What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  “You can’t be,” Bernie stammered. “He has a family, not a guardian. They—you—promised me, at the hospital. He would go to a good family, be loved by them, taken in and cherished….”

  “I mean that I am the guardian of his privacy,” Sister Eleanor Marie said sharply. “Your records are sealed, and so are his. I have his best interests at heart here, Sister. Even if you do not.”

  “I have nothing but his best interests at heart!” Bernie said, slamming her hands onto the desk. “He’s twenty-three now. I’ve given him the chance to grow up, be raised by his family, loved by his parents. They are his parents—that is how I view the people who adopted him. I haven’t even decided whether or not to reveal myself to him. I want only to know who he is, and that he has a good life.”

  “You decide, you want,” Eleanor Marie said derisively. “Listen to yourself, Sister. What about God? What does the Lord want for this young man? To have you sweep in at this late hour, create havoc in a life you gave away? Can you imagine the confusion and anguish you might cause him? It could turn him against the church!”

  “What are you talking about?” Bernie cried.

  “He could be filled with hatred and resentment for you—a nun! And that could spread deeply and quickly; it could poison his faith. I cannot and will not risk that. I am the guardian of his soul.”

  “You are not!”

  “Have you come here to Dublin with Thomas Kelly?” Eleanor Marie asked. “Sister Theodore told me she saw him dropping you off yesterday. I know that he works as your groundskeeper. There’s something unholy in your bond, Sister. I believe that it is fueling you now, not concern for the child.”

  Bernie started violently at the mention of Tom’s name. Of all the things Sister Eleanor Marie had said to her, this felt the most vicious. She stared, seeing evil in the other nun’s eyes. She tried to remind herself that Eleanor was human, that she had her own difficult history, that she had known pain.

  Sister Eleanor Marie was accusing her of ego, but Bernie knew that this was personal, dating back to their early days, when Bernie had first come to this convent. She remembered their first meeting, and in spite of her desire to have compassion for Eleanor, felt her blood turn to ice. The shift in consciousness made her feel calm, because she suddenly realized what she was up against.

  “I’ll go over your head,” Bernie said. “I’ll petition your Superior for my records, and she’ll give them to me.”

  Visibly shaken, Eleanor Marie leaned forward. “You’re threatening me?”

  “She’s kind and compassionate,” Bernie said. “Our order was founded on great love, Sister. I’ve been taught to replace fear with hope and love. I’m sure your Superior abides by the same credo. She would know that I intend no harm to my son. I feel only love for him. I’ll tell her that, and she’ll give me my file.”

  Sister Eleanor Marie stared at her with dead eyes. But slowly, the coals began to heat up again, and to glow. She opened her desk drawer, removed a set of keys on a ring. Fingering them slowly, she gazed at Bernie. Then she threw the keys down on the blotter.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Look.”

  Bernie grabbed the key ring and started to walk behind the desk, to the ornate wrought-iron gate. There, in the inner sanctum, were rows of file cabinets, clearly alphabetized. Fumbling with the keys, trying to find the right one, she finally fit it into the gate’s lock. Turned it open, rushed inside.

  There, the cabinet marked S, for Sullivan; she had been Bernadette Sullivan before her vows, and she knew that the order kept records based on the nuns’ original names. The S drawer was lowest of all, so Bernie knelt as she tried one key after another. Sister Eleanor Marie might have helped, but instead just sat in her chair, watching.

  The last key worked, and Bernie’s heart was racing as she clicked the lock open. Her hands were so sweaty, she almost couldn’t open the drawer. But finally it slid open, and she quickly leafed through the manila folders. Stephens, Stevens, Stires, Strand, Sullivan. She tore it from the drawer, began rifling through the documents.

  Copies of her birth and baptismal certificates, proof of confirmation, details of her life before coming to the convent, a thick sheaf cataloguing Rome’s investigation of her vision, including one envelope sealed with a thick blot of red wax, reports of her progress as a novice that first year, even notes and clippings from the order’s newsletter, detailing her rise at Star of the Sea. But nothing, not one paper, dealing with the birth of her son.

  “Where is it?” she asked, turning around, unable to disguise the panic she felt rising up inside.

  Sister Eleanor Marie sat there staring, a smug look behind her glasses.

  “What have you done with it?” Bernie asked, jumping up, grabbing the arms of her chair, pressing her face into Eleanor Marie’s. In that moment, she wanted to beat the truth out of her, but the other nun just smiled.

  “I’ve destroyed it,” she said.

  “What?” Bernie asked, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  “As I told you,” Sister Eleanor Marie said, her expression rigid in a frozen smile, “I’ve been expecting this day for many years. To protect the boy, I burned his file. There is no record here of his ever having existed. I wanted you to see for yourself. He is dead to you, Sister Bernadette Ignatius.”

  “Oh God,” Bernie said.

  “So that he may have life in Christ. Away from your grasping. It’s not healthy for him, nor for you. And certainly not for the order. I suggest you return to the States,” Eleanor Marie said evenly. “Perhaps you’ll have another vision. The Blessed Virgin Mary will help heal these wounds you’ve kept open all these years, Sister Bernadette Ignatius.”

  Bernie turned and left the room. She walked straight past Sister Theodore, hovering in the outer office, looking shocked by Bernie’s obvious grief and rage, ready to fly to the protection of her Superior. Bernie’s hands were shaking, and her heart past breaking. Her chest ready to explode, she hurried past the statue of Mary in the alcove, arms outstretched. Bernie didn’t even look.

  She strode through the center hall, past Sister Anne-Marie, waiting to hear what had happened, eyes wide with caring and compassion for her old friend. Bernie barely saw her. Her heart was tattered, and all her hope was gone. She opened the convent’s front door, walked onto the street.

  Dublin’s sky had turned gray, low clouds seeming to touch the cross on the convent’s roof. The thick, dark clouds raced above the trees, and the slate roofs, the brick chimneys, the statues in the park. She passed O’Malley’s—looked past the bright flower boxes, almost hoping to see Tom still waiting inside. Of course he had long since left. She strode down Grafton Street, past all the shops and cafés, toward the bridges arching over the Liffey. Bernie walked toward the river. It flowed through the city, past the buildings where innumerable people lived, and under the bridges countless people had crossed.

  Her son walked these streets, crossed these bridges, perhaps lived in one of those buildings. If only she could find the right window, she could look through it and see his face. He was somewhere, waiting for her.

  And waiting for Tom.

  At that thought, Bernie’s eyes flooded with hot tears. She was going to have to tell Tom that their son was lost. And they’d never be able to find him. Walking through Dublin, she saw the clouds darken and felt rain begin to fall. She felt tears spilling down her cheeks, falling and falling, as she haunted this city of shadows, where their child had come to life.

  Four

  Look,” Billy said as Tom pulled on his jacket just before dinner, preparing to head out. “You’re borrowing a car. That’s all there is to it.”

  “I can take a cab,” Tom said. “Or walk.”

  “You’re in a hurry, it’s obvious. Whatever that phone call was about, it’s got you looking worried. Is there anything I can do?” Billy asked.

  Tom hesitated. But Bernie had finally called; she had bought a phone card and dialed him from a pay phone near Trinity C
ollege. She needed him, and the fastest way to get to her was by taking Billy up on his offer.

  “If you’re sure,” Tom said, “I’ll take the car.”

  Billy handed him the keys. “It’s in the car park, and it’s yours while you’re here.”

  “Just this time,” Tom said.

  “Listen, Tom,” Billy said, meeting his eyes, “I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s obvious you have something going on. None of us knows what to do to help you. You never ask. Keep the car while you’re here, will you? It will make me feel better.”

  “Okay, Billy. Thanks,” Tom said, and let himself out the front door.

  He found the car, a sleek silver BMW 6-Series coupe, brand new, and a far cry from the old truck he drove in Connecticut. It started up with a purr, and he pulled into traffic. A horn blared, reminding him to drive on the left. Driving such a new, fancy car made him uncomfortable, for more reasons than he could count. But at the same time, he felt a deep stirring of emotion.

  One of the great things about having a big, extended family was that they were really there for one another. But Tom wasn’t very good at leaning on people. He was best at telling them he was fine, that he didn’t need help, that he could do it on his own. As he drove along he thought of his son. Tom, who turned down help whenever he could, found himself thinking of all these Kelly relatives.

  Their own father had died at forty—suddenly, so young, of a heart attack. They’d learned the need to stick together, becoming a tribe who looked after one another. Sixtus, the oldest, had been almost like a father to his younger brothers. Tom knew that all his Kelly cousins would have reached out to Tom and Bernie’s son—would have loved to guide his son through life here in Dublin, any way they could.

  Tom swore he’d never blame Bernie. She couldn’t do what she couldn’t do. She couldn’t marry him, she couldn’t let them be a family. Her vocation had called to her too strongly; she’d gotten the summons from Mary herself, back home in the Blue Grotto. Tom, whenever he worked on the stonework there, replacing loose stones or scrubbing moss off the walls, was sorely tempted to brick the place over.

  Because that was the spot of Bernie’s “miracle.” He had long had his own private thoughts about what had happened in that shady stone chamber on the southwest corner of Academy land, over the hill and beyond the vineyards, between the chapel and the beach. He was Irish Catholic enough to believe that Bernie saw what she said she saw, but he interpreted the message differently.

  Now, driving through Dublin to meet her, his heart was racing. He’d never heard her voice like that, trembling and full of fear. Something terrible had happened in her meeting with the she-wolf nun, and Bernie couldn’t tell him over the phone.

  Tom was used to seeing Bernie as a rock. She ran Star of the Sea with a gloved fist. Caring and benevolent, but cross her at your own peril. She worked nonstop, before dawn until after dark, running the whole operation like a type-A CEO. Sister Bernadette Ignatius was a workaholic of the first degree, and she’d found ways to hide her feelings, bury them so deep, Tom had sometimes wondered if she even had them.

  Now, pulling into a parking lot, he handed the keys to the attendant and got his bearings. He walked through the main entrance of Trinity College, toward the Campanile in the central square. He glanced around, not seeing her. Memories flooded back. Bernie had brought him here during her pregnancy. They had gone to the Long Room of the Old Library—the inspiration for his great-grandfather’s library at Star of the Sea—and Tom had imagined their son growing up to study here.

  Suddenly he saw her, thin and dark in her black habit, standing behind the Campanile. She was gazing at the Henry Moore sculpture, the smooth stone depiction of two people holding each other. The lines were soft and round, the bodies melting into each other. He held back, wondering what the message was here. Getting his heart under control, he walked over.

  Bernie didn’t hear him coming. He took his time, taking her in. She was five-five, very thin, but pure power. Even in her black habit and veil, she usually looked ready to take on the world, a force to be reckoned with. Not today. Her shoulders were shaking, her cheeks streaked with tears.

  “Sister Bernadette,” he said.

  She looked up, her eyes wide with grief. “We can leave now,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Let’s go home, Tom,” she said. “Back to Connecticut.”

  “Jesus, Bernie,” he said, panicking. Had she changed her mind so quickly? He had wanted to do this ever since they’d left Dublin before; his body ached with restricted emotion and energy, kept inside all these years and finally about to be let loose. “We’re here for a reason, and we’re not going home until we find him. I don’t care what you say, Bernie. You’re not allowed to chicken out, have a change of heart. We’re doing this. We’re going to look for him.”

  “No, we’re not!” she said, voice rising with despair. “You don’t understand!”

  “Damn right,” he said, frantic at the look in her eyes. “Tell me what you’re talking about!”

  “He won’t be found,” she said, covering her eyes with her hands. “They’ve hidden him.”

  “Hidden him?” he asked, feeling a punch in the stomach.

  “She destroyed his records, Sister Eleanor Marie,” Bernie choked out. “So we can’t find him. We can’t.”

  Tom’s pulse went into overdrive. He saw the witch’s face: he remembered back to their fight on the convent steps, twenty-three years ago, when she’d called the police on him, the pleasure and triumph in her black eyes as they roughed him up and took him away.

  “She can’t do that,” he said. “It’s impossible.”

  “They’re gone, Tom.”

  “He’s a person, a living, breathing human being; he was born, Bernie. We had him! She can’t destroy the records of his birth!”

  “But they’re not there,” Bernie cried. “She gave me the key, let me see for myself. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist—it just means she’s done away with any paperwork that could help us find him.”

  “Done away with it?”

  “She said she burned it.”

  “To keep us from finding him?” Tom shouted.

  “Yes! That’s exactly why she did it,” she yelled back.

  “I told you we should have come sooner,” he said. “We never should have left him in the first place. Jesus Christ almighty, Bernie!” He shook her by the shoulders, locking into her gaze with pure fury. Bernie shrank back, as if she was afraid of him. Students passing by stopped and stared. He grabbed her, walked her away from the sculpture, past the Campanile, through the square and out onto the street. Crowds stared at him, strong-arming a nun.

  She shook herself free and walked ahead to the river. The edge of her black veil fluttered over her shoulder. He wanted to reach for her, but he restrained himself. They walked along the Liffey, and Tom stared into the water to calm down. Rain was holding off, but the clouds reflected in dark ripples. He imagined the river flowing into Dublin Bay, merging with the sea.

  They got to the cast-iron footbridge and walked across. Period lanterns flickered on. His anger burned, but he held it in. When she finally looked at him, he saw that she was turned inside out. Her blue eyes beseeched him—for kindness, forgiveness, he wasn’t sure—but they softened him. He stood staring at her, his heart thumping. A few strands of red hair had slipped from under her veil, and he absently tucked them underneath.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked.

  “We could try the hospital,” she said. “They’ll have his birth records.”

  His jaw clenched; did she really consider this a solution? He wanted to start shouting again, but her troubled blue eyes kept him in check. He held the explosion inside. Didn’t she remember the fights they had had during her ninth month? She had insisted on the adoption; he had battled her, but losing badly, had tried to convince her they should go through one of the Kelly law firms.

&nb
sp; They could have had control over choosing the family their son went to, and kept track of his whereabouts all these years. But Bernie had kept him from telling his relatives anything, and had made all the arrangements through the church—guided by the Novice Mistress of the order she was about to join.

  “Bernie,” he said, trying to sound calm and in control, “you had him at Gethsemani. Don’t you think Eleanor Marie would manage to take care of the records there, too?”

  “We can’t know until we try,” she said, chin tilting up. A flash of her feistiness returned, her way of drawing a line in the sand—any sand. Normally, it drove him crazy, but right now he was glad to see it.

  “You’re right,” he said, staring into her clear blue eyes, fighting the urge to tuck back those renegade red strands again.

  “So that’s what we’re going to do,” she said, checking her watch. Streetlamps had come on up and down the Liffey, and house lights started to glow warmly all over town. “It’s too late today, though.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning,” he said. “First thing, right after breakfast. We’ll get an early start.”

  “And we’ll find him, Tom,” she said.

  He nodded, although he had his own private doubts. His mind was racing, thinking like a Kelly. All he’d have to do was explain this to Chris or Sixtus, get Niall to issue a warrant and force Bernie’s order to open their records.

  But Sister Bernadette Ignatius had made her choice when she made her vows—and even before that. She had been led to this place in her life by events that some deemed miraculous. And she had risen high in the Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires, becoming Superior at Star of the Sea. Tom had to respect that, and tormented as they both felt right now, he couldn’t take actions to jeopardize her position.