I do not lie. “Yes.”
She is pleased with that at least. Takes a breath, finishes off her cookie in three short bites.
“That’s the part that gets me. It’s not so hard to be . . . to feel . . . so . . .” She scrunches up her face. “What’s the word?”
“Lost?” I ask.
“No, like dead. Inert. It’s not hard to be inert and just going through the motions. Just hand to mouth. Hand to mouth. You don’t even notice you’re breathing any more. It’s so much harder to feel alive!” And she leans over to put her face close to mine, as if to decipher a code I might have written on my skin. She is hungry; her eyes are hunger pains. I don’t want to be here. For a slim moment of panic I think she is going to slap me, her forehead creased and the anger in her tense fingers threatening to lash out, but she merely rearranges the cutlery I haven’t used into straight lines, taking the opportunity to speak near me.
“Nothing’s enough.”
I agree with her, nod my head and take her hand in mine, and she is like paper, crumpling in front of me, her tears falling again.
“I have to lose this,” she says, patting her stomach. Her blood rushes to her face. She is red. She is stuffing herself. She might be dying. I am repulsed. I resent her for this. She has managed to hurt me in the worst way, has made me want to take her burden, she who I had assumed had no burden to take.
“And you, I always thought you were a cheater, you know. A cheat in life to go and lock yourself up in that place. To get away from life. But you’re no worse. You’re no worse than any of us.”
“I’m no better, either,” I say, giving in to tears of my own. The sickness in my gut churning round and round. The landscape in the painting taunting me with its blueness, its tranquility. The woman running towards the ocean, sure of comfort. The picture of relief. I want that. Hot sands on feet. Water. Coolness. Rest. I want to take the woman’s place and let my skirt fall on the sand. Sure of my footing. My hair slightly damp.
“But you’re no worse,” blurts Christine. “I live like . . . like . . . like . . . I’m a shell of a person. Something that was once a person!”
She pulls her back up straight. Looks in front of her, then at me, becoming aware once more of her surroundings. She wipes her forehead and collects herself. Her mascara has smeared around her eyes. Her hazel eyes, close to the colour of the tropical woman’s back, are the only remnants of her previous self, her plain but sturdy beauty.
“A ghost,” I whisper.
She does not hear me.
I am in need of the washroom, the push to go so strong I must get up. A pain stabs my abdomen.
“Angela,” she says softly as I rise. “One more thing.”
I don’t know if I can stand any more. I need the closed door of the washroom, the water running into the sink and splashing over my hands, the seclusion of a stall.
“I don’t want to see you for a while. It’s just too hard on me. It doesn’t seem to help us. Please, forgive me. I just don’t want to see you again for a while. Until it feels like I’m coming because I want to, not because I have to.”
I am stunned, but relieved at her words. Something is definitely happening that should be happening. There is a haze around us, propelling us forwards through a darkness and towards a light. This is what I think. Maybe I should have been more like Christine. Christine has always been practical. Yet I too know I have been practical in my own way. And I want to share with her how my world makes sense, if only she would take the time to understand. I want to tell her: An Eye for an Eye. The proverb has always haunted me, as do many of the Psalms I’ve sung or recited in class and in the convent. Break my bones so that I may Rejoice. That violence could be overcome with joy. I will visit their Transgression with the rod. The guilty would be punished and the just rewarded. To the Righteous Good shall be repaid. Life and death work on economy. The Divine Economy of Salvation, as Sister Marguerite taught us. Christ paid for our sins with his blood. I could pay for my sins through work my mother would have been proud of. I could pay the debt. Spare the others. Balance the accounts.
“Forgive me!” I hear her say again.
But I am already thinking we are forgiven, that when I offer her the candle holder as I do now, the debt will be paid, the object redeemed by our forgiveness of each other.
“I have a gift for you,” I say, unzipping my heavy tote bag, dragging it out from under the table.
“I can’t accept a gift from you right now, Angela.”
The silver candle holder is still wrapped in tissue, invisible to Christine, who has risen from the table and counted out money for our bill.
“I need to go now,” she says, briefly touching my arm. “Thank you for the offer, but I can’t bear the responsibility of a gift from you right now. It’s not right.”
It’s not right. Is it right to remember and honour your mother’s death or not? Is it right to eat yourself sick? Is it right to regret your past and want to save the world from a tragic fate? There’s never enough time to mourn, I think. No matter how much time passes. There are new pains. New reasons to regret.
Forgive me. Forgive me for remembering you.
I rush to the washroom, unsure of whom I mean by you, who it is I need to forgive.
Returning to the table, I find all remnants of Christine’s visit have been cleared away by the waitress. I button my jacket and pull the tote bag with the candle holder in it over my shoulder. The waitress walks over to me.
“Did we not leave enough for the bill?” I ask. I begin to dig in my pockets for more money.
“No,” she says, handing me the receipt from lunch. “I thought you might need this is all.” She hesitates a second more while I stand there, unable to exit the restaurant. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve just lost someone,” I tell her and bow my head, folding the piece of paper.
“Your faith must be a great comfort to you,” she replies, wrapping her fingers over my hand the way one grasps a door handle, her head shaking up and down insistently.
I tuck a stray hair back underneath my wimple. “Yes,” I say, “it’s an amazing crutch.”
But she doesn’t get the joke.
COMMON BELIEF WAS FRANCINE must have been the first to find Bella. She refused to come out of her room when the commotion began. Between the crying and the screams of the girls, and the whispering and crossing of the Sisters, their backs turned from us and their lips trained as the deaf are to communicating in silence, the hallways were overflowing. You could hear Francine moving inside if you stood by the door: erratic footsteps and the shuffling of objects, her heavy breathing. Many of the girls had already been asked to go back to their rooms or to gather in the cafeteria with Sister Aline, who would be holding prayer and serving hot apple cider and tea, and some of the more hysterical girls had been taken to the nurse, who distributed mild nerve pills. Throughout the panic, Francine never emerged from the retreat of her room. A few girls from our floor had tried to coax her out. I was not one of them. I stood as if caught in a trap between Francine’s room and the stairs to go join those praying in the cafeteria. The nuns wanted to speak with her to determine if she had heard anything, whether Bella had confided in anyone about her situation. Everyone pleaded ignorance. That may have been untrue on The Sisterhood’s part, but the fear was honest. We too were in shock.
Mother Superior, finally fed up with the knocking and pleading for Francine to come out, pushed herself against the door, her body the only one large enough to shift the oak dresser Francine had shoved in front of it. How Francine managed to move the dresser is beyond my knowledge. She must have been slowly working at it all night long, in small increments, leaning into the wood with determined will until the door was barred. When Mother Superior had successfully cleared the doorway, she stepped back. She had not closed the door, allowing Rachel, a girl named Philomena who had the room next to Francine’s, and me a full view of Francine’s quarters. We immediately understood Mother Supe
rior’s urge to retreat.
Francine was standing completely naked and staring out the open window, her back hunched over and the fingers of her hands curled around the ledge and an object I couldn’t yet identify. I was struck by her nudity, her slightly stocky figure exposed, her buttocks sticking out in her bent posture. The floor was strewn with clothes: underwear, shirts, skirts, sweaters, and scarves. Her dresser drawers hung open and empty. When Francine turned to face Mother Superior, she revealed a face streaked in red scratches, her hair split and frizzy at the ends. In her hands was a hairbrush, gripped like a weapon. She had been brushing her hair ferociously, not stopping at the hairline, the wooden brush and its black needle-like bristles straightening the strands. Her pupils were twice their normal size, and she shook from the cold and an apparent lack of sleep.
“I have nothing to wear,” she said to Mother Superior and turned back towards the window. She had a view of the north corner of our lot, the back of the building next to ours, a four-storey apartment building with a fire escape and a rusty trash bin. Snow fell, frost clinging to the windowpane, and the papers and books on her desk were rustling from the wind. Francine bumped her knees, shaking against the wall.
“Nothing is clean,” she said, leaning her head out the window.
Mother Superior approached cautiously, her bulk shifting in slow steps towards her. She cornered her like a cat, holding out an open palm as if Francine were a wild thing. “Take one, Francine. It’s Mother. Take one. Trust me, you’ll feel better soon.”
Francine took the tiny blue pill in her free hand and chewed it without emotion. I had never seen a girl of our age in such a hopeless state, her every muscle quivering.
Mother Superior stood behind her protectively until Francine slumped down underneath the window, the small flakes intruding, spilling their wetness on her forehead. Mother Superior joined her on the carpet, picking up the edges of her habit, tentlike, and she too was momentarily deflated, breathing coarsely in and out, waving at us to leave. Francine resembled Mrs. M. after the birthday party, when Mr. M. had lifted her into the cab. Did the nuns give her the same pills then? Mother Superior adjusted the silver cross around her neck to hang straight upon her bosom as I closed the door.
Rachel and I headed down to the cafeteria. Philomena went back to her room and slammed her door. Sister Marguerite, her entire body pointed like a stick, began knocking gently, calling her name. It was strange to see girls who were always plotting to leave their rooms suddenly determined to stay within their confines with desperate energy.
Francine slept in Mother Superior’s arms. When her own mother came for her in the evening and carried her, straining underneath the weight, to her car parked outside the front entrance, we were told Francine had a bad stomach flu and would return in a week or so.
I never saw Francine again.
I am barely back within the convent walls before Sister Bernadette rushes towards me. I cannot fathom what the problem is, but she seems distraught, taking long strides while her hair, in a twist at the nape of her neck, comes undone. My first impulse is that it must have something to do with Kim’s baby. I find myself marching with undue haste, unable to contain my fear.
“Sister Angela! Sister Angela!” she says as we meet.
“What? What’s happened? What is it?”
She has no need to catch her breath as I do mine. The short time with Christine has been like a dream. The fabric of my life has been torn, my own sister forsaking me. Refusing to accept the gift I had to give her, the only gift I have. My tote bag weighs on my shoulder like an enormous stone.
“A man called for you. Twice,” Sister Bernadette says.
“A man?” I’ve never received a telephone call from a man here. Not once in the twelve years Christine has been married has her husband called, and it would pain my father too much to phone me. Even Father B. conducts his business here with Mother Superior alone and I generally receive messages from her regarding my various duties. No man has ever phoned the convent and asked for me directly.
“Yes. Mother Superior has his number, and she’s being very secretive about it, so I thought I’d warn you.”
Sister Bernadette immediately rises in my esteem. She does not pry for any more information and seems worried for me, as if I’ve broken a rule and will be reprimanded. My behaviour and moods being so erratic lately, the other Sisters might think I’ve done something stupid or reckless. She fumbles with my bag, taking it from me and slinging it over her shoulder, a courtesy I appreciate in my tiredness.
“What do you have in here?” she asks. “Did Christine forget something?”
“A gift.”
“Oh, what is it?”
“You’ve seen it before. The silver candle holder.”
I don’t know why I tell her this, why I’m being honest. Sister Bernadette refuses to respond but appears to want to, clutching the bag a little more forcibly as if determining whether she ought to keep it herself.
“She didn’t want it,” I tell her. “You know Christine.”
Sister Bernadette laughs. I am pleased she considers my flippancy appropriate. Lugging the giant weight for nothing. My throat is scratchy and I realize Christine has affected me more than I’ve wanted her too. I shrug and follow Sister Bernadette down the stairs to my room. We pass Sister Katherine and Sister Josie, whose conversation quickly halts.
“I know you’ve been going through a rough time,” Sister Bernadette says as we reach my door. “I just didn’t think you’d care to have any more surprises.”
Sister Bernadette does not leave me. I open the door and she follows inside. She lowers the bag, resting it against the frame like a doorstop. I open it and remove the candle holder, placing it prominently on my dresser to address me once again. Proving it exists. There was a part of me over the course of the day that believed it would be gone, that by finally providing a gesture of good faith to my sister my debts would be paid and I’d be free. But nothing has changed. The air is stale, and I move towards the small window to open it. The little strength I have leaves me. I begin to cry.
Sister Bernadette bows her head to give me some privacy but stays planted in the room. I cover my face with my hands and sit on the edge of my bed, the familiar grey afghan offering little comfort. It is tucked in firmly and makes the room feel more like a prison than my home. Sister Bernadette probably assumes I’m thinking about the man who has called. I wonder if I can trust her.
Mr. M.’s round, bearded face intrudes into my thoughts, and the smell of his cologne assaults me. I’d never thought it might be a man who had found me out and sent the candle holder. But it makes sense. It’s always a man intruding on the secret lives of women. If it’s Mr. M., I think, I’ll tell him everything. He had been there with us, taking care of the girls as if they were his own children. The afternoon I caught him in Esperanza’s arms, I had judged him for his actions. I’d felt repulsed by his needs, the way he could let himself be led so easily towards a young woman who worked for us, doing our laundry and washing the walls. Yet I envied them all the same. We are not always capable of doing the right thing. Look at Kim. She is not to blame. But now, I suppose, is his time to judge. I’m no longer a child. Mr. M. probably assumes I can take it.
I regain a bit of control, enough to fumble through the outside pocket of my tote bag for a package of Kleenex. Sister Bernadette is at the dresser now, fingering the base of the candle holder, lingering over the foreign etchings. I cannot bear to tell her where it has been. She should clean her hands. Smell the blood on it and withdraw. I can’t stand watching her. I get up off the bed, my tears not yet spent, and grab Sister Bernadette’s wrist. I can feel her skin underneath her dress, pinched by my fingernails. I cannot let go.
“Please don’t touch it,” I say sharply. “It’s not yours.”
Sister Bernadette backs away from the dresser, trembling slightly. I’ve frightened her, so I’ve lost a possible ally. The messages waiting for me from some man will ta
ke on enormous significance. She will inform the other Sisters if they don’t know already. She will tell them how my behaviour connects to the telephone calls. A story will surface.
She wants to escape me now but doesn’t leave. Maybe she is here on behalf of the Sisters, to pry into what’s going on.
“How’s Kim?” I ask to divert her, releasing her wrist and dabbing at my cheeks. She stands in her usual way, her sneakers rubbing to and fro against the floor. Sister Bernadette is incapable of standing still. Her energy tires me. Her boundless hope.
“You should check on your messages, don’t you think?” she says.
I do think. “It can wait.”
I know it can’t. Rumours have a life of their own.
ESPERANZA WAS THE ONE to find Bella in the morning. Bella didn’t show up for choir practice, and Sister Aline waited half an hour before starting our warm-up scales without her—a rarity, as she always insisted on punctuality. With Bella’s impeccable attendance and her strong voice necessary for the solos, however, Sister Aline paced uncomfortably up and down the aisles of the church, her songbooks held tightly against her chest.
Rachel, Caroline, and I were in attendance, but Francine was not. We avoided each other’s eyes, rereading the hymns we were to sing, sitting cross-legged on the red-carpeted stairs in front of the altar. Rachel and Caroline were distraught, messy, and short of breath, as if they had just come from calisthenics in the gymnasium. We were all exhausted and frightened, staying apart; not angry, but scared that if we put ourselves in each other’s way we would unravel.
The three of us had helped Bella to the washroom. She was hurt but trusted us as we carried her, one arm slung over Rachel, one over me. Caroline kept watch of the hallway in front of us, drawing us to her every few feet with a forward movement of her hand, all of us trying to make as little noise as possible and hoping no one would be in the washroom when we got there.
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