When You Never Said Goodbye

by Meg Kearney

  Liz, I’ll just say it: your mother is a nun.”

  No Joke: One Might Say She’s “Taken”

  Like when I learned that Dad was dead,

  I thought it was a joke. What’s the punch

  line that follows, “Your mother is a nun”?

  Unfortunately, there isn’t one. After all

  my day dreams, even Rhett’s jokes,

  I never for a minute thought—well,

  it doesn’t matter now what I thought.

  This isn’t my fantasy; this isn’t a hoax.

  Out of all the stories under the sun, this

  is one I didn’t think happened any more—

  this felt like some black and white movie

  or that old novel Mom loves, Mariette

  in Ecstasy. But three years after I was

  born, my first mother entered the Sisters

  of the Joyful Resurrection. First she was

  a novice, then took her final vows. Karen

  said she did some “fancy dancing,” but

  she’s convinced them—the nun in charge—

  to let my mother write me one letter.

  That’s all. As Mother Superior reportedly

  put it, “She is married to Jesus now.”

  Refusing the Urge to Go Numb

  I.

  Suddenly I feel cold

  again, this time, cold

  to my core: a chill

  that begins with my

  innermost cell, that

  cell a seed sprouting

  with ill omens,

  promising nothing

  but numbness. I sense

  a trembling, deep

  and wordless.

  II.

  But—wait. Say No

  to that, NO.

  Look beside you.

  Here is your sister,

  Kate. Would you

  have had your fate

  turn any other way?

  Your birth mother

  gave you a gift.

  Gifts—who reside

  in your heart. This

  heart, now growing

  luminous,

  warm to the touch.

  Journal Entry #2222

  Kate googles “Sisters of the Joyful Resurrection.” Their website knocks us out. It’s so . . . professional, easy to navigate, packed with facts about this religious order, a site geared toward both “lay people” like us and women who think they might be interested in joining. And many do. Ninety-two sisters reside at the convent in Oregon. Their average age: THIRTY. Young nuns in the 21st century!

  “Who knew?” Kate says, shaking her head. Most of them enter the convent when they’re 25 or 26, and the majority have college degrees.

  “Do you think God really ‘calls’ you?” I ask Kate. “I mean, not on the phone! But, does He whisper in you ear? Kick you under the table? Nudge your elbow?”

  Kate’s still glued to her laptop screen. “They’re a ‘semi-cloistered’ order.”

  Setting down my cold mug of decaf, I realize my hand is shaking. “What’s that mean?”

  Kate googles the term. Reads: “‘The semi-cloistered community separates themselves partially from the world, in that their members do not go out into the world to work, but bring those in need into their houses. They will have schools or orphanages, etc. but inside their communities. Whatever apostolate they have takes place inside their community with the people coming to them and leaving.’”

  My head’s thrumming, as if I’ve had too many shots of Pineapple Bombers. We study every photo on the convent’s website, trying to pick out my birth mother’s face despite the brown and white habits that hide their hair and pretty much everything else. The only nuns I “know” are the ones I’ve seen in church all my life. They sit together, four or five of them, in the front pew. They’re old (older than Mom) and don’t wear habits—I guess nuns don’t have to anymore if they don’t want to—but their long, navy wool skirts and starched white blouses are kind of like uniforms. And of course they all wear crosses around their necks. Wooden ones, smaller than the crosses the altar servers wear. They teach in New Hook’s Catholic School, but what else do they do? Pray the rest of the day? I’ve never thought about it. Here on this website we see nuns walking side by side on woodsy paths; nuns gardening; nuns standing before smart boards, teaching a classroom full of children; nuns playing basketball. What stuns us most is how they’re not only all so young, they’re also all smiling. Real, honest-to-goodness smiles. Maybe life is less complicated when you don’t have a boyfriend. Or a husband.

  “I think she’s happy,” I say. I lean on Kate. She rubs my back as I finally give in to this wave that’s pulling me under, roaring in my ear—Semi-cloistered. You will never meet her.

  Kate Texts Bob, Who Sets Up a

  Family Conference Call

  How to weigh the silence wafting from Kate’s phone?

  With patience, I hear Dad say, because they are

  as shocked as you. “Thank God you weren’t alone

  when you got this news,” says Mom. “No wonder,”

  says Bob, “Your favorite movie was The Sound

  of Music.” “You promised no jokes,” Kate says under

  her breath. “Bob,” scolds Mom, “really? Sometimes!”

  “It’s okay. I do love that movie,” I say. “But my favorite

  is It’s a Wonderful Life, and I don’t have to see mine

  erased to appreciate what I’ve got.” “Yeah, well, see,”

  says Bob, “she hasn’t lost her sense of humor.”

  “And now, admit it,” I add, “you’re all relieved.”

  Journal Entry #2223

  So much for believing in my bones that my birth mother was here, in the city. Karen, now the intermediary between the Prioress General (also known as “Mother Superior”) and me, says I’ll have my letter soon.

  “Don’t expect a lot,” Karen warns when she calls again. “It will be short. And you can’t respond. In a semi-cloistered order like your mo—your birth mother’s—a person’s whole focus is supposed to be—well, on God. And her community, her fellow sisters, and their work. They run some kind of school in a pretty poor area. Anyway she’s taken these vows, and one of them is obedience . . . I guess that means she has to do what the boss, the Prioress, thinks is best, without questioning it.”

  Kate puts her arm around me. I’m out of words.

  “Liz,” Karen says, sensing it’s a good time to change the subject, “I don’t imagine you’ve looked at the names and addresses I emailed to you? I know you have a lot to absorb!”

  (You can say that again.) “No.”

  “Okay, then—you must know that your grandmother died a few years ago. I’m sorry.” (Any other sucky news, Karen?) “And for some reason, they’re not telling your grandfather that you’ve made contact. I think they want to keep this quiet, let it go—well, dormant again. But you’ll see, when you are ready to look at the information I sent you, that you have two aunts and an uncle, and they have children—meaning you have first cousins . . . you can look them up. When you’re ready for that. No one can stop you.”

  Kate looks at me like, “Will you?” I just shrug. Maybe. In time.

  _______

  Now I feel dumb for thinking my birth mother was some famous writer—that she’d sacrificed me for her muse. I guess she sacrificed me for God instead. Who can argue with that?

  Jan can, that’s who. She cursed like a pirate when I filled her in. “But Lizzie gets a letter—that’s more than I ever got,” said Jade. That shut up Jan. But when they offered to come down, I hesitated—then said no. I blamed Writers in NY, though that’s not starting for two days. I guess I really just can’t handle Jan’s anger right now. She’s maybe madder than I am at that Mother Superior. At the whole situation.

  One website Kate found, from the Daughters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, helped to explain a lot. It says that a woman enters a convent because her love of Jesus
is so deep, she can’t do anything else. It’s the kind of love that makes you sacrifice everything—your nice clothes, your make-up . . . all of your “stuff,” plus your parents and brothers and sisters and friends. They don’t say, “and your child,” but I guess that would fall under “everything.”

  _______

  Rhett and Henri are kicking themselves for not applying to Writers in NY—the summer program would have meant four more weeks together. “We hate to leave you now!” says Rhett as she folds her black and white dress.

  “Just when maybe you need us most,” adds Henri, helping box up Rhett’s books, which I promised to ship to her parents’ house in Greensboro. That’s how she sent most of her stuff home. Henri’s already packed, and mailed her boxes home to Boston last week.

  I know they mean it about wanting to stay, but suspect maybe more they regret leaving Calvin and Edmund—and Sam, too. I assure them that I’ll be fine, and remind them we’ll be talking on Facebook and Skype or on the phone.

  Plus I have Kate. Tim will be here in five days. And next week, Cathy, too. I’m hoping Ruth will be back before then—she’s down in Florida for her father’s birthday.

  Still, I couldn’t help but cry when Rhett and Henri left. Their hugs felt like some kind of sentence: You will always wind up alone.

  Grounded: Twenty Minutes After

  Rhett & Henri Head Home

  (Inspired by a few more feathers flown out of my old pillow)

  I feel like the lone goose left in the north

  after my flock has flown south for winter—

  except it’s nearly summer and clearly

  my friends have scattered in every direction.

  Before he left, Sam stopped by one more

  time to say goodbye. It seemed that he had

  more to say than that, but he let those words

  lie. He did tell me he’d spotted someone

  who looked like Ruth on St. Mark’s Place—

  still, it’s not until I spy her face in the park

  that I’ll believe such good news. She did

  text from Florida to check on me—she says

  she’s writing songs again, says I’m her

  inspiration; I’ve become her muse.

  One Hour Later: Unmoored

  Goose, geese—who am I kidding?

  Stop. No use calling this what it’s

  not. I’m a dinghy adrift in the sea

  of my birth mother’s refusal. About

  to be wrecked in the tsunami

  of her rejection. Upon reflection,

  that’s what it is, right? For once

  in her life, couldn’t she take a chance,

  disobey, break the rules—for me?

  Mom and Kate say No, that’s how

  it is when a nun takes a vow. So

  now I say, Screw it. Screw her,

  with a punch to my pillow. Like

  a puff of steam, a few feathers

  spew into the air. WHAM—I slam

  that pillow against the wall—

  WHAM that pillow calls me FOOL

  for all my silly daydreams JERK

  for all the years and years of waiting

  WHAM my stupid hopes WHAM

  (feathers everywhere) WOMP

  I hope I look like him and not her

  WHAM how dare she make me

  think she cared WOMP I’ll burn

  that letter just like Jan WHACK!

  FORGET HER! WHAM!

  Coughing, I hack up feathers, sink

  to my knees. “This isn’t how it’s

  supposed to be—” My voice

  a whisper now. “Please, mother—

  all I ever wanted—please

  don’t say no. Don’t go away

  again. Not again.” I cough into

  the pillow, grip it with both hands

  as if it’s a life preserver. “Shit!

  I don’t understand! . . . Or I do.

  All my bad dreams were true.”

  . . . Did someone say something?

  What—what’s that? A hand on my

  arm, a voice saying gently, “Liz.”

  I swing around to see Rhett’s look

  of alarm. Rhett’s back? Rhett,

  with one arm around me, the other

  swatting at the cloud that hovers

  in the air. Her eyes are red, cheeks

  look hot. I let the pillow drop.

  A loud moan escapes me. Rhett

  pulls a feather from my hair.

  Now I see someone else is here,

  standing behind Rhett. She wears

  a teary, frightened smile. Henri.

  Rhett & Henri to the Rescue

  They’d shared a cab, got as far

  as LaGuardia. Split the fare.

  Then stood there on the side-

  walk. Stared at each other for a full

  ten seconds. Then ran

  as fast as their roller-bags would

  let them to the end of the taxi

  line. Only twelve or thirteen

  people were ahead of them—

  they’d be back to Goddard by

  four. As they waited, Henri

  whipped out her cell, called

  the woman at NYU—Ms.

  Flynn—they knew Ms. Flynn

  would understand, let them

  stay another week—and she

  did. Their parents, too.

  Twenty minutes later they

  crossed the Williamsburg

  Bridge. Slapped a high-five

  as they zipped into Manhattan.

  I didn’t ask why they came

  back. It’s what friends do.

  It’s what true friends do.

  We Three (Henri, Rhett, & Me)

  We’re the Three Musketeers,

  Three Little Bears,

  Three Stooges, too

  We are a tripod,

  a triad, we are

  red, white, and blue

  We’re a three-piece suit,

  we’re three of a kind,

  we are in 3-D

  We’re the Niña,

  the Pinta,

  and the Santa María

  We’re the Brontë sisters,

  the three feet in a yard,

  and three sheets to the wind

  (when we’ve had more

  than

  enough)

  We’re a tricycle,

  a triangle,

  the Billy Goats Gruff

  We’re three French Hens,

  a three-ring circus,

  we’re a theater, popcorn, and a movie starring us

  My Mind, That Hive, Buzzes with Memories . . . Wonders: What Next?

  I remember picnics with Peter at James Bard State Park,

  dances in a gym, candles’ flames, a silver charm on its chain,

  our family portrait, home games, girls crossing their hearts in the dark.

  I remember carriage rides, high fives, Kate’s chowder;

  Bob, that furry bear; new school shoes, poems as a cure for the blues,

  adoption taboos, and Dad placing a log on the fire.

  I remember phone call stories, Canada geese, the Broken Place;

  Kate stirring chili, Mom stirring paint, tongues dyed blue on Parents’ Night;

  a poem of longing, a window closing, believing we’re mistakes.

  I remember Jan fixing cars (her father, too), Cathy twirling her braids;

  matters of loyalty, a hurt little bird, Peter’s imaginary key;

  faces on the street, whispered words, the playground in third grade.

  I remember spiked lemonade, feeling betrayed, dancing the Dip-Doo;

  Tim’s arms around me, Kate saying I’m pretty, Reunion Fantasy #1003,

  train rides to the city, Sharon and Jackie, Jan’s rainbow of hair-dos.

  I remember adoption registries; that Broken Place again, a marble bench,

  a friendship’s end, singing “Amazing Grace” as they bu
ried my father;

  “Hello, Cards ’n Gifts!,” Mom standing stiff, learning I’m Scottish and

  French.

  I remember postcards from Mexico, a teacher’s note, the knowledge of

  crows;

  Gertie’s Diner (no omelets are finer!), a mess of a girl in a mirror;

  German potato salad, me flipping my lid, my metal stool at Mack’s Auto.

  I remember a hobo’s crouch, Mom curled on the couch, unable to paint;

  my charm gone missing, saying “No” too late, a night in Dad’s car,

  bonfires and hangovers, a fridge full of leftovers, George stealing cake.

  I remember crazy suitemates; a packed car, Butter in the back seat;

  the Pigeon-Man shuffle, Mom’s feathers ruffled, country-girl handshakes;

  The Rock before four o’clock, Kin Solvers (Rhett’s reminder to breathe).

  I remember Dad’s empty chair, dogs at the shelter, Ruth tuning her guitar;

  Henri with those cookies, Sam sketching me, Louise and tea and poetry;

  dumplings at Klong, a walk with Kate in East River Park.

  I remember baby powder, Rhett singing in the shower, Calvin brewing

  coffee;

  Scrabble and wine, Karen’s kind voice, the open mic, birthday cards on

  fire;

  Sophie’s gray eyes, “How to Change a Tire,” striking out at the library.

  I remember Ruth in her black hat, all-night chats, “Smith,” and Tim pulling

  back,

  popcorn, snowshoes, Jan and Jade’s calls, Sam’s soggy wallet,

  Rhett quoting Eliot, Bob’s wise cracks, that live letter in my backpack.

  . . . now another letter is on its way. At last, my first mother will have her say.

  Fine

  (Day before the Writers in New York Program begins)

  Tomorrow my Writers in New York class will walk

  the Brooklyn Bridge, read Whitman and Hart Crane

  while the East River flows below. Rhett and Henri