Free Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna

Father with gravity. “If it doesn’t turn around, the Bishop will close the orphanage.”
    Father McIntyre scoffed, “Turn it around, he says!” Hopelessness flooded his chest and he twisted his mouth. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
    The Deacon’s pupils rose above his glasses and he held up a finger for patience, then flipped through the lined pages of the ledger. “There’s a number here I wanted to ask you about.” He turned the ledger toward the Father and pointed. “Under the word ‘Leonora.’ ”
    â€œThat’s not our money.” He pushed the ledger away. “Belongs to a child here.”
    Deacon Johnson cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
    â€œThere’s a girl here. Her name is Leonora. When she came, there was money set aside for her future; it belongs to her.”
    â€œShe’s a ward of the church,” the Deacon corrected. “The money belongs to us.”
    â€œSomeone cared enough for this girl to set aside money.” His jaw set. “I won’t touch it.”
    â€œYou don’t have a choice.”
    â€œI do have a choice,” Father McIntyre retorted, then checked his tone. “You don’t understand. This girl is . . . special.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œShe doesn’t speak.”
    The Deacon grew stern. “Colin, this is not a place for children like that and you know it. There are state hospitals for that sort of thing. She should have never been placed here.”
    â€œShe’s not retarded, for Pete’s sake! The poor child has been through things we can’t imagine, abandoned, shuffled from one place to another. It’s no wonder she doesn’t speak. No one has probably ever listened to her.” He pinched his knee. “A child like that has no future. She needs that money to survive. I won’t allow it to be touched.”
    The Deacon studied him and the Father’s insides bubbled. “Don’t you dare look at me like that, Robert. Don’t you analyze me!”
    â€œYou can’t save the world.”
    Father McIntyre turned his head away, but the past was seeping toward them.
    â€œYou put too much pressure on yourself, Colin. It’s not healthy.”
    â€œStop it!” Father McIntyre ordered.
    â€œI know you.” Deacon Johnson leaned forward, his eyes watery, helpless. “You lose yourself in salvation. I still have nightmares about what I saw, what you did to yourself.”
    â€œStop it!” Father McIntyre clamped his eyes and covered his ears with his hands, pressed until he heard his pulse, but it was too late; something red and sick was entering and weaving its way through the floorboards and inching through the roof eaves. He glanced at the thin white scars across his wrists. He tore his hands away and folded them against his stomach.
    â€œDo you forget? It was me.” The Deacon pounded his chest with an open hand. “It was me who found you!”
    â€œDamn it!” Father McIntyre hammered the desk with his fist. “How dare you bring this here! How dare you soil this place, my place, with those . . . with that hell.” He looked around wildly. “This is my place. My place, do you hear? You have no right to bring that back.” He paced the floor, caged, blood pumping too hard and quick. He turned back to the Deacon and held out his wrists, his white hands reaching out from the black sleeves, Christ-like. “I spill no blood, do you see? I have skin long healed.” He suddenly spoke calmly. “You have no right to cut them open again.”
    Father McIntyre returned to his seat, his pupils round and black. “I’m not the same man you knew. That was a different life for me.”
    â€œYes, I see that!” the Deacon cried. “I saw that the moment I stepped out of the car. But when I saw your face here, the stress, the hopelessness . . . it took me back. Just