Changing Habits

by Debbie Macomber

  “Breakfast is served at six. When’s your first class?”

  “Eight.”

  “That’s perfect then.”

  “Am I the only one going to school?” Kathleen hated to ask, but the thought of navigating a college campus on her own felt overwhelming. It wasn’t as though she’d been completely sheltered in the convent. For that matter, she’d traveled from one end of Boston to the other on city buses in her teens. But being friendless in a strange town, attending a strange school, was suddenly terrifying.

  “Sandy and Pauline are both taking classes at Seattle University. They’ll be happy to have you join them.”

  Kathleen set her bag on the end of the bed. “Thank you.” Everyone was being so kind.

  “We’re having lunch in a few minutes. Please join us. There’s a work schedule in the kitchen. We’ll ask you to sign up for chores, but it isn’t necessary to do anything for the first couple of days. We recognize that this is a major adjustment.”

  “I want to help,” Kathleen said. She needed the comfort of routine and a sense of giving back instead of merely receiving. Although she deeply appreciated everything Sean and Loren had done for her, they’d treated her as though she was recovering from a long debilitating illness. It was only at her insistence that they let her help with even the most mundane household tasks.

  After a lunch of pea soup and warm bread—just right for such a cold, gloomy day—Kathleen sat down and wrote her parents a letter, in which she reassured them that she was happy and well. When she’d finished, she tore a second sheet of paper from her notepad and wrote Father Doyle. Her purpose was the same; he’d sounded concerned when they’d spoken on Thanksgiving Day and she wanted to let him know she was fine. She’d mailed him a short letter with a card at Christmas but hadn’t heard back.

  The phone rang and Kay came into the kitchen, holding open the swinging door. “It’s for you, Kathleen,” she said.

  Surprised, Kathleen walked into the hallway, where the phone rested on a small table by the stairs. “Hello,” she said, assuming it was her brother. No one else knew she was at the House of Peace.

  “Sister Kathleen—Kathleen—it’s Father Doyle. I hope you don’t mind that I tracked you down. Your brother told me where I could reach you.”

  “I was just writing you!”

  “I apologize for not answering your Christmas card. How are you?”

  She opened her mouth to tell him what she told everyone else—but he was the one person she could trust with her real feelings. “A little shaky, actually.”

  “I thought so. How can I help?”

  He could move to Seattle, become her counselor, hold her hand for the next twelve months and reassure her that she was doing the right thing.

  “You could be my friend, Father.”

  “I already am.” He chuckled softly. “We’re friends, Kathleen. Good friends.”

  35

  JOANNA BAIRD

  “Can I get you anything, honey?” Sandra Baird asked, checking on Joanna one evening early in the new year. Joanna sat in front of the television watching the eleven o’clock news. Five Watergate defendants had pled guilty that day to burglary. The news was dominated by the break-in at the Watergate complex and the possible link to President Nixon.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” she said, reaching for the remote control. This device was new since she’d entered the convent and she found it both amazing and ridiculous. What was the world coming to when people couldn’t be bothered to walk across their living rooms to change channels or turn off the TV?

  Dressed in her robe, her mother came into the darkened room and sat on the edge of the sofa. Her father was already asleep. Sandra took Joanna’s hand and held it loosely. “It’s good to have you home.”

  It didn’t feel good to Joanna. Her mother was suffocating her with attention. And her father, her dear sweet father, was as confused as she was. Half the time he called her Sister and then with a look of pain and regret apologized profusely. He’d loved the fact that she was a nun and had taken such pride in her vocation. Now that she was home, he didn’t know how to react to her. All her life, Joanna had been close to her parents. This uneasiness and concern grated until she wanted to scream.

  Her father didn’t understand why she’d asked for a leave of absence, and she couldn’t explain it to him. He wanted her to be happy, but he also wanted her to be a nun.

  Her mother, on the other hand, was thrilled to have her home and came up with a hundred reasons each day to entice her back into the world. Since Joanna’s return, Sandra had made hair appointments for them both, plus she’d arranged for a manicure and pedicure. She’d taken Joanna clothes-shopping and bought her several new outfits.

  As a result, Joanna felt as though she was living with a foot in each world. Part nun, part not—and all of her very confused.

  It had seemed so simple when she’d first decided to ask for a leave of absence. All she needed was time away—a few weeks, a couple of months at most. Just enough time to review her options.

  However, the longer she was away from the convent, the more complex her emotions became. She missed the order and ritual of her life. There was a certain comfort she hadn’t appreciated in rising and going to bed at the same time each day, in praying and eating according to schedule. It was a life of symmetry. Of harmony. The unfamiliar freedom she experienced living with her parents was awkward and confusing.

  “You seem so quiet since you’ve been home,” her mother complained.

  “Mother, I observed Grand Silence for years. I’m not as talkative as I was when I was a teenager.”

  Her mother glanced uncomfortably toward the blank television screen. “Remind me what Grand Silence is again.”

  “Every night after seven-thirty, we didn’t speak.”

  “Ever?”

  “On rare occasions. It was the time we set aside to pray and meditate.”

  “You were always praying. I never did understand what you had to pray about at all hours of the night and day.”

  “Mother, I was a nun.”

  “I know, dear, but…” She gave a wry smile. “Well, that’s all behind you now.”

  “Is it, Mom?” Joanna asked because she wasn’t sure.

  Her mother patted her hand as though to convince her that soon everything would be as it always had. “By the way, Greg phoned and asked to see you.”

  Joanna shook her head. “I don’t want anything to do with Greg.”

  “I know. I told him that, but he seems to think—”

  “That I left the convent because of him.”

  “Yes,” her mother confirmed.

  “I didn’t. His visit to Minneapolis had nothing to do with my coming home.”

  Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers. “All your father and I want is for you to be happy.”

  Joanna gave her mother a reassuring smile and stood. “I’m going to bed now.”

  “Good idea. You have a big day ahead of you.”

  Joanna nodded. She was applying for a job at the local hospital. Although her parents wanted her to live with them indefinitely, Joanna couldn’t do that. The walls felt like they were closing in on her; she wanted her own place. Thankfully, because of her nursing degree, she could support herself. Joanna was also convinced that through her nursing skills she could find a sense of balance in life.

  “Good night, honey,” her mother called as Joanna entered her bedroom.

  “Good night.” Sitting in the dark at the end of her bed, Joanna thought about her interview the next morning. Then, out of habit, she slipped to her knees and reached for her rosary.

  When she’d finished the five decades—ten Hail Marys each—of the Joyful Mysteries, she kissed the crucifix and set the rosary back on her nightstand. As soon as she’d nestled her head on the pillow, Tim Murray’s image appeared in her mind. She allowed herself this one extravagance: while in bed, alone, she talked to him. She told him about her day and how confused she felt and she m
entioned her regrets. He was involved in several of those. Her feelings for him were tangled up with her dissatisfactions, and she knew she needed a clear head before she spoke to him again.

  One regret was that she’d left the convent without telling him goodbye. There hadn’t been time. Perhaps he’d assume she’d returned to Providence because of Greg. She hadn’t, of course, and she hoped Tim wouldn’t think that.

  Sometimes, usually at night, she wondered if he still thought about her at all. Did he ask about her? Did he know where she was? Did he care? Or was he relieved that their paths would no longer cross? Joanna could only speculate about the answers. Whenever she did, a sinking sensation settled in the pit of her stomach.

  The house was quiet when Joanna woke the following morning. Her father had gone to work, and her mother had a volunteer committee meeting first thing. As though Joanna were a child, her mother had left a note that told her what to eat for breakfast.

  Reading the list propped against the sugar canister, she smiled and helped herself to a banana, which wasn’t on the suggested menu.

  Standing under the hot spray of the shower a few minutes later, Joanna luxuriated in the perfumed soap and creamy shampoo. This was decadence unlike anything she’d known in six years.

  While combing her hair, Joanna stared at the fog-covered mirror. As the steam from the shower slowly dissipated, her facial features began to take shape. For a long time she studied her own reflection. It was like watching herself emerge from behind a veil. As good a metaphor as any, she thought wryly. She was becoming reacquainted with Joanna Baird—but this Joanna was a different person from the one who’d entered the convent six years before.

  After dressing for her hospital interview, Joanna poured a cup of coffee and on impulse, picked up the phone. It had been wrong to leave Minneapolis without talking to Tim. He deserved to know what had happened and why she’d left the way she did.

  She got his office number from directory assistance and then promptly changed her mind. Wadding up the paper, she threw it in the garbage. Halfway out the door, Joanna changed her mind again and retrieved the phone number. If she called him now, she’d have a legitimate excuse—asking him for a reference.

  Her skin went cold and clammy as she dialed the number. The phone rang, jolting her. She closed her eyes, waiting for his receptionist to answer.

  “Dr. Murray’s office.”

  “Ah…”

  “Would you like to make an appointment?”

  Not knowing what else to say, Joanna answered, “Yes.”

  “Are you already a patient?”

  “No, actually—”

  “I’m sorry. Dr. Murray isn’t taking any new patients without a referral.”

  “I see.” It didn’t surprise her to learn that he was a popular surgeon. “In that case, would it be possible to leave a message?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you please tell him Joanna Baird phoned?”

  “B-a-i-r-d?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And your message?”

  “Tell him…tell him Sister Joanna phoned to say goodbye.”

  “Oh. Goodbye,” the receptionist said, sounding confused.

  “Also, could you please tell him I’d like to use him as a job reference?”

  A moment of silence followed and Joanna could hear a pencil scratching. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered feeling more foolish than ever. She hung up the phone.

  36

  ANGELINA MARCELLO

  The shades were down and shadows flickered across the bare walls in Angie’s childhood bedroom. Her father had left it exactly as it was in 1958, when she’d entered the convent. Judging by outward appearances, not a month had passed. Everything looked exactly the same. Only it wasn’t. Angie was vastly different from the eighteen-year-old who’d left home to become a nun.

  Her father had stormed into the convent and wrapped her in his protective arms and brought her home. But now that she was back in Buffalo, he didn’t know what to do with her. Angie was lost and confused and in such emotional anguish that it took more effort than she could muster to get out of bed in the mornings.

  Her father knocked on her bedroom door. “Angelina, are you awake?”

  She didn’t answer and prayed he’d go away. It wouldn’t do any good, but she already knew that.

  After a second knock, he opened the door and flipped on the light switch. “It’s morning.”

  She was sitting up in bed, staring at the wall. She squinted at the bright light and wanted to shout at him to turn it off, but that would demand energy and she had none.

  “It’s a beautiful morning. Look.” As if turning on the lights wasn’t bad enough, he raised her window blind and sunshine invaded the room.

  Angie closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look at the sunshine. She didn’t want to speak to her father.

  “Angelina!” His voice rose with exasperation. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Angie said nothing.

  “All day you sit here and stare at the wall. You don’t talk, you barely eat. Even my zabaglione doesn’t tempt you. I heard of a man ready for death who sat up in bed when his wife brought him my zabaglione. Yet my own daughter barely takes a bite.”

  Angie wanted to reassure her father that it wasn’t his cooking. He had surrounded her with his love, spoiled her with gift after gift and tempted her with his desserts, all to no avail. She wanted none of the things he tried to give her. What she wanted, what she needed, was forgiveness. But no one could give her that—least of all her father, who couldn’t understand her grief.

  Angie had failed Corinne and in the process she’d failed herself. The pain of knowing that refused to leave her.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, sitting on the corner of her bed.

  “You can’t, Daddy.”

  “Talk to me,” he pleaded. “Tell me what happened.”

  Tears moistened her eyelids and she shook her head, unable to get any words past the constriction in her throat.

  “A girl in your class died, and you think you killed her?”

  Angie nodded. “Yes…in a way, I think I did.”

  “How?” he asked. “Did you hold a gun to her head? She got pregnant and she tried to get rid of the baby. It’s not your fault, Angie. God knows why a beautiful young girl would try to kill her baby, but these things happen.” He lowered his voice, frowned and then added a few other comments in Italian, none of which Angie could translate.

  “She trusted me.”

  “She didn’t have a mother to talk to?”

  “Yes…but I was the one she turned to.”

  “And you knew this teenager was pregnant and advised her to make an appointment with this abortionist?”

  Of course she hadn’t! Why did her father insist on asking her these ridiculous questions?

  “You won’t answer me because you’re hauling around this load of guilt you have no business carrying.” Impatience sharpened his voice.

  “I knew something was wrong,” Angie argued, her own voice emotionless. “I knew it but I didn’t ask.”

  “And that’s the reason you’re nailing yourself on that crucifix up there next to Jesus?” He pointed at the large crucifix on the wall across from her. A palm frond from the Palm Sunday service fifteen years earlier was tucked behind it.

  Angie lowered her head and refused to answer.

  “What can I do for you?” Her father was shouting now. “Please tell me!”

  She shook her head.

  Exasperated, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door open and the irritating lights on. Angie groaned in frustration. All she wanted was to be left alone and to sleep. She was so tired. But despite her exhaustion, she either tossed and turned the night away or wandered the hall, pacing back and forth. Her eyes burned, and she cursed her inability to escape into sleep. Then just before dawn she’d drift into a fitful slumber, which inevitably end
ed when her father got up.

  She could hear him now, thumping down the stairs. In a few minutes she’d smell the scent of freshly brewed coffee. A little while after that, she’d hear him climbing upstairs again. He would return to her room, carrying a breakfast tray in an effort to persuade her to eat. To satisfy him, she’d nibble one or two bites and leave the rest. She had his routine all worked out.

  Sure enough, right on schedule, he trudged up the stairs and brought the tray of breakfast into her bedroom. “I made you coffee,” he said as he did every morning. Then he set the tray on her lap. Coffee and a croissant, jelly, butter and a small pitcher of cream.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, although she wished with all her being that he’d take it away. She wasn’t hungry. Sometimes she was afraid she’d be violently ill if she so much as lifted a fork.

  Usually her father left then, but he didn’t this morning. He walked back and forth at the foot of her bed. Angie watched him, wondering at this sudden break in their routine.

  “Angelina,” he said, facing her. She suddenly saw how much the years had changed him. Her father was in his early sixties, but he was still robust and she’d never thought of him as growing old. It was a shock to see how lined his face was and how his once-gray hair had gone completely white.

  “Yes?” she asked. Trying to please him, she stirred cream into her coffee.

  His eyes were sad and empty; his shoulders drooped in defeat. “Do you want to go back to the convent?”

  If she had an answer, Angie would have given it to him, but she simply didn’t know. For fifteen years she’d dedicated herself to the Church. She’d loved her life, enjoyed teaching and her students, but in her soul Angie knew she’d never stand in front of a classroom again. It just wasn’t in her to teach anymore. That wasn’t completely Corinne’s doing; Angie had burned out. At a loss, she hung her head and didn’t answer.

  “You can’t speak to your own father?” he cried. “If you can’t tell me, then who can you tell?”