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

by Jacob Restrick

  We went into another room where Dr. Whitman was waiting without a smile. I thought maybe I should genuflect to make him laugh, but he might not remember our discussion last week and he would think I was weak in the knees and schedule me for an immediate knee replacement.

  “Good morning, Doctor, how nice to see you again.” That probably sounded “lame” as Sr. Leah Marie would say.

  He responded with half a smile: “Good morning, Sister. Now, if at any time you experience chest pain let us know. We will inject you with nuclear dye during the test; you’ll get a warm sensation, but that’s normal, so keep on walking. Your blood pressure will be monitored as well. We’ll also increase the speed and incline as we go. I’m glad to see you’ve worn sneakers.”

  “That was on the preparation sheet,” I said. I didn’t have the nerve to tell him I’ve been wearing sneakers for years. But I continued, “I like them; I think I’ll ask ‘Mother Superior’ if I can keep them.” (No smile.) So I hike up my tunic, and climb onto the treadmill. (“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.) And we were off. It wasn’t so bad; like a nice afternoon stroll around the outside garden, but then the speed got a little more rapid, and I felt a warmth flood me for an instant, and I was going uphill at an unsisterly clip. Thank goodness I had sneakers on; this thing was going faster all the time. I grabbed on for life and walked faster than I have in years…my legs were aching and my heart pounding, and the doctor announced: “thirty seconds more.” A deep breath, and I closed my eyes, and held tight.

  I must’ve looked quite a sight when I stepped off the treadmill, my poor night veil all askew, having dropped below my eyebrows, but I was happy it was over. I think Dr. Whitman was happy too. He said I passed with flying colors. I’m not sure what that means when I think about it, like exactly what colors fly?

  Later reports showed my heart to be in good shape, but I would need to have a “vascular man” look at the legs. That they were aching near the end probably meant that circulation was poor.

  I told him I don’t know about circulation, but those muscles haven’t been pressed into action quite like this for many a year. But I relented and agreed to an appointment with a Doctor Rhonda Sparks. Fortunately she was all booked up till the first of the year. I would just stick to bananas for now.

  So that ended my peaceful year 2003. No new postulants but three new doctors! I was looking forward to the first profession of Sr. Elijah Rose and Sr. Leah Marie coming up in 2004.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lent 2004

  HallelThe Fourth cup ending the Seder. The Psalms and their blessings are sung responsorially.

  Fr. Matthew was home for a month before Lent 2005 began. The Passionist Fathers love him over in Lancashire and want him to return. He says it all depends on his provincial, but he thinks it can be worked out.

  During the previous holiday I had a wonderful visit with Sharbel who came to see me during the Christmas Octave with a very attractive older woman, whom I never would have guessed was his mother, Olivia – that is Dr. Olivia Ghattas.

  “You must be the legendary mystery nun, Aunt Mary. Sister, I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

  She was delightful, charming, and beautiful, in a humble, natural, Greta-way of beauty. While Greta looked like Princess Grace of Monaco, Dr. Ghattas looked like Ingrid Bergman with rich black hair. It made me remember Mama telling me about her, and Mama watching Ingrid Bergman playing Sr. Benedict in The Bells of St. Mary’s.

  “And I am so happy to meet Jack’s, I mean, Sharbel’s mother.”

  “I am sorry I never came to see you after that terrible day in September. I can’t imagine what you went through losing both your mother and brother.”

  “It was a wrenching time for all of us here. I didn’t know my mother and David were there till hours afterwards. Many of us lost loved ones that day. I would even say, it changed the…what? The mood? The atmosphere of the house? We immediately and automatically went into prayer-mode. And our prayer changed. The words of the Psalms had new meaning to them. The sudden and tragic realization of the shortness and sacredness of every life, of our lives, became almost tangible.” Olivia and Sharbel didn’t say anything; we just sat silent for a moment.

  “I don’t know how much you know of my relationship with my brother; he was opposed to my becoming a Catholic forty some years ago. He cut me out of his life entirely for thirty-five years. We had the last couple years before 9/11 to become reacquainted; and a blessing in it all has been to meet my nephew here.” Sharbel smiled and blushed.

  “And for me to meet my aunt, the cloistered nun! I brag about you at school, is that a sin?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know what there is to brag about, but I don’t think it’s a sin; it’s the good kind of pride…I hope.”

  “Poor David,” Olivia got in, “he was getting it from all sides, I suppose. He mellowed in his anti-Catholic stance over the years; his practice helped to change that. My faith was a huge enigma to him, and he came to know if he was going to have a relationship with his son, he’d have to be a part of that part of his life too.” She paused for a moment, thinking back. “Sharbel never had a bar-mitzvah, but he made his First Holy Communion and Confirmation, and David was there for both of them.”

  “Well. I’ll be.” Thinking about things myself, I looked at Sharbel. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to know your Aunt Ruthie better; she would have been there for you too. She used to come here and sit right where you are, and imitate Sr. Paula, our extern sister, or somebody she had sat across from on the subway. When we were kids we would go to an afternoon matinee and then go to Horn and Hardarts’ Automat for tea and a dessert, and Ruthie would put on a British accent like we were tourists visiting the city. She was a master of foreign accents.”

  “Oh, I know. I don’t know how she could do it, but once she put on a Lebanese accent; even I can’t do that.” And we all laughed.

  “David took us to an off-Broadway show she was starring in, and we met her afterwards in her dressing room. It’s the only time I met her. David was very proud of her…David was a good man, I hope you know that,” spake the mother of his son. “I couldn’t marry him because he didn’t share my Faith, and while we were both young physicians, our approach to our careers, and to our faiths, were different. It worked out better this way, but I always wanted David to know his son and vice versa.”

  “And his other grandmother,” I added. “I cannot tell you how much joy you, Sharbel, brought into your grandmother’s life.” To them both: “She was a real Jewish Mother, you know. There’s always something that rings true in a stereotype, and Hannah Feinstein fit the stereotype.” Putting on Mama’s accent: “I should have such a good looking grandson? And his mother’s a doctor.” They both laughed.

  “Well, I loved having such a great grandmamma…she was ‘such a blessing,’” Sharbel responded. We all laughed.

  We visited for a good hour and kept it pretty light hearted. I was truly glad to finally meet Olivia, and she promised to come back and visit again. And Sharbel promised to be around to see me, and tell me all about Yale and St. Mary’s where he went for Mass and served as an altar server. (I guess they weren’t called altar boys after a certain age, but apparently St. Mary’s had a whole group of young men from Yale who served at Mass.) I was happy to hear that; I certainly prayed he would find a home there.

  Life in the monastery rolled along as usual. Sr. Agnes Mary became a full resident of the infirmary, her health was declining more and more. We would have two aspirants live inside the enclosure for a couple weeks during Lent, which was certainly different from my day.

  One young woman was a native American, whom I mistakenly called an Indian, and was corrected by Sr. Anna Maria who seemed to know all the newly politically correct terminology. Her name was Pretty Flower, and she was a graduate of Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey.

  When I told the Sisters in the infirmary that we have an aspirant coming named Pretty Fl
ower, it was Sr. Bertrand who reacted the most: “Pretty Flower? What kind a name is that; sounds pretty egotistical to me; who would ever call themselves ‘Pretty Flower’ – maybe Daffodil, or Hyacinth, or Rose, but Pretty Flower?”

  Sr. Gerard picked up the ball: “Or Lily, Lilac, Tulip…”

  “Tulip?” It was Sr. Bertrand again. “What kind of name is Tulip? “

  “I went to school with a girl named Tulip,” contributed Sr. Benedict. “We called her ‘Two-lips Open’ because she was always talking and getting the rest of us in trouble.”

  “Pretty Flower is a native American…” but before I could complete the politically correct sentence, Sr. Bertrand interrupted:

  “Native American? I’m a native American; we’re all native Americans, except for Maureen and the Sisters out back who were born in other countries, like Sr. Hildegard, and Sr. Boniface and maybe Sr. Jane Mary; wasn’t she born in Canada?”

  “Canada would still be American… just north American.” Sr. Benedict let us know.

  “Pretty Flower is an American Indian.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” an exasperated Sr. Bertrand responded. “I bet she does great bead-work.” And everybody thought that was hysterical.

  “I don’t know about that, Sister, but she has a Master’s Degree in Bio-nuclear Research.”

  “Well, that and a dollar and a quarter will get her on the subway.”

  It was a good thing that Sr. Bertrand wasn’t Postulant Mistress; she’d scare everyone away before they even really entered.

  “So what are we supposed to call her, Sr. Pretty?” This was Sr. Benedict asking quite sincerely.

  “I hadn’t thought about that yet. But I think Sr. Flower or Sr. Flora, perhaps.”

  “Or Fleur…Mother Rosaria would like that.” Again, a sincere Sr. Benedict.

  “Well, I’m gonna call her ‘Pretty Flower’ and she can call me ‘Wilting Flower.’” Sr. Bertrand was back.

  “And I’m Sr. Drooping Flower” called out Sr. Agnes Mary from across the room.

  “Now you all be kind to her. She’s rather timid and nervous about it all.”

  “Of course we will, you know that, Sister. We’ll be very kind to our new bloom.” Sr. Benedict trying to settle everyone down. They all thought ‘new bloom’ was funnier than Two-lips-open and we all got laughing over it. I told myself I’m going to have to think of something serious when I bring her into the infirmary for the first time. Pretty Flower herself took care of it when she told me “everyone calls me ‘Patty.’”

  The second aspirant was actually a professed Sister from an active Order. She was already fifty, but a religious for nearly thirty years. She had been acquainted with the monastery for many years and Mother wanted to give her a chance. Her name was Sr. Sheila. She said her original religious name was Sr. Joseph Michael. She taught elementary school for twenty years. Her community went through major changes and somewhere along the way she said “we lost the religious life, at least the life I had entered years before. I loved teaching, but we were withdrawing from our schools and doing social justice things, and living in small communities in our own apartments without anyone really being the superior. We sat around in our living room chairs and recited the Office if we were all there. When I went back to the Motherhouse for a day of recollection, they had replaced the tabernacle with an earthen jug hanging in a macramé dreamcatcher.”

  Sr. Sheila stopped going to the motherhouse and would come to the monastery on her “day off.” I remember her sitting in the chapel alone, sometimes quietly weeping. I asked Sr. Paula about her, but Sr. Paula said she just missed ‘the life.’ I’m surprised she didn’t come to us sooner, but all in God’s plan. I pray it works out for her. I think she and Pretty Flower will get along well.

  * * *

  Lent is a little different each year; we settle into the usual Lenten antiphons and readings. I think we all welcome the liturgical season with more spiritual motivation than we have at New Year’s. Mother Rosaria had begun a new custom since Lent of 2001 of drawing for a special intention to be prayed for by each Sister. We did this at community recreation on Shrove Tuesday. The novices were invited to the recreation as well, and also drew an intention from the velvet bag used for such purposes. Some Sisters kept it secret, but it wasn’t required, and the novices all wanted to know what the other novices drew. Many of the intentions were based on the General Intercessions on Good Friday, which made a nice liturgical connection.

  Sr. Mary Kolbe was to pray for the conversion of nonbelievers.

  Sr. Diana was to pray for the Sisters in the infirmary.

  Sr. Maureen was to pray for priests who were experiencing difficulties.

  Sr. Mary Cecilia was to pray for the poor souls in Purgatory.

  Sr. Elijah Rose was to pray for all who do not believe in Christ.

  Sr. Leah Marie was to pray for Pope John Paul in his illness.

  I was to pray for protection from terrorism.

  I found it interesting that I was not to pray for the conversion of terrorists, although someone might have gotten that exact intention. And of course I could do both, which I did. Since 9/11 terrorism and our own safety had entered into our consciousness and prayers. We were locking the door to the public chapel immediately after Vespers, and anyone coming to the front door had to be buzzed in now. We had a new button by the main Turn, on the nuns’ side, and in Mother’s office, which sent an alarm alert throughout the whole house. Like old fashioned fire-drills, we had an emergency alert drill; if we were in choir, it simply meant getting on our hands and knees behind the form or kneeler in front of our seat. This was not an easy position to get into for the elderly sisters or those who are more full-bodied, as Sr. Leah Marie would say.

  We didn’t know exactly how safe this would be; terrorists with machine guns could probably shoot right through the forms. Sr. Mark suggested that we stand straight up and link arms with each other, and be prepared to go to the Lord instead of hiding. She even suggested that the chantress should intone the Te Deum. This brought up a lively discussion in the Chapter. The debate was on whether we should get shot singing the Te Deum, or the Salve, or the Lord’s Prayer. We had a good discussion drawing distinctions between the prayers. In the end, the Salve won out since we sing it every night at Compline after the hebdom prays: “May the Lord grant us a quiet night and a peaceful death.” And we sing it at every death bed and, in effect, this would be ours.

  The conclusion, however, was that we would try the crouching behind the form first to see how it seemed. That was just for the chapel. In the refectory we would try to stand and link arms and sing the Salve, since getting under the tables wouldn’t really hide us. In the cloister one should duck for cover wherever they could, and in our cell, get under the bed, which meant a little spring house cleaning for some Sisters.

  We only had one drill after all this was discussed, and it was in the Lent of 2004. We were all in choir, at Vespers, and the Emergency Alert sounded. We hadn’t taken into account that the kneelers were there, so that made getting into crouch position a little more difficult. One had to kind of straddle the kneeler which wasn’t easy with a full skirt. But we did it. One Sister, not realizing it was a drill, cried out “Lord have mercy on us.” The chantress all confused by things, intoned the Salve, which defeated the purpose of hiding. And then, it only took two sisters to get the giggles, and it spread across both choirs. Here we were on both sides, on our hands and knees, preparing to go to the Lord, and we got a fit of laughing.

  After the “all clear” and we managed to get ourselves standing up again, with much huffing puffing and grunting by a few of us, and brushing ourselves off, and still laughing, Mother knocked quite loudly and we all stopped, and knelt to pray. Poor Sister Dominic who never said a word out of turn, hollered from behind her form: “I’ve got a cramp in my leg, and I can’t get up.” The two Sisters next to her grabbed her under both arms and lifted her up. “Are we safe?” And al
l Mother could do was to say, half laughing, “Yes, Sister, we are safe, blessed be God.”

  We were all very happy to process silently to the refectory for tomato soup, peanut butter and crackers, which never tasted so good. At the next Chapter Mother announced that we would link arms in choir and go down together singing the Salve. We all thought that was the braver solution.

  The infirmary Sisters, of course, revived the whole discussion on where our shrine would be as the Dominican Martyrs of Brooklyn Heights. There was always something just a little humorous beneath it all, which may just be our way of dealing with the reality of what we’re living in these days.

  I had no parlors to look forward to during the Easter Octave, but on Divine Mercy Sunday Sisters Elijah Rose and Leah Marie would make first profession and receive the black veil.

  It was Sr. Gertrude, on behalf of the “infirmary community” who invited the two novices to the infirmary for a little tea party. The rooftop was suggested, but it was still a bit chilly for most the infirmary sisters, and too much fuss getting everything organized. The infirmary was a much better place. They wanted just the white veils making profession, not Sr. Sheila or Pretty Flower. (Everyone else called her Patty, but the infirmary Sisters preferred ‘Pretty Flower’, led by Sr. Bertrand who still thought the name was a riot.)

  Actually, the infirmarian and I did most of the work, as Sr. Benedict couldn’t really use her hands, Sister Gerard and Sister Gertrude were in wheelchairs, Sister Amata and St. Bertrand alone were able to help. Sr. Bruna had no idea what was going on.

  “I thought this was going to be a graceful, Queen’s garden-like tea party, with dainty cups and saucers—what are all these mugs doing out? It looks like a Hippie Café” Sr. Bertrand commented while rearranging all the mugs so their handles were in the same direction.