But she did not say those things. She said rape. And the earnestness and familiarity with which she said it makes me squirm in my seat. Because that is a word to be whispered, like “devil” or “death.” It is a word to be carried like a rumble in the chest, not spoken out loud like dinner conversation. And I am immediately ashamed of my squeamishness and aware of my own conditioning against myself as a woman, which shames me more.

“He raped you?” I ask, stumbling only a little on he. “Father Terry?”

“Not just me,” she says with a pointed look.

I feel myself swimming in midstream. I feel all the o’s in Coca-Cola staring at me from around her kitchen with round, accusing eyes. I feel my mother’s story unroll like a heavy, velvet drape above my head and drop over me, full of dust and cobwebs and tiny, menacing spiders. Somewhere inside myself, I sneeze. And then, in that same deep place, I wretch.

It is Daniel’s hand squeezing mine that reminds me where we are and why. “How do you know he…did that to my mother?”

Sabrina inhales. “Father Terry was careful. He picked girls who were troubled. Girls who came from broken families or bad homes. He picked those girls because he knew they were less likely to be believed, more likely to be ignored. At least, that’s what my therapist says. My dad was a drunk who liked to wake me up with a swift kick to the mattress every morning. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“Your mother, and don’t take this the wrong way, but when it came to troubled girls, she stood out.”

That does not surprise me.

“She was outspoken and quarrelsome with the sisters. And she smoked behind the gym between classes. Her dad had died, and everyone knew she was grieving.”

I nod. I know this part.

“I think she might have been one of his favorites.”

My eyes water, and I place a hand over my mouth.

“I don’t have to keep going if you don’t want.”

I shake my head, wipe my hands over my face. “No, please. I’m sorry. Keep going.”

She looks concerned, but after a pause, she continues. “We knew each other—the ones he had chosen. We would see each other leaving his office, and we just knew. We could smell it on one another, I guess. Sense it. We would sometimes give each other looks when we passed in the hall. Looks of sympathy, looks of knowing.”

“How many of you were there?”

“At least four, maybe seven. Maybe more. Your mom, she…stepped in for me more than once.”

“Stepped in?”