prayed there would be water at the bottom. My prayers were not answered. I hit hard. My legs crumpled beneath me. My hips exploded with pain as my femurs drove into the sockets by the force of the sudden stop. The drop knocked the air from my lungs, and I raised my arms over my head, trying to catch my breath. Both those tasks caused jolts of excruciating pain in my side. I’d cracked a rib. Possibly more.

The ground was uneven beneath me, and in the back of my mind I knew I was sitting atop the bones of at least two people. I fell back against the side of the well. Most wells in the area weren’t dug so wide. They were just wide enough for small children or animals to fall in. This was a bona fide well with lots of elbow room. I was lucky. I could have been stuck in a pipeline. Beep could have died.