by Luanne Rice
“Let me ask you one thing,” he said. “Why are we doing this?”
She stared at him blankly, as if mystified by the question.
“You’re a nun. You’re not going to marry me. Yes, I’ve figured that out by now,” he said, and her mouth twitched with a smile. His heart opened to see it, but his own face remained stone-hard. “He’s grown up. He’s past needing us, if he ever did at all. So seriously, Sister. What difference does it make whether we find him or not?”
Bernie gazed up at him. Somehow the last hours had stripped away her customary veneer, her edge of command and control. She looked so soft, washed by tears and the rain. She looked so young.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Really?” he asked.
“I just want to see him,” she whispered. “Is that so terrible? Just lay eyes on him, see what he looks like, make sure he’s okay.”
“How will we know he’s okay, Bernie?”
“We’ll talk to him.”
“Will we tell him who we are?”
She gazed up at him with sadness in her eyes, as if she’d finally accepted the fact that he was very slow. They had discussed this back at Star of the Sea, as well as on the plane.
“We’ll play it by ear,” she said. “We’ll take our cues from him. If we ever find him.”
“We’ll find him,” Tom said.
“You asked me before why it matters after all this time. It matters because he’s our son,” she said, reaching up to touch Tom’s cheek. “And because we have to know.”
Tom nodded. He closed his eyes for one moment, leaning into her hand. Then she took it away. They crossed the bridge and walked along the river, the dark water swirling with reflected lights. He found the parking lot, and they climbed into the car. Driving through the city, he had to concentrate on staying left. It kept him from drifting someplace he knew he shouldn’t go.
When they got to the convent, he pulled over. Glancing at the front window, he saw the curtains move and a shadow fall. They were waiting for her. She saw the expression in his eyes; he didn’t even try to hide how he felt.
“See you tomorrow morning,” she said.
“Okay,” he said.
“Till then,” she said, hand on the door handle, hesitating. He had the feeling she didn’t want to get out. But of course she did.
He waited at the curb, to make sure she got into the house okay. She turned to wave. He didn’t wave back, but just sat there until the door opened and closed behind her.
The car felt so empty, and so did Tom. He knew this feeling well, although he had kept it at bay for many years. It had started the instant she’d touched his face. The warmth of her hand and its light pressure had radiated through his whole body, through his heart, each bone, and every inch of skin. So that, when she took it away, the cold returned. The emptiness he had always felt, whenever Bernie gave him something, and whenever she took it away.
After supper and compline, Bernie went upstairs. Theodore and Eleanor Marie kept close watch over her, but she was past caring. Anne-Marie gave her questioning looks, and a great hug, as if she knew that Bernie needed it, which she did. But what she mainly needed, right now, was to be alone.
In the cozy peace of her cell, she pulled the blanket from her bed and bundled up, sitting in her chair by the window. A strange obsession had taken hold of her; she was convinced that if she kept looking outside, she would see her son and recognize him. Records could be burned, but she felt his existence shining out.
It had all started during the summer back home in Connecticut, with Brendan McCarthy. Seeing one red-haired blue-eyed boy had unlocked her deep need and longing and love for another. Tom’s, too. They had taken one look at Brendan—Bernie’s niece’s friend—and the moment was like a wrecking ball.
She had felt it smashing the walls she had built around the birth of their child. The walls were high and thick; she had thought them impenetrable, indestructible. But she was wrong. Even now, huddled in the chair, she felt the wrecking ball crashing, breaking the walls down. After twenty-three years of bricking off her feelings, building herself into a solid fortress, the destruction was just that much greater.
She wondered how it was for Tom. Had he always felt this, the way she felt now? She knew how badly he had wanted to raise the child. She knew that he blamed everything on the vision she had had in the Blue Grotto—and on her subsequent burning desire to follow Mary’s instruction and become a nun.
But there were parts of the story that Tom didn’t know. Bernie, never comfortable with confusion, had kept them from him. There was one detail of her decision to give their baby up for adoption known to only two people on earth—and Tom wasn’t one of them.
She sat at the window, watching people pass by on the street below. Wrought-iron lamps illuminated the sidewalk, but tall trees cast shadows, blurring people’s features. Every time someone with red or reddish hair, or who looked as if he might have freckles, walked by, her heart skipped. She hadn’t always been this way. Over the years, she had encountered innumerable red-haired boys, had never experienced emotional tumult, had never wanted to intrude on his life in any way.
Why was this happening now? Bernie prayed to know. As adamant as Tom had been that she had made a terrible mistake, she had never questioned her vows. One gift of having a vision was its indisputability. Once she had accepted the truth of it, the reality of what she had seen, then her actions seemed almost predetermined.
She clutched the blanket tighter. Why had she never thought about the fact that she had had the vision before she conceived the baby?
If Mary had really wanted her to become a nun, why had Bernie gotten pregnant? Now, turning from the window, she gazed at the small ceramic statue of Mary standing on the top of the plain bureau.
“Did you want me to be a mother?” she asked, and suddenly the question seemed absurd.
Because she was a mother. She had come to Ireland that first time with Tom to help him trace his family’s history. They’d visited the West in May, the Cliffs of Moher, the most inspiring place she’d ever been. Nearly nine months later, one cold January day, she had given birth right here in a Dublin hospital. The rest of her life suddenly seemed to collapse around her, through the prism of that single fact.
Gethsemani Hospital. It was administered by the nuns about to become her beloved sisters, and she couldn’t have imagined giving birth anywhere else. She remembered how Tom had begged her to let him tell his aunts and cousins about her pregnancy, saying that the Kellys would know where to get the best health care for both her and the baby.
But she hadn’t wanted them involved—or maybe it was just that she hadn’t trusted him enough. She’d been so young, and the shame had been terrible. Getting pregnant was the worst thing imaginable for a good Catholic girl. What would his family think of her if they knew? What would hers?
So she had gone to Gethsemani. He had been with her. She never, never let herself remember that day. It had happened, and she had relegated the memories behind the thick wall that was crumbling now. In her spiritual life, she managed by “giving it to God.” Every day her prayers included gratitude for her son’s birth, for Tom Kelly’s friendship, for the love she felt for both of them.
The details were another story. The contractions starting nearly a month ahead of schedule, her water breaking, the searing pain she’d felt as her baby prepared to be born, the pressure of Tom’s hand squeezing hers, the cracking sensation in her chest, her heart breaking-breaking-breaking, the gray winter light slanting through the hospital windows, the sense of time standing still, a feeling of swelling panic as she realized she could still change her mind, she could marry Tom and keep the baby, it still wasn’t too late.
It wasn’t too late….
And then it was.
That’s how she felt now, holding the blanket around her shoulders, rocking in the straight-backed chair, gazing at all those anonymous faces passing on the street below. Another face filled
her mind, the one that had come to the hospital the day after her son’s birth, with burning eyes behind silver wire-rim glasses.
“Don’t let it be too late,” she whispered now, feeling half mad as she stared down at the street, shivering in the blanket, wondering whether this was how it felt to lose her faith.
Five
Parked at the curb, Tom felt like a rude man waiting for his date instead of going to the door. But he didn’t want to stress Bernie more than she already was, or cause trouble with the wolf-nun by knocking on the convent door. He kept Billy’s silver BMW idling while he stared at the parlor window; Eleanor Marie’s fat tub of a henchman was peering from behind the white curtain. He felt dangerous, and although it wasn’t yet nine in the morning, he had the feeling he knew how the day would end. There would be violence, he was pretty sure.
He’d planned it all night. Unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling, he had thought it through—Plan A wouldn’t work, so they’d need a Plan B. He hoped it wouldn’t land him in jail, but he honestly didn’t much care. Jet lag, lack of sleep, and burning anger had left him feeling explosive. By the time Bernie came down the sidewalk, his heart was in overdrive.
“Good morning, Tom,” she said, climbing in.
“Good morning, Sister,” he said.
Her face was pale, and she had violet circles under her blue eyes. She had such thin skin, literally; when she was a young girl, her moods had always shown through. He stared at her now, feeling alarmed by what he saw.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Let’s just go to the hospital,” she said.
His back stiffened and he shifted into drive. When she wanted to keep something to herself, nothing could get it out of her. She’d always been the same. He shook his head, angry at himself. Had he honestly hoped she’d walk out this morning and tell him she’d had it with the religious life, that this was the final straw, that she was all his? He glanced over, saw her sitting there in her black lightweight-wool habit, pictured her in jeans and a sweater, exhaled loudly.
“How did we go on, working with each other all these years?” he asked. “We never had any trouble—not like this.”
“We kept it bottled up,” she said. “And that’s what we have to do again. As soon as this is over.”
“What do you mean, ‘over’?”
“I mean after we go to the hospital records office today,” Bernie said. “Whatever we do or don’t find, this is the end of the road. If we find out the information, good. If we don’t, then it’s meant to be. In either case, we fly home.”
“Yeah?” Tom asked, glancing across the seat. “That’s what we do?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you say, Sister,” he said. “You’re the boss.”
He said the words, sounding more convincing than sarcastic. But he didn’t believe her. He felt the energy pouring from her and knew that she was far from at peace with the plan she had just laid out. Worried by her pallor and the timbre of her voice, he looked over again, saw her hands shaking. He fought the urge to reach for them, lace fingers with her, tell her it would all be okay.
They drove across the river, through an industrial area, into a residential neighborhood, saw Gethsemani Hospital looming up from among the houses. Its brick facade turned rose red as clouds broke and the sun shined through. Tom parked the car, waited for Bernie to say something. She didn’t, so they climbed out.
They entered through the front door, as they had done the day their son was born. Tom glanced at Bernie, wondering whether she was thinking the same thing. He remembered their first time in Ireland. She had been right by his side when he’d needed to come over and research his family history.
Dublin had been their base. They’d loved it here instantly, falling in love with the city and the entire Irish way of life. The Kellys had, predictably, embraced them—maybe a little too much, because the longer they stayed together, the more Tom wanted Bernie all to himself. Just thirty days after arriving in Ireland, Tom had known he had to take her away.
At the beginning of May—Mary’s month, Bernie had later pointed out—he’d convinced her they had to take a break from tracking his roots and spending time with the family, and they’d traveled west to County Clare. They found a B&B in Doolin, a tiny fishing village on the edge of the Atlantic. Famous for traditional music, the town felt magical, as if it had been created just for them.
The accommodations were cheap; they’d taken separate rooms on the same floor. Tom couldn’t walk Bernie to her door without feeling ravaged inside, but he’d fought every urge. Instead of doing what he really wanted to do, they’d hung out, eating good food, listening to Irish music, walking the narrow streets and laughing.
They’d borrowed bicycles from the B&B and explored the rugged coastline, the spectacular and haunting limestone expanse of the Burren. They’d bicycled along the sea road toward the Cliffs of Moher. Young and in shape, they’d made the ride in time for sunset.
God, the sight was breathtaking. The cliffs rose six hundred and fifty feet straight up from the ocean, their sheer rock face glistening for five miles in the golden light. Bernie had leaned into his arms.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” she’d whispered.
“I’m so glad I’m seeing it with you,” he’d said.
“Tom, think of our ancestors standing here, looking across the ocean toward America,” she’d said. “Imagine their dreams….”
“They dreamed of better lives,” he’d said, wrapping her in a strong embrace. “Of having families, and loving each other forever.”
“That’s how I feel about you,” she’d said.
“It’s how I’ve always felt about you,” he’d said.
They’d kissed with such tender passion. Her lips had tasted of the salt air, and he’d shivered because he’d never felt anything close to this before. Never letting go, they’d led each other off the well-trod path into a thatch of sea grass and wildflowers. The Irish spring weather was still chilly. A cool breeze blew off the water, keeping tourists away, making Bernie and Tom press closer together as they tore off clothes, their bare skin hot against each other.
They’d conceived their child alone together at the top of the Old World. There, on the very brink of the Cliffs of Moher, on the edge of Ireland, facing America. The entire earth had fallen away. Tom and Bernie were a new family.
Summer passed, and fall. And then, just after the new year began, after it all, after everything that unfolded, Bernie had been in labor, her contractions coming hard and fast. They were standing on a new edge, so much more treacherous than those western cliffs. Tom had supported her, his arms around her, afraid she’d have the baby before they got to the delivery room.
Even now, walking into the hospital beside Sister Bernadette Ignatius all these years later, he could still see Bernie’s long red hair, her narrow shoulders, her belly protruding from her unbuttoned dark green coat. He could see her face, in pain, but so alert to what was happening.
“You okay?” he asked her now, standing in the entrance hall.
“I am,” she said. “I want to do this.”
“Then we’ll do it,” he said. Doctors, visitors, and nuns walked by. Tom waited for Bernie to recognize someone, but she didn’t. Walking over to the front desk, he asked for the records department, was directed down one flight. “They’re in the basement,” he told Bernie.
She nodded. They went to the bank of elevators, but when all four were going up, she glanced at him; they were thinking the same thing, and ran to the stairs, hurrying down.
They walked along a long olive-green corridor with fluorescent lights overhead. When they got to the records office, Bernie put her hand on his arm. She looked at him with huge blue eyes, and he knew what she was about to ask.
“Forget it, Sister,” he said.
“Tom, I really think I should go in alone,” she said.
He shook his head. His heart was in his throat. He didn’t want to have to tell he
r how huge this was for him. Couldn’t she see? “I had to let you go in to Eleanor Marie alone, Bernie,” he said. “But not here. He’s my boy, too. I’m coming.”
She looked up at him. Maybe she was thinking about saving face with the nuns working here, or maybe she thought she could be more persuasive without him—but Tom was past the point of backing off.
“Are we going in or not?” he asked.
“I’m doing the talking,” she said.
Tom nodded as he held the heavy door for Bernie, and they walked inside. A tall counter separated a small waiting area from a work space with two desks. A nun about Bernie’s age occupied one, bent to a task on the computer; Tom saw another, younger nun back in the stacks of records that ran like shelves in a library, one row after another.
“Excuse me, Sister,” Tom said.
Bernie gave him a sharp, dark look; he let her take over when the older nun came over to the counter. She was small, pretty, with warm brown eyes and an open smile. Tom saw her glance at Bernie without recognition, but taking in the distinctive habit and cross that marked them as members of the same order.
“Good morning, Sister,” she said, then, looking at Tom, “And you, too!”
“Good morning,” Tom said.
“What can I do for you?” she asked in a gentle brogue.
“Sister, we’re looking for some information,” Bernie said. She sounded strong, like her administrative self. Only Tom could detect the shakiness deep down in her voice.
“Of course,” the nun said. “From the sounds of you both, you’ve come a long way. America?”
“Yes,” Bernie said, smiling. “Connecticut.”
“Ah! I have cousins in Hartford and New Britain. And some in Springfield, Massachusetts. I hope to get there someday; on my sabbatical, maybe.”
“Well, you’d be welcome at our convent in Black Hall,” Bernie said. “Star of the Sea; I’m Superior there.”
Good going, Bernie, Tom thought; way to throw your weight around.
