Changing Habits

by Debbie Macomber

  Dr. Murray caught up with her ten minutes later, when she entered the room of one of his patients. Mr. Rolfson had undergone extensive cancer surgery. No one needed to explain to Joanna that his time on earth was limited. He was receiving massive doses of medication and was in a lot of pain. He was asleep when she walked in.

  Dr. Murray glanced up. “Let him sleep,” he instructed.

  She nodded and was about to turn away when he stopped her. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you earlier.”

  “You didn’t,” she said wryly. “Lois and Julie already took care of that.”

  “You look very nice.” His gaze held hers a moment longer than necessary.

  Joanna immediately dropped her eyes. The silence that followed was rife with a tension she didn’t understand, but she resisted looking up. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked, sounding irritated with her.

  “Do what?”

  “Refuse to look at me.”

  “It isn’t anything personal,” she said quickly. “Actually it’s part of our religious training.”

  “Why?”

  With the woman’s movement in full swing, the concept of “custody of the eyes” must sound hopelessly outdated. Nonetheless, she explained as simply as she could.

  He listened and then in a lower voice said, “I don’t like it.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “It isn’t you,” he added.

  She couldn’t keep from smiling. “Unfortunately, Fionnuala Wheaton didn’t clear the practice with you when she founded St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption.”

  “You aren’t the meek and mild kind of woman.”

  “You don’t know me,” she countered, impatient with him now. She wasn’t sure why they were both angry, but it was difficult not to raise her voice. Dr. Murray apparently had no such qualms.

  Joanna looked over at the sleeping patient. He seemed oblivious to their conversation, but it distressed her that their words might be invading his rest. “I don’t think this is the place for a…a personal discussion.”

  “You’re right. We’ll continue in the hall.” He reattached the clipboard to the foot of Mr. Rolfson’s bed and moved out of the room, then waited for Joanna to follow.

  With dread, she joined him. “This conversation is unnecessary.”

  “I disagree.” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re a fraud, Sister.”

  “I beg your pardon?” How dared he say such a thing to her! She glared up at him, unable to hide her outrage.

  Delighted, he laughed and clapped his hands. “There,” he said, nodding with satisfaction. “What about this ‘custody of the eyes’ business now?”

  “I am allowed feelings.” For the most part, however, displays of emotion must be controlled. Dr. Murray seemed to enjoy exposing her failings and weaknesses.

  “I am not a fraud,” she said, struggling to hide the hurt his words had inflicted.

  “Do you know why I asked that you be assigned to my patients?” he asked abruptly.

  She did know. “I was a compromise so you could avoid encouraging any of the single nurses.”

  “Wrong. I asked for you because I saw you argue with Dr. Nelson. You stood up to that pompous jackass and wouldn’t let him discharge a patient. You were right. The woman wasn’t anywhere close to ready for discharge. You were fearless and unwavering, and eventually he backed down. All it took was someone with enough courage to confront a man who ranks himself right up there with God Almighty.”

  Joanna recalled her impassioned plea for Mrs. Brock in vivid detail. Dr. Nelson was indeed a jackass, but unfortunately he had no idea how others viewed him. She’d risked his anger that day, but considered it a risk worth taking. Perhaps it was her religious status that had made him listen and eventually concede. Whatever the reason, Joanna was grateful on behalf of the older woman.

  “And where was ‘custody of the eyes’ that day?” Dr. Murray asked.

  “I…” Joanna bit down on her lower lip, afraid of what he might read in her if she allowed him to meet her eyes.

  “My point exactly,” he added, his voice softer now. “I knew then that you were the one who should be caring for my patients. Someone who’s both fearless and gentle. It didn’t have anything to do with diplomacy toward the other nurses. I simply wanted you on my team.”

  “And I want you on mine,” she murmured.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Dr. Murray, it’s time you started attending Mass again.” As a lapsed Catholic, he’d turned his back on God and Joanna couldn’t remain silent any longer.

  His short, derisive laugh didn’t really surprise her. “Are you trying to save me, Sister?”

  “I’m looking out for the care of your eternal soul.” She was serious and she hoped he saw her determination.

  Dr. Murray shook his head. “Like I told you, I gave up on the Church a long time ago. I appreciate your concern, but this ploy of yours isn’t going to work.”

  “What ploy?”

  A slow and far-too-sexy smile slid into place. “I know what you’re doing.”

  It was her turn to ask, “What do you mean? I’m doing exactly what I told you.”

  “You’re diverting attention away from yourself by focusing on me and my relationship with the Church. It isn’t going to work. We were discussing you.”

  Joanna was bored with that subject. She had her own rounds to perform and a long list of tasks that would consume the next eight hours. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted from what was important—her work.

  “I can’t,” she insisted. “I have duties, the same as you do.”

  He raised his hands as though in surrender. “All right, all right. Go, but we aren’t finished.”

  She retreated two steps, walking backward. “Yes, Doctor, we are. And don’t think I’ve given up on getting you back to church. I’ll be praying for you.”

  He chuckled and rolled his eyes. “You go right ahead. Oh, and Sister—” that sexy grin was back “—I like the changes in your habit.”

  Joanna self-consciously glanced down at her shorter skirt and absently smoothed her hand along her side.

  “It’s long overdue.”

  She nodded, agreeing with him, but the order hadn’t asked her opinion and she hadn’t been foolish enough to offer it.

  “What a sin,” Dr. Murray muttered.

  “A sin?”

  “Keeping those legs of yours hidden all these years.” Then he whirled around without another word and walked resolutely away.

  Despite her best efforts, Joanna experienced a warm glow from his compliment. Just as she was getting ready to leave for the day, Gina Novak approached the nurses’ station. Gina was young and pretty and possessed a quick wit and easy laugh. Joanna liked her.

  “Good afternoon, Sister,” Gina said, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to Joanna. She gave her the once-over just as everyone else had that day. “So, how do you like the new habit?”

  “Oh, I’m getting used to it,” Joanna said, hoping to bring the conversation to a quick close.

  Gina seemed to accept her remark. She nodded, then asked, “Did you hear about my date last night?”

  Joanna finished making a notation. “No. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Dr. Murray.” She sighed as she said it.

  “Our Dr. Murray?” Joanna’s stomach twisted and a chill raced down her arms.

  “The one and only. I think he’s wonderful.” Gina gave a dreamy smile. “I’ve wanted to go out with him for ages and ages. I dropped subtle hints, but he didn’t seem to notice, and then out of the blue he asked me out.”

  “Apparently he got your message.” Joanna didn’t imagine it had been a subtle one, either, and immediately chastised herself for unkind thoughts.

  “I’d just about given up,” Gina continued.

  “I hope you had a good time.” God would forgive her for the lie.

  “We
did.”

  “Where did he take you?” Joanna hoped she didn’t sound inappropriately curious.

  Gina rolled her chair back from the desk. “To dinner and a movie. He’s very interesting, you know?”

  “Will you be seeing him again?” she asked.

  Gina shrugged. “I hope so. He hasn’t asked me yet, which is fine. Since we sometimes work together, it’d probably be best if we played down our relationship.”

  “I think that might be a good idea,” Joanna said, trying hard to sound unaffected by the news.

  “I will tell you this, Sister,” Gina said, lowering her voice. “He’s a great kisser.”

  The thought of Gina and Tim Murray kissing fixed itself in her mind. Dear heaven, she was jealous. She longed to be the one he was holding, the one he was kissing. This was all wrong, but that knowledge did little to settle her stomach and even less to settle her heart.

  18

  SISTER KATHLEEN

  On her way to the rectory the following week, Kathleen walked through the elementary school playground during the last recess of the day. Laughter and shouts filled the air as the first-through-sixth-graders scrambled about. The children, dressed in their school uniforms, took eager advantage of their fifteen minutes of freedom. There was a lively dodgeball game going on, some of the girls were jumping rope, while others played hopscotch on the pavement. It reminded her of her own early years at St. Boniface, the grade school where she’d first been introduced to teaching nuns.

  Just then a stray ball rolled in Kathleen’s direction. “Sister, Sister, throw me the ball.”

  “No, me! Sister, throw it to me!”

  Kathleen lifted the ball over her head and lobbed it toward the group. The children loved to see her join in, and she was much freer to do so in the shortened skirt. She suspected the kids purposely sent the ball in her direction for the pleasure of seeing her react. The ball landed halfway between the two boys, and both raced after it.

  “Not a bad shot for a nun,” Father Doyle commented as he walked down the hill from the church rectory. The wind ruffled his dark hair.

  The instant the children saw Father Doyle, they abandoned their game and dashed toward him. He laughed into the October sunshine and good-naturedly caught a ball one of the boys threw him. He feinted, pretending to throw it back, then spun around and tossed it at another boy behind him.

  Kathleen smiled, watching him. The children were thrilled by his attention and begged him to play for “just one more minute.”

  It’d been a week since their talk. A week since she’d learned the carefully hidden truth about Father Sanders. Both priests had been absent from the rectory when she’d arrived Monday afternoon; Kathleen had done what work she could and left feeling thwarted. She could only do so much when a number of serious questions remained unanswered. Handling the church’s accounts was difficult enough without this additional complication. She’d considered mentioning Father Sanders’s weakness to Sister Eloise but feared that might only make things worse. Sister had been against her working on the church books as it was. No—much better to leave the matter in the capable hands of Father Doyle.

  Suddenly in no rush to get to the rectory, Kathleen held one end of a jump rope and turned while the eight- and nine-year-old girls leaped in and chanted the same playground songs that had been part of her own childhood.

  On the mountain stands a lady

  Who she is I do not know

  Not last night, but the night before

  Twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door

  The rope slapped against the pavement as the girls jumped in and out. Kathleen recalled how she and her sister had loved to jump rope at this age. Now Maureen was a divorced mother of three and working two jobs to make ends meet. She rarely wrote and when Kathleen had visited Boston the previous summer it seemed that the sister who’d once been her closest friend was a stranger.

  All too soon the bell rang, and the children were gone. Kathleen found herself on the playground alone with Father Doyle. Seeing the hopscotch squares, she couldn’t resist and tossed her marker into the center, then hopped through the numbered squares.

  “Way to go, Sister,” the priest called out. “Not only are you a whiz with numbers, but you’re a master at childhood games.”

  Kathleen laughed. “I can see you’re easily impressed.”

  “Oh, not really. But I do think kids can show you how to enjoy the moment.”

  “I do, too.” Kathleen tucked her hands inside her sweater pockets. Speaking of moments, she should be at the rectory by now, but she dreaded another afternoon of trying to understand a situation she couldn’t explain.

  “Are you working today?” He nodded toward the rectory.

  “Yes.” Kathleen realized her reluctance must be obvious.

  “More problems?” His question was tentative, as though he was afraid of the answer or perhaps already knew it.

  The bank deposit was off again. Father Sanders had made the deposit and then forgotten to enter it in the ledger, or so he claimed. He’d left her a note apologizing and promising to do better.

  Kathleen had thought it would be a simple matter of phoning the bank and getting the information she needed. She’d done that and the bank had been completely accommodating. How she wished it had ended there, but once again the deposit was short.

  The head ushers had tallied the collection, taking the weekly donations from the envelopes. Part of her duty was to record donation and envelope numbers for income tax purposes. The ushers had given the weekly donations to Father Sanders to deposit—only the amount deposited was a hundred dollars short of what had been counted. This was the largest discrepancy yet, and she didn’t know how to handle it. She explained the situation to Father Doyle. “What should I do?” she asked, hoping he could provide a solution.

  Father Doyle’s expression was sad. “I’ll speak to Father Sanders and suggest I make the deposits from here on out.”

  That might solve one problem, but it didn’t help Kathleen with the discrepancy in the account books.

  But even knowing what she did about Father Sanders, she couldn’t help liking him. It was the same with her uncle Patrick. Both were generous, happy-go-lucky men who were often a pleasure to be around. Especially when they were sober…

  “Is he worse?” she whispered, although no one could possibly overhear.

  Father shook his head. “No.” But he sounded unsure.

  “Have you spoken to Mrs. O’Malley?” Surely the housekeeper knew, although she, like Father Doyle, seemed bent on silence. Kathleen understood it, but she wasn’t convinced secrecy was the best approach. However, she couldn’t think of any other.

  “Mrs. O’Malley and I have talked,” Father Doyle admitted. “Her husband, God rest his soul, was an alcoholic and I’m afraid she’s grown accustomed to handling Father Sanders’s…moods.”

  Kathleen swallowed hard and wondered if the older woman had been buying alcohol for the priest. She was a gentle soul who strived to please, and if she’d been caught in that same trap in her marriage—well, there was no telling what she’d do. It wasn’t inconceivable that she was supplying Father Sanders; Kathleen couldn’t imagine where else he was getting the booze.

  As far as she knew, Father Sanders didn’t drink outside his room in the rectory. If he went to liquor stores or bars, people in the community would recognize him. She was beginning to feel that this situation couldn’t remain hidden much longer.

  “The bishop knows,” Father Doyle said, walking with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Bishop Schmidt?” Kathleen had been sure the parish was destined for trouble if word of Father Sanders’s weakness leaked out, and to the bishop of all people. But if he knew…

  “I believe that’s the reason the bishop assigned me to St. Peter’s.” Their steps slowed as the rectory came into view. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this, Sister.”

  But there obviously wasn’t anyone else he could tal
k to.

  “I feel I’ve failed Bishop Schmidt.”

  “Failed him?” This made no sense to Kathleen.

  “Father Sanders is in spiritual trouble. I was assigned to St. Peter’s to steer him away from alcohol and back to God, and I’ve fallen short of accomplishing my task.”

  Father Doyle was a good priest, devout and dedicated to God. Kathleen understood why the bishop had given him this assignment. He was a man of prayer, and if anyone could influence Father Sanders, it would be Father Doyle. But that was a lot of responsibility to place on one priest’s shoulders, Kathleen mused. Was it really fair?

  “I don’t think you can blame yourself,” she said, looking down at her feet, wishing she knew what to say.

  “I can’t—”

  Father Doyle’s words were cut off in midsentence as a car careened around the corner with such speed that for a few seconds it balanced precariously on two wheels. Kathleen gasped, horrified, as the vehicle narrowly missed two parked cars before it fell back onto four tires again. The car landed with such force that it actually seemed to bounce.

  Kathleen released a shaky breath, thinking the worst was over, but she was wrong. As though momentarily stunned, the blue Dodge sat in the middle of the street, then turned and aimed for the driveway leading to the garage behind the rectory.

  “It’s Father Sanders.”

  Kathleen couldn’t believe her eyes as the priest steered the car into the rectory driveway. Unfortunately he missed the driveway and drove across the lawn, leaving deep tire tracks. The car quickly disappeared behind the priests’ residence.

  Father Doyle raced toward the rectory. He outdistanced Kathleen, but she caught up with him at the car. Father Doyle had opened the driver’s side door and had apparently gotten the keys out of the ignition and away from the older priest.

  It terrified her to think of Father Sanders driving drunk—to think of what could have happened, what might have happened.

  While Father Doyle assisted the other man from the vehicle, she hurriedly inspected the car for signs of an accident or a hit-and-run. She thought her heart was going to roar straight out of her chest, it was beating so fast. Fortunately, there was no sign of any impact.