The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2)

by Jacob Restrick

  So I took Sr. William Joseph’s tray into her, simply laid out with tomato soup and half a tuna sandwich on toast. “Good evening, Sister, I have your supper for tonight.” Sister smiled, looking deep into my eyes, or so I thought.

  “Hand me my glasses, Sister, I can’t see who you are.” They were right there on the bed table within reach, but I dutifully did as she requested, anxious to take my leave.

  “It’s Sr. Mary Baruch, Sister.” I smiled. “Here are your glasses.” I turned to leave.

  “Sister, you forgot something!”

  Oh no, she’s reading my soul and sees me under Sally’s bed. I blurted out: “I know, Sister, I’m sorry.”

  “I always get two packs of saltines with the soup. You forgot them.”

  I was so relieved. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sister, I’ll go get them right now.” And off I went, bringing back four packs instead of two. She was very happy.

  Several weeks after that, we were having conferences on the theological virtues in St. Thomas, and Sr. William Joseph took a turn and was dying. Father Bickford was here and in the parlor with a Sister. The infirmarian knocked and burst into the parlor, holding an oil stock, stole, and the Rite of Anointing of the Sick. Fr. Bickford and she literally ran down the cloister to the infirmary. Father anointed Sister, gave her the Apostolic Blessing, and the small gathering of Sisters sang the Salve. That was around 11:00 in the morning. By Vespers it was reported that Sr. William Joseph was sitting up in bed and asking for supper. She lived for another six months. We all marveled at the power of the Sacrament of the Sick.

  I patted Sister William Joseph’s stone cross and wondered if she could see me now under Sally’s bed. Actually, I brought it to confession the next time I went. Fr. Wilcox told me our venial sins are like dust balls under the bed of our souls, and if we didn’t sweep them away they would make us sneeze. I liked his analogy, but wondered afterwards what a “spiritual sneeze” might be. If only Sr. William Joseph were still with us, I would ask her; she no doubt knew.

  In the next row was Sr. Imelda Mary. Sr. Imelda was an extern sister when I first started coming to the monastery. She was more reserved than Sr. Paula, but Sr. Imelda didn’t miss a trick, and remembered names and details about visitors which amazed me. When Greta and I went for our second retreat, Sr. Imelda remembered that Greta liked raisin bread toast for breakfast, and that I liked bagels. But maybe that’s stretching the miracle too far; I mean, who doesn’t like bagels? But she remembered I raved once about onion bagels – and there they were. She also remembered that I liked Earl Grey tea and had it there for me. Only after I had entered and I think was a novice, did I learn that Sr. Imelda kept a card file index on every visitor. When I made my Solemn Profession, Sr. Imelda enclosed “my file card” in my card wishing me a blessed Profession. It wasn’t too long after that that she was diagnosed with cancer. I keep her holy card from her funeral in my breviary. I prayed today that she would help me remember any little details about my brother and his first visit that will make him feel welcomed the next time he came.

  Sr. Hanna Marie of Jesus Thorn Crowned had the last grave in that row. I didn’t know her, but I loved her name; it was Mama’s name without the “h” at the end. Sr. Benedict and Sr. Amata often spoke of her with great admiration. I think she was something of, what we would call today, a workaholic. She was an extern sister living inside. She was sacristan for many years and was very fussy about things, at least the things in the sacristy.

  She was a native New Yorker; her parents immigrated to this country from Hungary. She had five sisters, only one is still living, but nobody seems to know where. Sr. Benedict once said that Sr. Hanna Marie loved Christmas so much they should have given her the title: of Jesus in Bethlehem, or the Infant Jesus, instead of Jesus Thorn Crowned. She knew and loved the sisters so much that each year she would make each one a unique Christmas card. She did this in her spare time in the sacristy. Apparently she was also big on Christmas decorations and had free rein in the extern chapel. Sometime in the sixties, she was decorating a huge tree she had gotten for the extern chapel. This was like two days before Christmas. She had boxes of ornaments I think that her family donated; some of them came from Hungary with the family. She was standing on a tall step ladder, trying to put the star on the top. She wasn’t wearing an apron, and she stepped on her scapular, lost her balance, and fell off the ladder, hitting her head on a prie-dieu she had moved out of the way for the tree. She was knocked unconscious.

  The sister keeping guard, of course, heard all this, and ran for help. The ambulance came, and Sister Hanna Marie spent Christmas in the hospital, without a single ornament. The tragic thing, however, was when she regained consciousness on Christmas Day, she suffered from what the doctor called temporary amnesia. Sr. Benedict was with her and Sister Hanna didn’t know who Sr. Benedict was, nor did she know who she herself was. Christmas, however, she recognized, and she talked about decorating the tree.

  “That’s right, Sister, you were decorating the tree and putting the star on the top.”

  “Yes, Daddy was there to do that with me. It was a big silvery shiny star he had had when he was my age, he told me.”

  “But do you remember a couple days ago in the monastery chapel and the tree?”

  “Monastery chapel? What’s that, and why are you calling me your sister? I’m not your sister; my sister died of polio.”

  Sr. Benedict would retell the tale. “She could remember details from her childhood, but nothing of the present. She didn’t even remember she was a nun. I would call her Sister Hanna, and she’d look around, ‘Who you-a talkin’ to? My name is Sophia Gibberish’ or something like that.” Sr. Benedict would say, “I could never pronounce or understand her last name.”

  Sister Benedict could be rather dramatic about it all, but brought everything together saying: “We called it a Christmas miracle. On the Feast of the Holy Innocents, Sr. Hannah’s memory was restored; she remembered who she was; who I was; and that she was decorating the tree in the extern chapel. We all rejoiced when we learned she would be coming home the next day. We had a special recreation that night and sang Christmas carols and gave the little home-made cards and gifts we all made to Sr. Hanna Marie who sat by our tree in the community room in tears.”

  That was part of the “oral tradition”: Sr. Hanna and her Christmas Miracle. She resumed her charge in the sacristy, and let other sisters help her with things, like decorating for the holidays. She never forgot to wear an apron after that.

  There was a single Christmas ornament attached to the ground in front of her cross. So I prayed a little prayer to her, too, that she would help Mama and David come to know the mystery of Christmas. It couldn’t hurt?

  Next row. All of the Sisters in this row I only knew by name, and over the years you catch the names that are familiar. The Sisters who are still a part of the oral tradition.

  We have a single metal chair off to the side in the cemetery under our beautiful oak tree which was in glorious golden yellows and red that day. I remember sitting down there for the length of a rosary, asking all the deceased Sisters to pray for me and my encounter with David. “Our Papa is with you all if you want to learn about David.” I thought that said it all. Although I thought Ruthie was probably filling them all in on how mean and belligerent David was when I became a Catholic.

  I remembered Sr. Mary of the Trinity’s words: “We’re a fragile bunch at times.” And I thought about my family…a fragile bunch at times indeed.

  Next I went to visit the Sisters in the infirmary to ask for their prayers, especially Sr. Mary of the Trinity who was then our oldest in the infirmary, almost a hundred years old…former novice mistress, former sub-prioress, former prioress for two terms. Strong for all of us, and now, among the fragile bunch. Like my dear Sr. Gertrude whose prayers I’ve always depended on.

  Sr. Mary of the Trinity was sleeping comfortably in her room; Sr. Gertrude and Sr. Amata were playing Whist at the card table, the latest craz
e to hit the infirmary.

  “Where’s Sr. Benedict?” I inquired of the Whisk players.

  “She’s stepped out for a moment.” Sr. Amata was concentrating on her hand. Sr. Gertrude looked up at me with a smile.

  “I offered my Holy Communion for your meeting with David today. Another opening, another show—don’t be nervous, kiddo, you’ve got the Lord on your side.”

  “Thank you, Sister, I knew you’d have just the right words for me. I could go for a cold glass of apple cider, ANYONE WANT SOME?” All hands went up, including Sister Mary Bruna and Sr. Sarah who were sitting on the sidelines engrossed in the newspapers.

  I went into the kitchenette and fixed six glasses of apple cider. Oddly enough, I thought about Papa and David fixing the wine, and praying the blessings. The first cup of wine always began with a blessing; “firsts” always began by blessing God first. Maybe David will have a kind of amnesia that forgets the hurts inflicted years and years ago; the old wine skins, the Lord talks about; and coming here will be new wine skins. David likes his wine, and I know Mama does too. Maybe it is really prayer and mercy and kindness, and a dash of humor, and sweet apple cider that is the wine of our life. All these things, we sometimes just call God’s “grace.” I was ready and waiting to welcome my brother into my home, for the first time, dust balls and all.

  Chapter Five

  L’Chaim“To Life!”

  I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. So choose life in order that you may live, you and your descendants, by loving the Lord your God, by obeying His voice, and by holding fast to Him; for this is your life and the length of your days that you may live in the land which the Lord swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give them. (Deut. 30:19-20)

  “Wake up, Sister Mary Baruch, your mother and brother are here.” It was Sr. Paula gently squeezing my arm. I had dozed off in my stall in the chapel. I had stayed there to pray right after None, at 3:00 o’clock. They were expected around 3:30.

  “What time is it, Sister?” I whispered.

  “Just 3:40, Sister. They’re waiting for you in the small parlor.”

  “Thank you, Sister, I must’ve dozed off. Oh, could you get my rosary for me, dear, I must’ve dropped it.” I took a deep breath, looked at the Lord in His ever-silent place in the monstrance, blessed myself, and made my way to the parlor, holding onto my side-rosary as I did.

  I opened the parlor door and went in, closing the door silently behind me, noticing that it was more snug now with the new rubber runner. I just stood there looking at Mama and David who also just stood looking at me. It was almost like being asleep, but I knew this time I wasn’t. I was wide awake. And I heard David’s voice crack: “Becky.”

  If there’s one thing we don’t see at all in the monastery it’s grown men crying! But there he was. My brother was a sixty-two year old New York psychiatrist who practiced on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. For thirty-five years he was immersed in people’s mental and emotional turmoil, and learned to be stoic and stalwart, rational, and emotionally put together. And he put his head down, and let out a sob that filled the room like an emotional implosion. Maybe that was his spiritual sneeze.

  I began to shake, and let the floodgates open, and Mama and I, both crying, made our way to the now familiar grille.

  It was Mama who broke through the sobbing. “Don’t be afraid, David, come and touch your sister; she’s still our Becky.” Mama was holding onto my fingers through the grille. I was searching for a handkerchief with my right hand. David came within a foot of the grille and looked at me with tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” he managed to get out. “You look so…”

  “So beautiful,” Mama blurted. “Such a blessing, I told you, look at her, your sister, the nun.” Mama was on a roll. “All of us have gotten old and gray; my oldest daughter lives with a girlfriend and gives haircuts to dogs; my youngest daughter, may she rest in peace, kills herself in the middle of New York stardom; my son, the doctor, such a blessing, can’t talk to his little sister for thirty-five years, and she looks like she’s the same age as when she left us.” It was all dis-jointed emotion, but it was Mama!

  “That’s true, Mama, that’s true.” He took a deep breath and put his left hand on the grille and encircled my right hand fingers, a little too tightly, but I didn’t let him know that.

  “David,” I managed to get his name out. I thought my emotions would mature with age, but it’s been just the opposite. I tried again. “David, thank you for coming here,” and took two steps backwards, spread out my arms with a slight bow and said: “…the nunnery.” And he laughed and cried at the same time, if that’s possible. The “nunnery” was his word for the monastery, with the scornful tone of Hamlet to Ophelia.

  I don’t know where it came from except from the deep recesses of the soul, or maybe the spirit of Ruthie hidden by the invisible curtain of eternal life and playing the prompter, or the prayers of Sr. Gertrude sitting in the rocker outside the infirmary door, but I took another two steps backwards, spun completely around, and assumed the character of Ophelia.

  OPHELIA: “O, help him, you sweet heavens!”

  David remembered the lines by heart.

  HAMLET: “If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.”

  OPEHLIA: “O heavenly powers, restore him …”

  And all three of us burst out laughing.

  “Such a blessing, my children should know Shakespeare by heart.” Mama was amazed, and as always pulled up a chair closer to the grille, and David followed suit. Of course, I sat down too. Mama went on: “And look at the two of you, both well past middle age.”

  “Ruthie would be so proud,” I said. “When she played Ophelia, you used to help her memorize her lines. But I must say our chastity is not ice, but warm and joyful, especially after fifty.” (I winked at Mama.)

  “Hamlet was not a happy man when he said that. Anyway, I always thought that I made a dashing Hamlet, although I was never sure how to psychologically interpret him. I’ve had a few Hamlets over the years on my couch.”

  “And probably a few Ophelias! But I must say, you’ve aged well, David, past middle age (glancing at Mama!). You’ve kept your hair, which is very distinguished looking.”

  “Yes, I think I have Mama’s genes to thank for that, including a few hundred of her thousand silver hairs.”

  Mama actually blushed. “Such a blessing, Helena Rubenstein.” We laughed.

  “Do you have hair under your..your…”

  “Veil” Mama said.

  “Yes, of course, I do. We don’t shave our heads, David. My hair’s like yours actually, maybe just a bit shorter, and nearly all gray.” I smiled.

  There was an awkward silence. David was staring at me through the grille work.

  “I understand you made quite a splash at Ruthie’s funeral, and even came home to sit Shiva with Mama and Sally.” His tone was not cynical, but kind.

  “Yes, I was hoping Rabbi Lieberman would come in.” And David laughed, remembering the staged scene with the esteemed rabbi who came to dinner.

  “I know. We did kind of put him up to it. But I was sure if anyone could change your mind it would be him. I presume he wasn’t at Shiva; I don’t know if he’s still living, but I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get home on time. A seminar in Amsterdam…”

  “Brussels.” Mama interjected. “It was Brussels. And Rabbi Lieberman retired and moved to Miami Beach and had a stroke and died. May he rest in peace! Your father liked the man; I couldn’t stand him, or his prissy wife.”

  Ignoring the last remark, David went on: “You’re right. About my seminar, it was Brussels. The year after that it was Amsterdam.”

 
; “Copenhagen.” Mama interjected again. “The year after that it was Copenhagen in 1997, and Amsterdam later the same year…and this year…”

  “Paris. We have these seminars every year. It was the Brussels one, now I remember, that I was giving one of the talks, and couldn’t leave everything and come home. I wouldn’t have made it anyway.” (This wasn’t the kind of amnesia I was hoping for, but I was enjoying it.)

  “Such an excuse. Your little sister dies of an overdose, and a paper is more important?”

  Jumping in to save David I asked, “Where are you going next year?” I asked with genuine interest. I was even just a little envious of his world travels.

  “Seminar 2000 will be in London, which will be fine. We’ll be meeting at Cambridge, which I’m looking forward to. But Seminar 2001, of which I am on the planning committee, are you ready? It’s…in…”

  And before he could say it, Mama blurted out: “Rome. Maybe he’ll get to meet that handsome Pope John Paul.”

  “Oh, David, that’s wonderful. I thought you were going to say ‘next year Jerusalem.’” And we all laughed.

  “Maybe in 2002? And you’ll take me?” Mama sounded like a little girl, her eyes blinking at David like she was flirting with him.

  “I will, Mama, if we can persuade the committee.” Turning to me he said: “But do you know where Mama and I are going this winter?”