The Godmother

This post is part of The Red Dress Club's weekly prompt:

"Water gives life. It also takes it away."

Write a short piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements.

This is fiction and (obviously) a work in progress.  As always, feedback is lovingly appreciated.

"The Godmother"

Forehead. Chest. Left shoulder. Right shoulder.

The movement is smooth and automatic and strangely comforting. Greta doesn’t think about the countless fingers casually dipped into the holy water that morning.

The father. The son. The Holy Spirit.

The Holy Trinity.

Three that were one.

As automatic as the sign of the cross, Greta reaches down to twist her wedding ring before remembering that her finger is now adorned only with a faint indentation, the ring languishing in the corner of her dining room. A small circle of gold placed on her finger under this roof, under this God, promising so much.

Two had become one, then almost three, and then everything fell apart.

Paralyzed, she dips her fingers into the fount again, but this time the water is as warm as blood, and her hand drops to her side without performing the Sign of the Cross, dripping Holy Water onto the stone floor.

Incense floods her nose as she crosses into an alien world and walks purposely to the front of the church where her family waits. A faceless aunt or cousin holds Greta’s soon-to-be-goddaughter, a squirming bundle of white satin, thrust into Greta’s arms as she slides into the pew. The voluminous baptismal gown is deceiving; Elisabeth is weightless in Greta’s arms.

In another life, she had traced the worn wood of these pews every Sunday, taking as much comfort in the ritual of Mass as she did in the words of the decorated priest on the altar.

She hasn’t been inside this building in ninety-seven days. Ninety-six days ago, on a Monday, cramps had wracked her abdomen. James found her sobbing in the shower, water washing the crimson blood to pink, and she found out shortly after that he had really only meant the “for better” part of their vows.

Panic buckles her knees until her brother catches her eyes and holds her up with the strength of his will.

“Breathe,” Paul mouths silently, before smiling and kissing her cheek and holding his hand on her back for an extra instant. That warm pressure lets Greta know that he remembers what she told him over wine and tears the night she told him she was divorcing James. That he remembers the baby.

Someone pops a pacifier into Elisabeth’s mouth, and she is still, sucking methodically with her eyes closed. The priest walks over to the family, his words expressing happiness to see Greta in church, his eyes worried and confused. Greta stretches a smile over her teeth, studying Elisabeth without seeing her.

Father begins the service, and desperately, Greta reaches for her sister-in-law, cradling Elisabeth tightly in one arm. Paul knows about the almost-baby and the shower and the agony, and therefore Louise must know, but Louise shakes off Greta’s hand, a serene look pasted on her face.

Again, Greta’s knees buckle, and she sinks into the pew, torn between clutching the baby to her chest and letting her slip to the floor. Father is chanting, praying, and the standing bodies pray with him, ignoring the flood of tears that baptize Elisabeth as she lies sleeping in Greta’s arms.