by Luanne Rice
“Maybe one day, God willing, if I don’t die of old age in this basement first,” the nun said, chuckling. “I’m Sister Dymphna, by the way. So now, what are you looking for?”
“A baby boy,” Bernie said. “He was born on January 4, 1983.”
“And what is his name?”
“I don’t know,” Bernie said.
Sister Dymphna gazed across the counter, confused. Tom felt a trickle of sweat run down his back, between his shoulder blades.
“His birth name was Thomas Sullivan. But he was put up for adoption,” Bernie said.
A look passed between her and Sister Dymphna, a ripple of understanding. The nun glanced at Tom, then back to Bernie, her brown eyes more kind than curious.
“What are the parents’ names?” she asked.
“Bernadette Sullivan and Thomas Kelly,” Bernie said.
“We’re not supposed to release information on adoptees,” Sister Dymphna said quietly, “without going through a lot of paperwork.”
“I understand,” Bernie said, but her tone was beseeching, and her eyes…Tom had been watching her come apart for a day and a half now, and he was pretty sure Sister Dymphna had the compassion to see it, too.
“We just want to know where he is,” Bernie said. “That he’s had a good life.”
Sister Dymphna cast a quick look over her shoulder, as if to make sure the younger nun wasn’t close by. She was back in the stacks, crouching down, replacing an armload of manila files.
“We’re slowly computerizing,” Sister Dymphna said. “We’re not through entering the eighties into our database yet, but I’ll see if those names are in here.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she frowned at the screen. “Nope,” she said. “Not yet.” She glanced up. “Wait just a minute, and I’ll check something else.”
Tom watched her make her way back into the archives. He was aware of Bernie standing close beside him, leaning against the counter, as if she had lost faith in her legs to support her. He wanted to hold her up, but he held himself back. His own heart was pounding so hard, he felt it all through his chest.
A minute later, Sister Dymphna emerged from the stacks. She held a large brown envelope, but she was frowning.
“What’s wrong, Sister?” Bernie asked.
“It’s very strange,” she said. “I have the birth records here. The boy was born at seven-thirty a.m., on January 4, as you said. He weighed 3.36 kilograms. Baby Boy Sullivan.”
“He was called Thomas that first day. Thomas James Sullivan,” Bernie said, and Tom couldn’t let himself look at her. Thomas after him, James after her father, and Sullivan—her last name because she wouldn’t marry him and take his.
“That’s not in the file,” Sister Dymphna said. “And neither is any information on where he went from here.”
“What do you mean?” Bernie asked.
“It’s customary for the pediatrician to make notes in the file, in terms of the child’s placement with an agency.”
“Agency?” Tom asked.
“Yes. The child normally goes from here to one of the agencies approved by the Irish Adoption Board. Our order has several facilities—St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Maurice, and St. Augustine’s.” She paused, scanning the documents. “I would expect to see that information here, stapled to the birth certificate. But it’s been removed.”
“Removed?” Bernie asked, reaching for the paper. There were the staple holes in the top left corner. “Who did this? Why?”
“I have no idea,” replied Sister Dymphna. “There is no way of knowing who accessed the records, or when. I’ve worked here for many years, but I don’t recall anyone ever asking for this information before.”
“So there’s nothing?” Bernie asked. “No way of knowing where he went?”
Sister Dymphna shook her head. “Not unless the mother stayed in one of our homes. Sometimes they move into the convent before or after birth. If that is the case, the convent would have information about the child.”
“We tried that,” Tom said.
“The information doesn’t exist,” Bernie said.
“Oh, it has to exist somewhere,” Sister Dymphna said, growing agitated. “Perhaps it’s this office’s mistake. Transferring files onto the disk, sometimes things get misplaced. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. We’re only human, after all.”
Tom stared down at his feet. He felt pressure building in his chest. He wanted to explode, to grab Bernie and tell her what they had to do. But he’d sworn to behave, to let her try this her way.
“Sister Brigid?” Sister Dymphna called, turning toward the young woman in back. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she approached the front desk. “Would you know anything about the placement certificate from this file? Perhaps it’s on your desk, waiting to be entered into the database?”
“No,” Sister Brigid said.
“No it isn’t, or no you don’t know?” Tom asked harshly.
“Tom!” Bernie said, her tone sharp.
“No, it’s not on my desk,” Sister Brigid said, reddening.
“That’s all right, Sister,” Sister Dymphna said. “I didn’t really think it was. It was just a long shot. Thank you.”
The younger nun hovered for an instant, eyes troubled, seeming to be unsure of what she should do next. Tom homed in on it right away, and he saw that Bernie did, too. Bernie was an angel with young nuns. Tom had watched her over the years, back home at Star of the Sea. She treated the young women as daughters—loving them, wanting the best for them, guiding them, and when they lied or evaded the truth, seeing through them. That was happening now.
“Sister Brigid,” Bernie said. This was a tough one; Tom could see her walking the fine line between wanting to respect Sister Dymphna’s authority and needing to get to the bottom of the story. “Please,” Bernie said.
Sister Brigid’s blush deepened. Her eyes flicked from Sister Dymphna to Bernie. She looked so uncomfortable, Tom felt sorry for her.
“One of our sisters called last night,” Sister Brigid said. “She asked me about this very file. Sullivan-Kelly, she said. She asked me to look inside and check to make sure the placement information was gone.”
“You removed it?” Sister Dymphna asked, frowning.
“No,” Sister Brigid said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, Sister. She made it sound as if it had been removed long ago, and she just wanted confirmation of the fact. That’s all! I only checked for her.”
“What was her name?” Bernie asked.
“Sister Theodore,” the young nun said.
Bernie thanked the two nuns. Her tone was flat, dull; Tom could tell she thought it was over. He held the door for her, and they walked into the stairwell, their footsteps echoing as they climbed. Emerging in the main lobby, Tom felt wild. So alive, on fire, ready to move.
“I’ll get my things,” Bernie said. “And then we’ll leave.”
“No, Bernie,” he said.
“What are you talking about? It’s finished, Tom.”
He shook his head, grabbed her shoulders. Could she see in his eyes the way he felt? She stared up at him, not trying to break free, seeming not to care that crowds were swarming around them, seeing him look at her this way.
“This is the hospital where our baby was born,” he said. “Can you feel him?”
“I could,” she said. “But not now.”
“Don’t let her take him away from you.”
“She got to the records here, too,” Bernie said. “Eleanor Marie. She claims she did it to protect him.”
“She did it because she has it in for you,” Tom said. “And she always has.”
“This is evil,” Bernie whispered. “It’s not about me—it’s about him….”
“Our baby.”
Bernie nodded.
“You’re going to get her back,” Tom said. “And you’re going to do it tonight. We are.”
“Tom, we’re going home….”
He held her, hands on her shoulders, gave
her a soft shake. Staring into her blue eyes, he tingled. Here in this crowded hospital lobby, he felt the breeze coming across the Atlantic, across the Cliffs of Moher, across Ireland.
It belonged to Long Island Sound, and he knew it had come straight from the Star of the Sea vineyard, a breeze full of salt and grapes. It was the smell of home, their home. And he knew they weren’t returning until they’d gotten what they’d come for.
“She didn’t destroy the records,” Tom said.
“Yes she did—she told me—”
“And you believe her? Think about it, Bernie. She’s trying to hide something, and she’s desperate enough to have her henchman call here yesterday to make sure.”
“What could she be trying to hide?” Bernie asked. “About our son?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “But we’re going to find out.”
“How?” Bernie asked, and her eyes began to shine again.
“Listen. We tried it your way,” Tom said. “Now we’re going to try it mine. And we’re going to do it tonight.”
Six
The convent was dark. Everyone was asleep. The red sanctuary candle flickered, and Bernie blessed herself as she walked by. She had taken off her shoes, left them in her cell, so her footsteps couldn’t be heard echoing through the house.
She hurried down the hall, not wanting to keep Tom waiting. A shadow crossed the wall, startling her, but it was just her reflection in the glass of a framed picture of Saint Marie-Joseph, the founder of their order. Street light came through the tall front windows, slanting onto the wood floors and threadbare Oriental rugs.
When she got to the parlor, she saw Sister Anne-Marie waiting. They nodded at each other, and Anne-Marie went to the alarm panel. Bernie had filled her in, enlisting her help—she knew she’d have to disarm the burglar alarms in order to carry out Tom’s plan.
The convent contained several valuable paintings and pieces of furniture, gifts from wealthy patrons, as well as gold and silver chalices and other religious items. The records of the order in Ireland were stored here. Besides, it was a house full of women, and even back home, Bernie took precautions to protect her Sisters. So the alarm was expected, and Tom had reminded her it needed to be disarmed.
At Bernie’s signal, Anne-Marie typed in the code on the keypad. A tiny chime sounded, and Bernie winced, watching the stairs. When no one appeared, she carefully pulled open the heavy door. Sticking her head out, she breathed in Dublin’s night air. It smelled of the sea. She heard leaves rustling overhead, the breeze picking up and blowing through the trees up and down the block.
Tom was waiting across the street. At the sight of Bernie, he hurried up the steps. His wavy dark hair glinted in the lamplight, and his eyes looked young and bright. He wore jeans and a black sweater.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded, her mouth too dry to speak.
“Hello, Tom,” Sister Anne-Marie whispered.
“Hi, Annie,” he said. “Thank you for all this.”
“You’re welcome. I’m with you and Bernie.”
Bernie’s heart tightened. Annie’s loyalty and friendship had not diminished one bit over the years.
“Let’s go, then,” Tom said.
They mounted the stairs, all three of them. Tom wore boots, and when he realized they were making noise, he took them off. It struck Anne-Marie funny, three people walking barefoot through the convent on a stealth mission, and she put her hand over her mouth to hold back laughter. Bernie loved her for it. They had plotted all afternoon, working out the best scenario, trying to imagine what Eleanor Marie would have done with the paperwork.
Annie had joked that Eleanor Marie probably slept with it under her pillow—they would have to brain her to get it, but first they would have to get past Theodore, who slept in the next cell.
“She’s a regular watchdog,” Annie had said.
“Why does she do it?” Bernie had asked.
“Eleanor Marie provides a safety net, in a way.”
“Go on…”
“She is zealous about so many things,” Annie had said. “She is a true believer, there’s no doubting that. She has such a sense of morality, a black-and-white idea of right and wrong. Gray areas don’t exist to her, and that can be a very appealing notion. It stops the questions, you know?”
“I know,” Bernie had said grimly. Some women were drawn to being nuns because of their contemplative natures, their desire to go deeply into the mysteries of life, love, eternity. But once there, the silence could prove too much. Questions led to other questions, and a person could get lost. Some nuns, like Eleanor Marie, became absolutists.
The Superior’s own upbringing had been so painful. She’d been born to a single mother, had never even known her own father. An old nun who had known her growing up said that her mother had been a prostitute, leaving her daughter alone for nights on end. Even worse, one of the men once went after Eleanor, and her mother had failed to protect her. Bernie understood that great hurt had hardened in Eleanor Marie’s heart, freezing it with hatred.
“Sister Theodore is devoted to her. Most of the rest of us just put up with her. She’s very ambitious, and I think she wants to go to Rome. I’m just hoping the next Superior is less evil.”
“‘Evil’ is a strong word,” Bernie had said softly after a long moment, because she wasn’t at all sure the word was wrong. She thought of the young Eleanor, of all she had endured.
“Rigid, then.”
Bernie had nodded. The concept of evil was one for the theologians. “Eleanor Marie certainly takes things—and people—into her own hands, and shapes their destinies. She did it with me, back before I first joined.”
“Are you saying she made you decide to give the baby up?”
“You were there, Annie,” Bernie had said. “You know she influenced my decision.”
Annie had nodded, taking her friend’s hand. “You know what people were saying back then,” she’d said. “We were all in awe of you. Some were so jealous—Eleanor Marie, for example. There was talk…”
Bernie had closed her eyes, transplanted back to the Blue Grotto.
“There was talk of a miracle. And then you showed up, pregnant. Some people were saying you’d been chosen, that the baby was blessed, the Second Coming….”
“He was blessed.”
“It enraged Eleanor Marie,” Annie had said. Her gaze had flickered, not wanting to hurt her friend. But Bernie had given her the signal that she wanted to hear, for her to go on. “She said you had gotten pregnant out of wedlock. That the child was a bastard. She’d raved about fornication, sin, shame. You can imagine.”
“Oh, yes,” Bernie had said, thinking how that would have reverberated with Eleanor’s own troubled history.
“She said that you’d had a vision—she wanted to call you a liar, but she couldn’t dispute the Vatican’s findings. That the Virgin Mary had appeared to you, alone among all of us, and you’d chosen to throw that gift right back in Mary’s face. She’d called you to a life of purity and prayer, and you’d gone and gotten yourself pregnant.”
“I was in love,” Bernie had said.
“Sister Eleanor Marie was obsessed with the idea of sin. You remember. She still is. She says the Blessed Mother called you, and you turned your back.”
“She did call me.”
“I know. I believe you,” Annie had said, taking her hand.
“I think I heard the wrong message,” Bernie had whispered, shuddering with the doubt that had been growing for weeks now, since she had first seen Brendan McCarthy and his red hair, since she’d started thinking and dreaming about her son.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s the Blessed Mother,” Bernie had said. “And when I became a mother, I turned my back on my child to join this convent….”
“You mean, you think she called you to be a mother, not to be a nun?”
“That’s what I sometimes think,” Bernie had replied.
�
�Do you think Eleanor Marie knew that, back when you came to us? And steered you in the wrong direction?”
“I wonder,” Bernie had said. “I think maybe she did.”
“She was so jealous of you. Still is. You’re just a few years younger than she is, but you’re already as powerful within the church. I’m sure she never expected you to become a Superior. Look, we both know that when she looked at you, she saw her own mother.”
A prostitute. Bernie had nodded slightly, imagining how Sister Eleanor Marie would process that. Had she thought Bernie had given herself so freely out of desperation? How wrong that was, Bernie thought; how much she’d loved Tom…
“She thought you’d be hidden in the cloister, repenting for your terrible sin,” Annie had said, making a face to let Bernie know what she thought of that.
“I did repent,” Bernie had said. “But not for loving Tom. I repented for hurting him and our son. And I was forgiven.”
“In the eyes of Eleanor Marie, two sins are unforgivable,” Annie had said.
“What are those?”
“Having a vision without her, and being as highly or better regarded than she within the church. I almost feel sorry for her.”
“Almost,” Bernie had said. “She’s gone over the line, hiding the evidence about my son. I can’t imagine what motivated her to do that; I’m not sure I even care. All I want is to find him.”
“I’ll help you, Bernie,” Annie had said.
Bernie had stared at her, long and hard. Annie’s goodness was so deep, and her friendship was beyond question. But Bernie knew a little about Tom’s plan, and she knew that Annie would be better off not getting involved.
“The only thing I’ll ask,” she said, “is whether you know the alarm code to the front door.”
“To the convent?” Annie had asked, looking shocked.
“Yes. I want to let Tom in tonight. He’s going to help me get behind the iron grate, to look for our son’s records. I can’t do it alone.”
“You’ll need my help, too,” Annie had said. “I know the code; I’ll let Tom in. And I’ll help you tear the place apart till we find your boy. Bernie, I have an idea of where his file might be.”
