Chapter 9: The Letter

By Tuesday evening the video had two hundred thousand views, and half the women at St. Brendan's had seen it.

The parish council called a special session in the basement meeting room.

Joan told me about it, because Joan tells me everything the minute she knows.

"They're going to talk about the fund," she said. "And you."

"Then I'll go."

"You'll go?"

"I'd like to hear what they say about me when I'm not there."

Glenn drove. My father met us in the parking lot, in the funeral suit, holding a manila envelope.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

"Dad."

"I let your mother speak for me for thirty-three years, Veda."

His voice cracked on the number. He cleared his throat and held the door.

The basement smelled of burnt coffee and floor wax.

Twelve people sat around a folding table under a crucifix.

The priest sat at the end with his glasses pushed up on his forehead.

My mother sat in the middle with her purse on her lap.

Daphne sat beside her with her phone face up on the table.

When we came in, nobody said a word.

"Veda," the priest said finally. "We didn't expect you."

"I wasn't invited. I'm told it's about me."

My mother lifted her chin.

"Since you're here, you can hear it," she said. "We were deceived."

A woman across the table nodded.

"Father, I want to be very clear. This family loves Veda. I would give my life for her. But the video speaks for itself."

Daphne turned her phone around on the table and pressed play.

There I was, laughing on the grass, in a black leather jacket.

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