No Regrets - JoAnn Ross

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Molly had heard it so many times, she could recite the lines from memory. She leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes.

      Everyone in the neighborhood knew you were a slut. She mentally said the words along with her daddy. If I hadn’t been so drunk that day you told me you were pregnant, I would’ve figured out that it probably wasn’t even my kid.

      Molly was already thinking ahead to her mother’s line that if she hadn’t been so stoned, she never would have married such a miserable loser, and, just to set the record straight, there weren’t any goddamn baseball teams in the country that would have signed a player with two bad knees, when a sound like a gunshot rang out.

      Molly’s eyes flew open. She saw her mama’s hand still resting on her daddy’s cheek and watched as a muscle jerked violently beneath Karla’s scarlet-tipped fingers.

      Rory slapped her back, a hard, backhanded blow that sent her peroxide-blond head reeling. Then he smiled evilly at his two older daughters.

      “I’m going to kill your mama now.” He put the gun to Karla’s temple and pulled the trigger. This time there was a roar, followed by a blinding spray of blood.

      As Molly and Lena watched in horror, their daddy stuck the barrel of the revolver against the roof of his mouth.

      The thunderous bang reverberated through Molly’s head, followed by the crashing sound of wood splintering as the front door was kicked in.

      Alex took in the murder scene—the woman sprawled on the floor, the man draped over her, the blood and pieces of brain tissue darkening the wall behind them.

      On a raggedy brown couch facing the door, two little girls sat side by side, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, their eyes wide, their complexions as pale as wraiths’. Nearby, a pink-cheeked toddler sat in the center of a stained rug and screeched.

      “Aw, hell.”

      Alex dragged his palms down his face, and as the rest of the city celebrated the season of peace and joy, he found himself wishing that he’d listened to his mother and gone to law school.

      Part One

      Chapter One

      December 24, 1986

      Later, Molly McBride would look back on this night and wonder if the disappearance of the baby Jesus hadn’t been a sign. A portent that her life was about to dramatically and inexorably change.

      At the moment, however, attempting to get to work on time, she had no time to ponder the existence of signs or omens. During the half-block walk between her bus stop and the hospital, she’d been approached by three panhandlers.

      “‘Give to him who begs from you. He who has two coats, let him share with him who has none, and he who has food must do likewise.’”

      A cloud of foul breath strong enough to down a mastodon wafted between Molly and an emaciated man, but she did not back away. The quiz, administered by the former Jesuit seminarian, was a daily event. And as much as she worried about the man she only knew as Thomas—Doubting Thomas, he’d informed her one day—Molly had come to enjoy them.

      “Those are easy, Thomas. The first is from Matthew, the second Luke.”

      She cheerfully handed over the cheese sandwich she’d made that morning. “Now I have one for you.”

      He bowed and gave her a go-ahead sign as, with yellowed teeth, he began tearing the wrapping off the sandwich.

      “‘God created us without us but he did not will to save us without us.’” She waited, not willing to admit that she’d spent hours looking up that obscure quote.

      Thomas wolfed down nearly a quarter of the sandwich, rewrapped the remainder and stuck it in his pocket. Then he rocked back on the run-down heels of his cowboy boots and clucked his tongue.

      “Me dear, darling, Saint Molly.” His brogue could have fooled any of Molly’s ancestors back in County Cork. “A keenly educated Catholic girl such as yourself should know that Saint Augustine is required reading in any seminary.”

      “Actually, I was thinking more of Saint Augustine’s message telling us that we must take responsibility for our salvation, and our lives, than winning today’s contest. If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”

      Beneath his filthy Raiders jacket he shrugged shoulders that reminded her of a wire hanger. “It won’t be the first time.”

      “No. But it could be the last.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “I worry about you, Thomas.”

      His smile was sad. “You worry about everyone. When are you going to realize, Saint Molly, that no matter what Saint Augustine told us, you can’t save the world?”

      “I’ll pray for you, Thomas.” It was what she always said.

      “Save your prayers.” It was what he always said. “I’m beyond redemption.”

      Molly sighed as he walked away. Then continued on.

      Mercy Samaritan Hospital sprawled over a no-man’s land in the shadow of the Harbor Freeway and Santa Monica Freeway interchange like a huge gray stone Goliath. The neighborhood where Molly spent her nights was home to some of the roughest bars, seediest transients and oldest whores in the City of Angels.

      Thanks to gang members’ propensity for shooting out streetlights, once the sun went down, the streets and alleys were as dark as tombs. To the residents of these mean streets, the gilt excess of Beverly Hills and the sparkling sun-drenched beaches of Malibu might as well have belonged to another planet.

      Mercy Sam, a teaching hospital established by the Sisters of Mercy nearly a century ago, had been more than a place of healing; it had been a living symbol of hope and compassion. Hope had long since fled, along with most of the population of the inner city. Fortunately, although Molly was the only Sister of Mercy still on staff, compassion had remained.

      A visual affront to Frank Lloyd Wright’s famed concept of organic architecture, the building featured a hulking main building with two wings. Various outbuildings had cropped up over the years like weeds.

      The pneumatic doors opened with a hiss as Molly entered the emergency department beneath the bright red neon sign. The triage area was nearly deserted, as were the fast-track cubicles, where patients with level-one complaints—bloody noses, scrapes and bruises, migraines, intestinal upsets, minor burns and strep throats—were treated.

      She went into the staff lounge, changed into the cranberry red scrubs that had recently replaced the hated pink ones and joined the other nurses in The Pit, as the ER was routinely called.

      “Merry Christmas,” Yolanda Brown greeted her.

      “Happy holidays to you, too.” Nothing in Molly’s voice revealed her painful memories of Christmas Eve. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

      “It’s getting tougher and tougher to run that gauntlet,” Yolanda said with a frown. “Nobody rides the bus in L.A. Especially not at night and in this neighborhood. You really ought to get yourself a car.”

      Molly smiled, feeling the shadows drift away as her equilibrium returned. “Why don’t you write a letter to the Pope and suggest he cosign a loan?”

      Yolanda’s shrug suggested she’d expected that answer to the ongoing argument, but intended to keep on trying, anyway. “You didn’t miss anything,” she said. “It’s turning out to be a blessedly silent night. According to Banning’s report, it was pretty quiet on the day shift, too. Which is pretty amazing, given that not only is it a holiday, it’s a full moon.

      “They had only half a dozen patients during their last three hours,” Yolanda continued. “The last one was some guy who sliced his finger to the bone trying to put together a bicycle for his eight-year-old son. He was stitched up, given a tetanus shot, advised

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