Changing Habits

by Debbie Macomber

  “You’re leaving the order?” They’d lost so many sisters already this year.

  “I don’t know…I need to think all of this out.” Sister Kathleen dissolved into sobs. “I’ve been ordered to return to the motherhouse, but I can’t go back to Boston and disgrace my family. I’d never be able to look my parents in the eye if they believed I’d…” She let the rest of her words fade.

  It was clear to Angie that her friend was in agony over leaving. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, although she doubted she was in any state to lend assistance.

  Sister Kathleen shook her head. “Nothing. No one can…Sister Angelina, I’m sorry about not waking you last night. Had I known…”

  “You did what was required.” Had the situation been reversed, Angie would’ve done the same thing.

  The other nun’s relief was unmistakable.

  “God be with you, Sister Kathleen,” Angie whispered.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she started down the corridor, carrying her small suitcase.

  “Will you write and let us know what’s happening with you?” Angie asked.

  Sister Kathleen shrugged. “I will if I can. Goodbye, Sister.”

  “Goodbye,” Angie returned. It seemed to be a day for farewells. First Corinne, and now her friend.

  31

  SISTER JOANNA

  Joanna was concerned about Sister Angelina, who’d taken Corinne Sullivan’s death hard. When she first heard the news, Sister Angelina, like so many others, had reacted with shock and disbelief. Joanna had suggested Sister Angelina speak with Corinne’s boyfriend; he needed emotional support and counseling to help him deal with his role in this tragedy. In retrospect, Joanna realized that while Sister might have consoled the young man, the conversation had only made her feel worse.

  For reasons she couldn’t fathom, Sister Angelina blamed herself for what had happened to Corinne. She wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating and hadn’t been able to return to school for a week following the funeral.

  All Sister Angelina seemed capable of doing was staring at the wall and weeping. Everyone was worried, including Sister Superior, who’d called in a physician.

  Joanna didn’t know what was said, but she suspected the doctor had prescribed tranquilizers. Now, as she sat in the hospital chapel, Joanna prayed for her friend, prayed for Corinne’s parents who’d suffered such a grievous loss. She prayed for Jimmy whose life was forever altered by the death of his girlfriend and his unborn child.

  While she was whispering her prayers, Joanna prayed for herself. More and more she’d grown dissatisfied with her life. For six years she’d constantly reassured her mother that she hadn’t entered the convent on the rebound. Yes, if Greg had come home from Vietnam without a wife they would’ve been married and by now she would have produced the requisite two point five children and lived in a house with a white picket fence. But Greg hadn’t come home to marry her, and Joanna’s future had taken a detour.

  In her pain and humiliation, she’d turned to God for comfort. She’d believed with all her heart that He was calling her to the religious life. She had trusted to the very depths of her soul that becoming a Sister of St. Bridget’s was the right decision for her.

  Then she’d met Dr. Murray and everything changed. For six years she’d ignored every part of her femininity. Yet God was the one who’d created her as a woman. He’d been the one who’d given her breasts and a womb, who’d given her sexuality. Being a nun meant rejecting all sexual feeling, and she was no longer sure she could do that.

  Shortly after Corinne Sullivan’s death, Joanna had gone to the maternity floor. The nurse Dr. Murray was seeing worked in the delivery room and Joanna wanted to catch a glimpse of her. She had no intention of introducing herself or making any effort to speak to the other woman. Curiosity had nagged her into taking this action, but in the end Joanna hadn’t seen Jenny.

  Instead she’d gotten waylaid at the nursery. For reasons she didn’t want to examine, she’d stopped in front of the nursery window and stared at the babies. These perfect, beautiful children had caught her attention as soon as she stepped off the elevator.

  It had been years since Joanna had held an infant, years since she’d smelled that special scent. Years since her maternal instincts had struck this hard.

  Seeing that she was enraptured by the newborns, the head nurse had invited her inside and urged her into a rocking chair. Then, as if knowing exactly what Joanna wanted, the grand-motherly nurse had placed a newborn in her empty embrace.

  The little boy fit perfectly in the cradle of her arms. For a terrifying moment, Joanna had been afraid to breathe, afraid to move. But gradually instinct took over, and she began to rock the baby. Softly, gently. Peace, unlike anything she’d experienced in years, came to her then. A sense of wonderment settled over her, and in that moment she felt completely happy.

  Tears had pooled in Joanna’s eyes, embarrassing her. Yet no one spoke. Thirty minutes later, when she walked toward the elevator, her original mission forgotten, she was a changed woman.

  It was as if she’d seen into her own heart. She was like women all through the ages. She wanted what women had always wanted: to be loved and cherished by a man, and to have that love bring forth children. She wanted a husband and family, and the ache of having neither left a void inside her that couldn’t be ignored.

  The chapel door opened and Joanna realized she wasn’t alone anymore. She made the sign of the cross, sat on the wooden pew and folded back the kneeler. But as she was ready to stand and leave, Dr. Murray moved into the pew beside her.

  The shock of seeing him stole her breath. For the longest moment they stared at each other, saying nothing.

  Tim spoke first. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  Who had told him? How could he possibly have known her doubts and her thoughts when she’d shared them with no one but God?

  “Why?”

  “I heard about Corinne Sullivan. Did you know her?”

  Joanna shook her head. “She was a student at St. Peter’s High School but I didn’t know her.”

  “I heard you were with her family when they received the news.”

  “Yes.” It was one of the saddest nights of her life. To the day she died, Joanna would remember the haunting grief of Corinne’s parents. To lose a child, especially under such conditions, was a tragedy beyond words. And Jimmy Durango—the poor boy felt guilt as well as grief. None of their lives would ever be the same.

  “How are they doing?” Tim asked. He sat only a few inches away, but after their initial greeting he hadn’t looked at her again.

  How was any family able to cope after the loss of a child? “About as well as can be expected,” Joanna said.

  He nodded and then, his voice the merest of whispers, he added, “I’ve missed you. The entire third floor misses you.”

  “I miss everyone there, too.” And she did. Working E.R. wasn’t the same. The staff had welcomed her, but Joanna felt like a stranger, trying to find her place and fit in with the others. The suddenness of her transfer had created a certain amount of suspicion and plenty of speculation.

  “I know why you asked to be transferred,” Tim went on, “and I agree it was for the best, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t missed.”

  She bowed her head, not wanting him to read what she could no longer hide. Almost from the beginning Joanna had been physically and emotionally attracted to this man. That attraction had blossomed and taken root in her dreams, those disruptive sexual dreams that continued to obsess her. It was as though the womanly part of her, once repressed, had broken free. Refusing to be ignored, the fantasies had lingered in her mind, in her waking moments, invading even her prayer life.

  “But even though I understand why you asked for the transfer, I don’t know if it was the right thing for either of us.” His words were low and intense. He reached for her hand and held it firmly in his own.

  Joanna was astonished by how much his touch
affected her. A lump formed in her throat as she splayed her hand and let their fingers intertwine.

  “I know I shouldn’t touch you, shouldn’t even be this close, but Joanna…” He bent his head near hers and his lips brushed her cheek.

  Eyes closed, she swayed toward him and their foreheads touched. “So much is happening all at once,” she murmured.

  “I’m falling in love with you….”

  “Don’t say it, please.” She placed a finger against his lips.

  “Just let me know where I stand with you. That’s all I ask.”

  “I can’t…” Before she could finish, the chapel door opened and Sister Nadine walked inside. She paused when she found Joanna sitting with Dr. Murray and frowned darkly.

  Joanna eased her head away from Tim’s, but the other nun’s gaze lowered to their locked hands. Almost immediately, she turned and walked out of the chapel.

  “Does that mean trouble?” Tim asked, exhaling forcefully at the other nun’s rapid departure.

  Joanna didn’t know what it would mean; nevertheless, she tried to reassure him. “It’s probably nothing to worry about.” He seemed to accept that and she was grateful.

  But Joanna was wrong. Sister Superior asked to see her the following afternoon; Joanna didn’t need to be told why. It was as if this confrontation was meant to be.

  By now, Sister Eloise’s office should be a familiar place to her. Joanna recalled the troubles she’d had in the beginning, while she was a postulant and then a novice at the motherhouse in Boston. Battling her stubbornness and her lack of submissiveness had never become any easier.

  “Sister Joanna,” the head of the convent said, looking up from her desk. She hesitated and seemed to search for the right words. “The last time we spoke, you mentioned your attraction to one of the physicians at St. Elizabeth’s.”

  Joanna merely nodded.

  “At that time we both felt it would be best to have you transferred to another area of the hospital.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “That hasn’t helped, has it? You haven’t been able to subdue your rebellious nature, have you?”

  “No,” she admitted, struggling to hold back the guilt. “But Sister, you reminded me that while we’re nuns, we’re still women, too. I love this man with all my heart.” Never before had Joanna dared to acknowledge her feelings out loud.

  “And he returns your love?” she asked.

  “Yes… Maybe… I don’t know.” She prayed he did, but yesterday was the first time they’d spoken honestly, however briefly, about their feelings.

  “What do you want to do, Sister?”

  Joanna bowed her head, unable to meet her Superior’s eyes. “I don’t know…I just don’t know.”

  “Would you like to transfer to another convent?”

  Joanna looked up and shook her head. The ache inside her intensified. “I want to go home,” she whispered.

  “You are home, Sister,” the other nun said.

  “Home to my family,” Joanna elaborated. “I need to think about all this. I need time. I’m sorry, Sister Eloise, I’m so sorry. I feel like I’ve failed you and failed God.”

  Sister Eloise was quiet for so long that Joanna wondered if she was about to refuse her. “You’re sure this is what you want?” she finally asked.

  “Yes…I’m not saying I’m leaving the order. What I need is time to sort through these feelings and know my own heart, to consider the future.”

  “A leave of absence then?”

  “Yes,” Joanna whispered as the tears burned her eyes. Suddenly the life that had seemed so calm and predictable had become confused. Chaotic. Sister Kathleen was gone. Joanna wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but she’d left the day after Corinne Sullivan died. Then there was Sister Angelina, who was devastated by Corinne’s death and had been in a state of depression ever since. Now, Joanna, too, was experiencing a crisis of faith.

  “Very well,” Sister Eloise said reluctantly. “Return to your family.”

  32

  SISTER ANGELINA

  Something was wrong with her, Angie decided. She couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. That morning, she’d embarrassed herself by falling asleep during lauds. Right in the chapel, she’d nearly keeled over onto Sister Martha. Fortunately the other nun had managed to catch her.

  Angie’s appetite was nonexistent and the skirt she’d shortened only a couple of months earlier was so loose it hung on her hips.

  Only recently she’d tried to talk to her father on the phone and all she’d been able to do was weep. He’d been upset and tried to discover what was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t bring herself to admit how bad she was. Instead she’d made light of her tears and ended the conversation as quickly as she could.

  Sister Superior was worried about her, too. Worried enough to call for a Catholic physician to come and talk to her. Angie didn’t need a doctor to tell her she was depressed—or to give her medication.

  She knew why she felt the way she did. What she didn’t know was how to deal with this never-ceasing mental anguish, this constant sense of guilt and doubt.

  Everyone had been so kind and gentle with her. She tried, she really did, to shake off the mantle of grief, but it clung to her. The world seemed dark and ugly, and it seemed that nothing good would ever happen again. All gaiety and laughter had evaporated into the darkness.

  As the Christmas holidays approached, there was an air of celebration at the convent, an anticipation of joy. Angie experienced none of this. It was difficult to function, to pretend she was preparing the next day’s lessons when she rarely put any thought or effort into her classes anymore. Luckily, with Thanksgiving, there was a four-day break coming this very week.

  Staring down at the textbook as the nuns around her worked at the long tables, silence filling the room, Angie tried to force her thoughts onto the next day’s lessons, but to no avail.

  Instead, her mind continually returned to Corinne’s parents. Again and again she was tormented by the question of how Bob and Sharon Sullivan were going to face this holiday season without their beautiful Corinne. How would it be possible for them to put up a Christmas tree and decorate their home when their only daughter had recently been buried? Where was their joy? Where was—

  “Sister?”

  Angie looked up from her book and realized Sister Martha had been speaking to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “There’s a man here to see you.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes, Sister. He’s quite insistent. He says he’s your father.”

  “My father?” Angie was sure she’d misunderstood. “My father is in Buffalo, New York.” The Thanksgiving week was one of the busiest of the year for the restaurant. He would never leave Angelina’s to travel at such an important time.

  “He would like to see you,” Sister Martha said.

  Angie got up from the table. Although she knew there must be a mistake, her heart raced. Could her father really be here in Minneapolis?

  As she entered the foyer, her steps slowed. It was indeed her father. He stood in the entry, still in his thick overcoat, hat in hand as he waited.

  “Daddy,” she whispered.

  Tony Marcello looked up, his face dark with concern. When he saw her, a smile came to his lips and he held out his arms.

  As if she were a little girl again, Angie ran into his embrace. By the time she felt his arms around her, the tears had come, ravaging her with huge, breath-choking sobs.

  He cradled her like a child, his hand on her head as he hugged her close. He murmured to her in Italian, in words she hadn’t heard for so many years that she barely remembered their meaning. Then they were sitting on the sofa, where he continued to hold her protectively. “Angelina, my poor, sweet Angelina, what has happened to you?” He brushed the hair from her forehead, and in the process dislodged her veil. His eyes searched hers.

  Through her tears, his feature
s swam before her. She felt his love, and God help her for being weak and emotional, but Angie needed his strength—just as much as the motherless child she’d once been.

  “What has happened to you?” he repeated in a broken whisper as though he too was close to tears.

  “She’s dead, Daddy. Corinne is dead. I told her it was wrong—I’m the one to blame. I’m the one who urged her to be a good Catholic girl. Then she got pregnant.”

  “This high school girl?”

  Angie nodded. “She panicked—she was so afraid. I knew things weren’t right. I sensed it and I did nothing. Nothing.” She wailed in grief and guilt and hid her face in his shoulder. “She came to find me instead of going to the hospital…and she bled to death.”

  “Oh, Angie, sweet, sweet Angie.”

  “She’s dead…gone, and it’s my fault.”

  “No, Angie, no.”

  Others had attempted to tell her the same thing, but Angie discounted their words and refused to accept her innocence in Corinne’s death.

  Because Angie believed she was responsible. Corinne had come to her time and again and argued against the Church’s stand on these important issues. Angie realized now that the girl had come to her seeking answers, searching for a way to rationalize what she and Jimmy were experiencing. Corinne had been seeking a tacit blessing to use birth control.

  Angie hadn’t given it to her, hadn’t agreed with her arguments and as a result, Corinne had chosen to engage in unprotected sex. Then she’d discovered she was pregnant and her world had come crashing down. Angie’s world had toppled, too.

  As she’d mulled over her conversations with Corinne, Angie reached a conclusion. The girl was right. Such intimate decisions as whether or not to use birth control were between a man and a woman, between husband and wife. The Church had no business interfering, no Biblical ground on which to stand. The consequences of this decree were more and more apparent every week at Sunday Mass. Catholics were revolting and walking away from the Church, or at the very least choosing to follow their own consciences in the matter of birth control.