Operation Oleander (9780547534213) by Valerie O. Patterson

Stations of the Cross. I don’t remember all the steps. But closest to us is the figure of Christ carrying his own cross. He staggers under the weight.
    Sam genuflects and enters a pew near the back that’s not yet full. I don’t bend my knees, but I lower my eyes as I follow him. In the row in front of us are other students from school. They don’t look back.
    I turn my head looking for Meriwether or her dad, but I don’t see them.
    Almost every pew is filled, and people stand along the back in neat rows. Father Killen leads everyone in prayer, and Sam points me to the preselected list of hymns and prayers on the back of the paper flyer.
    An usher lights the candle of the first person in every row. Then each person shares it with the next person. When the time comes, I tip the wick of my candle into the elderly woman’s to my right. Her freckled hand shakes, and I hold my breath, afraid the flame will go out. But the wick catches. Shielding the candle from the draft of my own movement, I turn to my left and pass the light to Sam. Soon the only light in the sanctuary comes from flickering candles. Pure light, and then voices fill the room in song.
    This isn’t a regular mass, but Father Killen speaks of coming together, of remembrance, mystery, pain. Of healing. Of prayer. Mostly, though, we are singing. “Amazing Grace” I know. But also “Holy, Holy, Holy” and “Peace Is Flowing Like a River.”
    When it’s over, I find myself separated from Sam as we walk out. I’m going through the door, and suddenly, I’m standing next to Father Killen as he greets everyone leaving through the main entrance.
    I shake his hand like the person before me did. I expect his hand to be cold, but it’s warm.
    â€œYou’re a friend of Sam’s?” he asks.
    â€œYes,” I say, surprised that he knows. “I’m Jess.” I want to ask how he knew.
    â€œWe’re praying for your father,” he says.
    Thank you
comes to my lips but not out of my mouth. Instead I say, “I don’t know how to pray.” I say it so low, I’m not sure I’ve spoken the words. Father Killen hears me somehow. Maybe priests have extra-strong hearing so they can listen to things people don’t even voice.
    He speaks to me, not seeming to worry about the people behind me, waiting. As if we are alone on the steps.
    â€œPrayer is something you practice. Follow the form, and the substance will come.”
    He must see how puzzled I am, for he adds, “Just start, Jess. ‘Our heavenly father, I am . . . ’ Of course, he already knows you. If you don’t think you hear back, do it again and again. Sometimes it’s a long way from our heart to God’s ear, but it isn’t God who’s far away, it’s us, and sometimes lighting a candle is a form of prayer.”
    Around us, people jostle politely, trying to get closer.
    I nod and let the crowd move me downstream, until I find a quiet eddy and break away.
    Â 
    Sam finds me near the stand of crape myrtles in the peace garden. The name is right. Even though we’re close to the entrance to the church, here the air is quiet. Even the road noise sounds muffled.
    â€œDid you tell Father Killen about my dad?”
    â€œOf course,” Sam says.
    â€œMy dad’s not Catholic.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    â€œOh,” I say. Because I don’t know what to say. Because maybe Sam has added my name to the prayer list, and I suddenly feel open and raw, like I scraped my skin.
    â€œJessica,” a voice says.
    Commander Butler. I hadn’t seen him inside. He’s not in uniform here, but everyone would know he’s an officer in the military. He stands tall and straight. Even his voice is imposing.
    â€œYes, sir,” I say. I want to tell him,
It’s just Jess.
No one who knows me calls me Jessica, because my real name is Jess. That’s what