Missing Sisters

by Gregory Maguire

  “Oh, my Lord,” said Sister John Bosco. “It never occurred to me you didn’t understand. I’ll tell you, I need a month off. Alice, look at me. Listen to me. Sister Vincent de Paul is very much alive. She is recovering still. She’s getting better all the time. I don’t know if she’ll come back here. She’s no spring chicken, you know.” Alice’s eyes clouded over at this, and Sister John Bosco said, “I mean she’s an old nun now. In fact she’s been an old nun most of her life. She’s taking her sweet time to recover, and then we’ll see what we see.”

  Miami saw Alice’s face turn white then red: joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy. “You mean she’s alive,” she kept saying. Miami was just faintly jealous. Here they should be united in fury at the grown-ups ruining their lives, and Alice’s face kept looking like the last two minutes of a Christmas special on TV. “Come on, show us your room so we can get outta this place,” Miami said brusquely.

  Behind Alice, Sister John Bosco was gushing. “You never know with her. She’s so sharp about some things, and then the basic bit flies right by her somehow. I can’t thank you enough for seeing what I had missed, Mrs. Shaw. God bless you.”

  Part Five

  O CLEMENT O LOVING O SWEET

  Alice was in the chapel.

  A grab bag of joys, curses, and requests was trying to fold itself into the shape of a prayer. She felt as if she had a circus in her head. It made her tired, and as she knelt she rested her forehead against the back of the next pew and her fanny on the edge of the bench. Sister Paul the Hermit, passing through to hunt for a lost handkerchief, saw her there. To Sister Paul the Hermit, Alice looked like a girl trying to apologize for making so much trouble. There was a keen smell of lemon Pledge from the pews, and tiger lilies brandished their blossoms from plastic buckets. Someone had left a duster on the lectern. Sister Paul the Hermit swooped up to retrieve it, casting a glance at Alice as she went, in case Alice looked as if she needed to talk. Alice didn’t meet her glance.

  Alice’s gaze went back and forth between the two paintings in the chapel, one over each of the wrought-iron racks of vigil candles. The painting on the left showed Jesus tenderly pulling aside His robe to reveal in His chest a heart wreathed in thorny twists of vine. It was a sort of spiritual X-ray painting, because the bleeding heart didn’t seem to drip blood on the white garments. Alice felt a sort of affection for the Jesus of this painting, more so than for the emaciated body of Christ hanging on the cross above the altar. After all, this was the Sacred Heart Home for Girls. And the look on the face of Jesus in the painting was affecting. He looked shy, and honest, and a little bit embarrassed to admit He’d gone through all this trouble just for people. He reminded Alice of that boy with the guitar she’d met on the bus, about whom she’d dreamed once or twice.

  The heart didn’t seem so awful. It wasn’t a horror-movie thing. It was God’s heart, but it was like Alice’s heart too. Hearts were really magnets, weren’t they? Her heart seemed to twist in her chest. It strained and rested and strained again, chained not by thorns, but by love and need and desire.

  O God, did I do wrong? she prayed. Should I have gone off with the Harrigans last winter? Would none of this then have happened? Is this mess with Miami Shaw just punishment for my bribing You to save Sister Vincent de Paul?

  No, said Jesus. I don’t punish people for loving each other.

  I wish I believed You, prayed Alice.

  It don’t make any sense, said Jesus. After all, the Harrigans probably would’ve sent you to Camp Saint Theresa just like they sent Naomi Matthews. You still would’ve learned about Miami this summer either way.

  Alice hadn’t realized Jesus was so logical. So this mess wasn’t a penance for being willful. She felt a little better, and politely put Jesus on hold while she turned her attention to the painting on the right, which was of Mary. Long practice at this had taught her Jesus didn’t mind waiting, airing His sacred heart in silence.

  Mary hung in a cloudy sky, her hands out, her feet gingerly arching, her face oval, and her hair mostly hidden in a veil. Her expression was more inward, and it always took Alice a longer time to get through to her. Mary was full of grace. She was blessed among women. There was a line from a prayer they repeated daily, a line that the girls enunciated with special fervor, so even Alice understood it. “O clement, o loving, o sweet Virgin Mary,” they trumpeted, “braa na na na na na…” and on into obscurity. Alice used “O clement o loving o sweet Virgin Mary” for her icebreaker whenever she prayed to Mary. Sooner or later she got Mary’s attention.

  First she adored Mary for a few minutes, never being quite sure how much was too much. She apologized for her failure of nerve. She gave thanks for the good fortune she’d had and prayed for better in the days to come. Mary cast her eyes humbly to the floor.

  The real point of all this, concluded Alice, is what to do now?

  Mary said nothing, as usual. She waited for you to figure it out for yourself.

  I mean, now that Sister Vincent de Paul is alive again—still alive, I mean—I could be brave enough to be adopted, but nobody wants me now. The Harrigans have Naomi Matthews because I wouldn’t go. That Shaw family has Miami. Now that I have to act brave to keep my end of the bargain, there are no options.

  There’s a bravery in waiting, said Jesus from the other side of the room.

  Mary smiled inwardly. Well, you wouldn’t expect her to contradict her son.

  I thought it would be a little harder, said Alice. I already know how to be patient.

  What do you love most of all? said Jesus. The first, best thing?

  You, said Alice.

  Not counting me, said Jesus; I mean from the world.

  I love Sister Vincent de Paul, said Alice, and her heart twisted again, slid against itself, burning. She’s still alive, said Alice, though Jesus of course knew all. And the tears burned in her eyes like her heart flaming in her breast. It was joy and loneliness together, that’s what it was.

  Should I ask her what to do? Is that it?

  Jesus said, Pray for her, Alice, and keep your ears open. The right thing will present itself.

  I’m part deaf, Alice reminded Him.

  I know, He said. You know what I mean.

  Alice signed off, gratefully, flicking a quick glance at Mary, who seemed to be smiling more lovingly than ever. There really is satisfaction in prayer, Alice thought as she genuflected and took off down the hall toward the dormitory. Chapel’s the only place where grown-ups don’t make you repeat yourself. You can be understood the first time.

  She sang as she changed from a cotton skirt and blouse to shorts and T-shirt. She didn’t exactly know what to do next, but she was going to keep her ears open, and maybe the right thing would occur to her.

  Sister John Bosco was reviewing the food order for September when the phone rang. Putting her pencil on the line that said Jell-O—50 packs assorted flavors, she shot a “hello” into the mouthpiece. First there was no sound, then a giggle. Then a high voice being pushed into the alto range by willpower said, “Hello, is this Alice the orphan’s house?”

  “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” said Sister John Bosco, faintly amused.

  “What?”

  “Who is this please?”

  “Oh. Umm…umm…” A muffled conference, then: “This is Mister Joe Shaw.”

  “I see. Well, Mister Joe Shaw, Alice can’t come to the telephone. May I take a message?”

  “What?”

  “What do you want me to tell her?”

  “Tell her—tell her—” Hysteria overcame the speaker, and the line went dead. Sister John Bosco replaced the handset, shaking her head, but paused a moment later with her pencil at 2 cartons Carnation evaporated milk. She was not immune to the sound of giggling children’s voices and appreciated the anxiety that encouraged children to misbehave. Heaven knew she had accepted the role of principal of the home because of her savvy with kids as well as an adroitness at administration. Her first duty in this case
was to Alice, of course, but she could imagine what Miami and the malleable Garth—and the well-meaning parents, for that matter—would be going through, too. She would have to pray, and reflect, and hope for guidance. She would not allow a serious interruption to the progress Alice had made this year, however, as who knew what trials lay in wait for her outside the gates of the home.

  She crossed out 10 packages Oreos and scribbled fresh fruit next to it.

  In the evening she made the rounds to be sure all the girls were calm, bedded, prayered, and reading. She held Ruth Peters for a while and took away a water gun from Esther Thessaly. She noted a broken screen on the third-floor landing, chastised Sister Francis Xavier gently on an abundance of bath water on the tiles, and perched for a minute on the edge of Alice Colossus’s bed.

  “Who was our father and our mother?” said Alice, looking up from a Dr. Seuss book she ought to be well beyond at this point.

  “God is our Father,” said Sister John Bosco automatically.

  “I know,” said Alice, “but the other kind. The real kind.”

  Sister John Bosco resisted the temptation to plunge into a discussion on the nature of reality. “I don’t know,” she said, which was the truth. “Your mother could not feed and raise you herself, so with great love and forethought she gave you to us. She knew you’d be safe and well here. She was very smart and loving to do such a kind thing for you. What’re you reading?”

  “Horton Hatches the Egg,” said Alice. “I like it.”

  “That’s a book you could read three years ago,” said the nun. “I thought you were up to Nancy Drew.”

  “I meant what I said and I said what I meant,” said Alice.

  “An elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent,” said Sister John Bosco. Call and response. Well, there was something faintly psalmlike about Dr. Seuss. She kissed Alice good night. “Oh, by the way, that little boy, that Garth, was put to the telephone and spoke with me today. I tried to tell him we weren’t in the habit of calling our children to the phone, but I don’t believe he understood.”

  “Funny little kid,” said Alice. “I like boys.”

  “So do I,” said Sister John Bosco. “Sweet dreams.”

  During the pancake breakfast next morning, a Sunday after-mass tradition, Alice scooted out to the front hall and used the phone again. Mrs. Shaw answered but put Miami on anyway. Alice said to Miami, “It don’t look like anything’s going to work.”

  “I have an idea,” said Miami. “Wait, I’ll go upstairs where I can shout louder. Mom, put this phone down when you hear me upstairs, okay?”

  Mom, thought Alice.

  Miami’s voice reappeared a minute later. She launched into a breakneck explanation of what they could do. It took Alice, straining to hear, some time to get it straight. It involved calling up local TV stations and radios and having a press conference. They could do it on the steps to the Shaws’ house at South Allen Street. “Twins Reunited,” they could say. Some neighbor of Miami’s had given her the idea. Miami was obviously gaga over the scheme. She had worked out what they could wear. Could Alice get her ears pierced by next Saturday?

  “You are out of your mind,” said Alice. “Nobody has their ears pierced here. We get a little cologne at Easter. It smells like Ivory liquid. That’s it.”

  Miami was even less happy to learn that Alice wouldn’t do it. “What’s the point?” Alice asked.

  “Shame the filthy grown-ups into letting us live together.”

  “I can’t shame the nuns,” said Alice. “I don’t want to.”

  “I can shame anyone,” said Miami, “including myself.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Alice, which made Miami laugh, which made Alice laugh, and they were really sisters.

  Alice knew the breakfast would be over soon, and some nun would come out and find her. She thought fast and suggested they write a letter to the newspapers instead. “Let’s not shame anybody,” said Alice. “Let’s just explain what happened and we can thank the Shaws and the nuns for taking care of us.”

  “What good’s that going to do?” said Miami.

  “It won’t be a secret anymore,” said Alice. “Nobody can go back to pretending we aren’t sisters. No matter what happens.”

  Miami grunted and tried to persuade Alice about the press conference again, but Alice balked. She could be stubborn. Miami finally caved in. She would write the letter and sign both their names to it, and send it to the Times Union and the Troy Record and maybe the Evangelist. Alice said “Okay, bye,” and hung up fast. Sister Ike gave her a dirty look as she barreled along, but didn’t utter a word.

  The letter appeared in the paper the following Saturday. Alice found it with pride and dread, read it, and ripped out the whole page before anyone else could see it. She folded the letters column to the size and thickness of a stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum and carried it around in her shoe. Only in the lavatory did she let herself open it and read it again.

  Dear Mr. Editor,

  We are two girls named Miami Shaw and Alice Klossos, aged 12, exactly the same age. We both went to camp this summer and found out we were twins and we never knew it. We look alike except I have pierced ears and Alice has longer hair. I am adopted and Alice isn’t, she lives in Troy with some nuns. We are happy to the nuns and the Shaws for taking care of us but we don’t ever want to be separated. This is a matter of some interest to the people of Albany I do think.

  MIAMI SHAW and ALICE KLOSSOS.

  PS: I like Beetle Bailey but why do you waste space on Steve Canyon, he isn’t funny and nobody reads it.

  Alice thought Miami was a very good writer. She didn’t even mind so much that her name was spelled wrong; maybe then nobody at the convent would ever hear about it.

  The newspaper was set on the side of Sister John Bosco’s desk, atop two weeks’ worth of newspapers. When the phone rang and the caller identified himself as a reporter referring to an item in the letters column, Sister John Bosco flipped the paper open. (Alice didn’t know the principal received her own private subscription.) Under a heading “PARENT TRAP” COMES TRUE? OR LITTLE WHITE LIES? she found the letter. “I am astounded,” said Sister John Bosco, who rarely was.

  “Is it true?” said the reporter. “Or is there another orphanage run by nuns in Troy? The chancery wouldn’t release that information.”

  “No comment,” said Sister John Bosco smartly, and hung up.

  So the trouble Alice and Miami had concocted got thicker and stickier. The following day the newspaper showed a photo of Miami Shaw on her front steps, and underneath ran a caption: “Letter Writer Claims She’s Discovered an Unknown Twin; Diocese Refuses to Comment.” A short article nearby hinted delicately at the powers of twelve-year-old girls to invent fabulous tales. Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Shaw would only say, “Miami is our true and legally adopted daughter and that’s all there is to say about it.” Sister John Bosco’s curt, “No comment,” looked suspicious and incriminating in print.

  And a day later a guy jumped out from behind a phone booth when Alice and the others were walking two by two to get some new school shoes for the fall. He stuck a camera in Alice’s face and blinded her momentarily, and by the following morning the story had moved up to the front page. They reprinted the photo of Miami, and next to it showed Alice looking wide-eyed and bleached out. The caption read:

  SEPARATED AT BIRTH—SEPARATED STILL

  Alice rather expected a crackdown of security at the home, and she was right to expect it. Small metal digits, like stacks of nickels, were inserted in the telephones to prevent anyone without a key from dialing out. The daily newspaper no longer appeared in the wreck room. Sister Paul the Hermit began locking the door into the kitchen with a key, so that no one could get in or out unless she was there. There seemed to be a nun on the horizon from morning to night, wherever Alice was inclined to walk.

  For all that, there was no lecture, no accusation, no request for an apology, no penance. Sister John Bosco told Alice mini
mally what was going on. “Such shenanigans do no one any good,” she claimed, “least of all you. You aren’t to blame for anything, Alice, and you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “So when do I get to be trusted again,” said Alice.

  “What is not to be trusted, and this is significant,” said Sister John Bosco, “is how people might twist and use what you might say innocently to harm you. Even without your knowing it. They have no right. And I’m afraid your sister did a dangerous and stupid thing to write to the newspapers. However, it will all blow over soon. Some train wreck or drug raid will come up to distract everyone. It can’t be easy for you.”

  Sister John Bosco never asked Alice if she had sanctioned the letter, or even written it herself. Apparently the misspelled last name was enough to persuade the nun that Alice’s name was used without her knowledge or consent. Alice did not enlighten her.

  And the nuns did not censor the mail. “I don’t believe in opening other people’s correspondence,” said Sister John Bosco, handing Alice several letters each day. Since, however, Alice had no stamps and no way to get to any, there wasn’t much danger of an extended correspondence. Alice showed everything to the nun.

  The letters were mostly from older women, some of whom had lost children in the Vietnam War or in accidents. They filled their peach and lavender notepaper with Catholic pep talks. But one lady had grown up at Sacred Heart herself, and she told Alice it had been a living hell. “Poor soul,” murmured Sister John Bosco, reading over her shoulder. The nuns were Nazi commandants, wrote the woman. Get out while you can.

  “How sad to be so bitter.” Sister John Bosco sighed. “Before my time, alas, or I’d go and wring her wretched little neck.” Alice stared in horror, but Sister John Bosco was grinning a wry ribbon of a smile. It was a joke.

  Then one day there were two pieces of mail, either one of which had the power to jump start Alice’s life had it been in danger of running down.