Changing Habits

by Debbie Macomber

  For the remainder of the period, Angie reviewed the curriculum.

  Just before the bell rang ending the class period and the day, Corinne waved her arm again. “Is there going to be a lot of reading for this class?”

  “There will be some, but no more than your other classes.”

  Scowling, Corinne sank lower in her seat, as though the thought of cracking open a textbook would be asking too much of her.

  The bell rang and Angie walked over to Corinne’s desk as the classroom emptied quickly. “Could you stay a few minutes after class?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Corinne exchanged looks with another girl, Morgan Gentry, if Angie remembered correctly.

  “Am I in trouble, Sister?” The words tumbled out. “Because it’s only the first day, and I forgot the rule about gum. If I am, I hope you’ll give me a break. I don’t usually get a demerit until the second week.”

  Angie struggled to hold back a smile. “Do you deserve a demerit?” she asked.

  Corinne appeared to give that some thought. “Just for the gum, and that’s a minor offense, don’t you think?”

  “Your uniform skirt’s rolled up at the waist.”

  Corinne groaned. “Come on, Sister. I have to do that or this thing would drag on the ground.” She ran her hands down the hips of the plaid pleated skirt and then flipped back one roll of the waistband. “Better?”

  “Much,” Angie said.

  The girl grinned, her dark eyes sparkling. “Anything else?”

  Angie hesitated to mention the eye makeup.

  “Most of the nuns object to my blue eyeshadow,” the girl cheerfully informed her. “You can complain too, if you want.”

  “You think I should?”

  “Nah.” Corinne shrugged. “Why be like everyone else?”

  Exactly. “You can wear as much eyeshadow as you want in my class.”

  “Really?” Corinne smiled sheepishly. “I think you’re going to be a lot of fun to have as a teacher.”

  Angie smiled despite her effort not to. She could see that Corinne wasn’t a belligerent girl, just inquisitive and social.

  “Can I go now?” Corinne asked.

  “Yes, but Corinne…”

  “Yes?”

  “No more passing notes to Morgan or I’ll have to confiscate and read them.”

  Corinne’s heavy sigh could be heard as she walked out the door. “Yes, Sister.”

  Angie’s amusement lasted as she walked home to the convent later that afternoon. She was going to enjoy Minneapolis. The community here was strong and the school staff seemed supportive and dedicated.

  To her delight, Angie discovered a letter from her father tucked inside her mail cubicle. She hesitated before opening it. Tony Marcello had never fully accepted her decision to be a nun. Even now, twelve years after she’d professed her vows, he refused to call her anything other than simply Angelina. Not Sister Frances. Not Sister Angelina.

  The day she’d entered the convent, he’d stopped attending Mass. It was his private rebellion against the Catholic Church for stealing away his only child. Angie had been praying for years that her father would return to the Church; the thought that he might die without last rites sent a chill through her blood.

  Still, a letter from her father was a rare treat and she greedily read the handwritten pages. She hadn’t visited him more than four or five times over the last fifteen years. He hated seeing her in a habit; that was obvious whenever she stayed with him. Many of the other orders had modified theirs to a more modern skirt and blouse with only a short black veil to signify their religious status. St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption were currently—and reluctantly—considering such a change. It was coming, and soon. Angie wondered if her father would be more comfortable with her if she wore a less restrictive style; somehow, she doubted it.

  “News from home?” Sister Kathleen asked, checking her own cubicle for mail.

  “Yes,” she said, flipping from one page to the next. “It’s from my father.” Angie smiled and closed her eyes. She could almost smell the marinara sauce. Her grin widened when she noticed that the last sheet of his letter was a handwritten recipe, a new one he was planning to serve at Angelina’s. An unexpected wave of homesickness practically knocked her off her feet.

  Worst of all was the knowledge that she’d found God, but as a result her father had lost his faith.

  8

  SISTER JOANNA

  Joanna loved Minneapolis and the entire state of Minnesota. The first time she heard someone say, “Sure, ya betcha,” she laughed outright. Overall, the people were hardworking and dedicated. The Catholics were a tight-knit group. Plenty of good, solid Swedes and Germans had immigrated to the area, and their descendants retained a deep faith and strong family values.

  Joanna’s assignment as a floor nurse at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital was demanding, but rewarding, too. She worked on the surgery floor and cared for patients once they were released from the Recovery Room. Apart from her initial training in Providence, her entire nursing career had been spent at St. Elizabeth’s, first as a senior nursing student and then as a registered nurse.

  “Sister?” an elderly woman whispered from her bed as Joanna entered the room. She was a recent arrival and gazed up at Joanna. “I thought for a moment you might be an angel.”

  Joanna smiled and lifted the woman’s fragile wrist to take her pulse. Patients sometimes confused the nursing sisters with angelic beings. She supposed it was because of the white habits they wore at the hospital. Older patients often needed their glasses and were disoriented following surgery. More than once she’d been asked if this was heaven.

  “You’re doing just fine, Mrs. Stewart,” Joanna assured the woman.

  “I am?” Mrs. Stewart didn’t sound as if she believed her.

  “Are you in any pain?” Joanna asked.

  “Some. If you must know, it feels like someone took a hatchet to my stomach.”

  “Are you complaining about my sewing technique?” Dr. Murray asked as he entered the room. He stood on the opposite side of the bed, across from Joanna, and gently lifted the blankets. “This is some of my finest stitching, if I do say so myself.”

  Mrs. Stewart snorted. “I feel like someone ran over me driving a two-ton truck.” Her eyes were still dull from the anesthesia.

  “It sometimes feels like that. I told you before we went into this that having your gall bladder removed is major surgery.”

  “So you did, Doc, so you did.” Mrs. Stewart’s eyes fluttered closed as she drifted back into a drug-induced sleep.

  Dr. Murray replaced the blankets and then reached for the chart at the foot of the bed to read Joanna’s latest entry. He glanced up and caught her eye. “Could I have a moment of your time, Sister?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She followed him out of the room. She hadn’t known Dr. Murray long, but she liked him better every time she saw him. Certainly better than Dr. Nelson, with whom she’d clashed earlier in the week. Dr. Murray had recently finished a stint in the Army, she’d heard via the hospital grapevine. Word was, he’d served in Vietnam, although he’d never mentioned it himself. His dealings with her had always been strictly professional; however, Joanna knew that several of the younger nurses were vying for his attention. It must have flattered his ego, but, as far as she knew, Dr. Murray had done nothing to encourage them one way or the other.

  He stopped at the nurses’ station. Mrs. Larson, the dayshift lead nurse, glanced up from the large wraparound desk as Joanna and Dr. Murray approached.

  “Mrs. Larson,” he said, leaning against the counter, looking relaxed and at ease. He grinned boyishly. “Would it be possible to assign Sister Joanna to care for my surgery patients? She’s got half of them convinced she’s an angel and it doesn’t do any harm to let them think they’ve reached the pearly gates. Keeps down the complaints.”

  Joanna was amused by his remarks—and surprised by his request. She knew half a dozen nurses who would envy her the
position.

  The shift lead looked equally amused. “I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” the surgeon said. “Do you have any objections, Sister?”

  “None,” she murmured.

  “Good.” With that, the conversation was over and he turned to leave.

  Mrs. Larson’s gaze followed Dr. Murray down the polished corridor. “Now, that’s one mighty talented surgeon.”

  Joanna nodded; she certainly couldn’t disagree.

  “He’s a master of tact, too,” the other nurse added with more than a hint of admiration.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Dr. Murray’s young and single. Frankly, he’s not hard on the eyes, either.”

  Of course, Joanna had noticed that Dr. Tim Murray was tall and dark-haired and that he possessed classic features with enough ruggedness to give his face unmistakable masculinity and character. But she’d noticed all this objectively, without personal interest. Dr. Murray’s social life, or lack of it, wasn’t any concern of hers. They had a professional relationship; he was a physician and she was a nun. He apparently approved of her nursing skills and that pleased Joanna. And it hadn’t hurt her ego any that he’d asked for her to attend to his patients. Although ego should be sublimated, she reminded herself. It remained one of her greatest challenges.

  “But why do you say he’s a master of tact?” Joanna asked curiously. What did his looks have to do with it?

  “He asked to work with you, didn’t he?” Mrs. Larson said. “By having you assigned to his patients, he isn’t offending any of the nurses who’ve requested the privilege.”

  “Oh.” So much for the boost to her ego. Dr. Murray was using her as a shield against unwanted female attention. In requesting Joanna, he hadn’t been acknowledging her skills, but protecting his own interests.

  “It’s more than the fact that you’re a nun,” the lead nurse added thoughtfully, almost as if she’d read Joanna’s mind. “I’m sure he genuinely admires your work. He asked me earlier who’d been assigned to the care of Mrs. Masterson and Mr. Stierwalt. When I said it was you, he commented on what a good job you’d done.”

  Joanna instantly felt better. She didn’t recall those two people, but surgery patients usually stayed on her ward only three or four days. With so many, it was easy to lose track of their names.

  “Is it true that Dr. Murray was recently discharged from the Army?” Joanna asked.

  Mrs. Larson nodded. “I hear he’s been through quite a bit. He doesn’t talk about it, but there’ve been rumors.” Then, as if she realized she’d overstepped her bounds, the other nurse shook her head. “Such carnage…so many lives lost.”

  Joanna tried not to think about the war, even though the headlines had screamed of little else for nearly seven years. She could only imagine the butchery Dr. Murray had seen in his years of duty. His skills were exceptional, and she suspected that was the result of working on the mangled bodies of America’s young men.

  Following her shift, Joanna returned to the convent. After dinner the nuns partook in a half-hour period of recreation. Then later, before bedtime, there were the nightly prayers.

  That evening several of the nuns watched the Summer Olympics taking place in Munich, West Germany. While the convent had a television set, it was hardly ever turned on. Evenings were usually spent in meditation, prayer and quiet pursuits. There wasn’t much interest in what television had to offer, but the Summer Games were an exception. Why, only the day before, an American swimmer by the name of Mark Spitz had won an incredible seven gold medals.

  Joanna recalled carefree days as a teenager spent at the local swimming pool. Greg was part of those memories, but she could think of him without bitterness now.

  As she said her Rosary that evening, Joanna’s mind drifted from the Hail Marys to Dr. Murray. It was vain of her to be this pleased—an impulse she should try to curb—but she couldn’t help it.

  Joanna closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate on the words of the prayer. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…

  She paused and bowed her head at the name of Jesus.

  Briefly she found herself wondering if Tim Murray had returned from Vietnam with wounds of his own. Outwardly it didn’t seem so, but men often concealed their emotions. She had the feeling that there was more to Dr. Murray than met the eye.

  9

  SISTER KATHLEEN

  Kathleen was one sister who’d have no objection when St. Bridget’s order finally got around to making changes to the habits. Every day it became more of a trial to hide her thick auburn hair beneath her veil. Her hair was long again, almost the same length as when she’d entered the convent.

  The habit was due to be altered soon. In a few months—perhaps as little as a few weeks—the modified habit would allow the professed nuns to stop dressing like nineteenth-century Irish widows.

  With the last of her afternoon bookkeeping classes at the high school dismissed, Kathleen was technically finished for the day. She sat at her desk and graded her students’ papers, becoming absorbed in her task. Amazing how easily these kids could forget basic concepts like—

  “Sister Kathleen.”

  At the sound of her name, Kathleen jerked her head up.

  Father Sanders, the parish priest, came into her classroom, looking a bit disgruntled. The pastor was medium height and middle-aged, with thinning hair and a bit of a paunch. A jovial sort, he was known to liven up his sermons with a joke or two, just to keep the congregation alert and in good spirits. He reminded Kathleen of Father O’Hara, who’d been a friend of the family while she was growing up.

  For years Father Sanders had been the only full-time priest serving St. Peter’s, but the demands on his time were too much for one man. Only recently had a second full-time priest been added to assist him. Father Brian Doyle, barely two years out of the seminary, was young and idealistic and had a genuine heart for God. Kathleen viewed him as the perfect priest. Never had she met any man more comfortable in a collar. His sermons touched her, although delivered in the self-conscious, faltering manner of an inexperienced speaker. Still, it was obvious that he’d spent hours working on each one. Father Sanders’s chatty style was more popular, but in her opinion there was far less substance to his words. Few parishioners, however, appeared to notice.

  “What can I do for you, Father?” Kathleen asked.

  The older priest crammed himself into one of the student desks with their attached chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him. He leaned back, wearing one of the most forlorn looks she’d ever seen. “Bookkeeping is a job fitting for the saints,” he mumbled.

  Like her father, she’d always had an affinity for practical mathematics. Over the last few summers she’d taken college-level courses in business math and as a result was now teaching ninth- and tenth-grade bookkeeping. It was a challenge she welcomed, although her actual experience was limited.

  Kathleen grinned. “You think so, Father?”

  His brows rose toward his receding hairline. “I know so.” He straightened, sitting upright in his cramped seat. “Sister Kathleen, I’m here to throw myself upon your mercy.”

  It was hard not to laugh when Father Sanders had such a flair for drama. “I desperately need your help,” he said, widening his dark eyes.

  Kathleen held her red pencil between her open palms. “What can I do for you, Father?” she asked again.

  The priest’s shoulders fell. “Mrs. Stafford, who’s been doing the books for the parish for the last twenty-five years, is on an extended vacation. She suggested a couple of replacements to keep the books during her absence, but fool that I am, I didn’t think getting someone in for such a short time was necessary. I figured I could assume the task myself.” He glanced pleadingly in Kathleen’s direction. “Just how difficult can it be to enter the weekly collection amounts and write a
check whenever necessary?” he asked.

  “Not difficult at all, if you know what you’re doing,” Kathleen assured him with a grin.

  “My point exactly.” With a hopelessly lost expression, he turned up his palms. “Frankly, Sister, I don’t know what I’m doing. There, I’ve admitted it.” He continued to stare at Kathleen as though he expected her to comment.

  Kathleen wasn’t sure what he was asking, although she was beginning to suspect. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Could you…would it be possible for you to lend me a hand for the next few weeks?” He gave a helpless shrug. “Just until Mrs. Stafford returns. She’s only been gone two weeks, and will be back—” he hesitated “—about a month from now. Could you do that, Sister?”

  His request presented something of a problem. While she was willing to assist where she could, nuns and priests generally didn’t work together. The priests had little or no say over the nuns’ duties and assignments. “I’d be happy to help, but I’ll need to check with Sister Superior.” Sister Eloise would need to approve before Kathleen could take on any assignment other than her teaching duties, which had to be her first priority.

  “Leave Sister Eloise to me,” the priest said, brightening considerably as he slid out of the desk. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  He was gone so fast, it almost seemed that he was afraid she might change her mind.

  That very night, after the evening meal, Sister Eloise asked to speak to Kathleen.

  “I understand Father Sanders visited your classroom this afternoon.”

  “He did,” Kathleen admitted.

  “Father says he needs help keeping the church books until Mrs. Stafford is back from her vacation. Apparently he’s already spoken to you?” Her frown suggested disapproval. “Is this a task you feel comfortable undertaking?”

  “I think it would be good for me,” she said honestly. Her own experience was limited to occasionally counting out cash from the till at her uncle’s pub. All other bookkeeping knowledge had come from a textbook.