by Luanne Rice
“Yeah. I will,” Tom said. Did she think he was going without her? He’d drive around for an hour, come back, see how she was doing then. Maybe she’d be feeling better. Perhaps she just needed to lie down, clear her head. Or pray. Bernie had always gained clarity through prayer. Tom couldn’t count the times he had come upon her at Star of the Sea, kneeling in chapel, or at the Blue Grotto, or at the outside altar where the bishop always said Easter mass at dawn.
So here he was—he’d given her not one, but two hours. He buzzed the downstairs bell, got no response. Standing on the doorstep, he gazed over the river, watched the water flowing seaward, clouds reflected in the dark surface. After a few seconds, he rang again.
Although Bernie didn’t answer, two students came hurrying out. Tom caught the door behind them before it closed. He started walking up the stairs—but before he reached the first landing, he began to run, taking the steps two at a time.
When he got to the fourth floor, his heart was crashing in his chest. He knocked softly on the door, just in case she was sleeping and hadn’t heard the buzzer. She didn’t answer, so he banged loudly.
“Bernie?” he called. “Hey, it’s me.”
But there was no reply. Tom stood in the hallway, sweat pouring down his back. He took three steps downstairs, then turned and stood outside her door again. Knocked once, twice more. His mind raced, thinking of options. Maybe she’d gone out for a walk. To church, or St. Stephen’s Green, or Trinity College, or O’Malley’s, or maybe back to the Greencastle.
Maybe she’d headed back to St. Augustine’s. But why wouldn’t she have called him? And besides, what could she hope to accomplish? By the time his thoughts quit cycling, his heart felt like lead, and his mouth was dry as cotton. Fumbling in his pocket, he knew what he had to do.
He’d never intruded on her like this, had always respected her privacy. No matter how much silence or space she needed, Tom had always given it to her. They worked alongside each other at the Academy—she in the school and convent, he on the grounds. Not a day in twenty-three years had gone by with Tom not wanting to get into Bernie’s life, into her heart, into her mind. But he’d always respected the way she removed herself, locked herself behind closed doors.
Right now, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. Took out a credit card, worked it in between the door and the frame, slid it down toward the lock. He felt the spring hesitate, then give, and he was inside.
“Bernie,” he called, blood charging through his veins. She wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. What was he expecting? He didn’t know, but he’d never felt so afraid in his life as he opened her bedroom door.
The room was empty.
The clothes she had been wearing were on the chair beside the bed, neatly folded. Her jeans, the sea-green shirt, the big white sweater. Tom walked over, picked them up. He held her clothes to his chest, as if he were holding Bernie. Opening the door to her closet, he already knew what he’d find.
Her habit was gone. He saw an empty hanger, knew with absolute certainty that it had been hanging there. Placing her clothes back on the chair, he walked back into the living room.
The nondescript furniture was just as he’d seen it that first day: a muddy-green tweed sofa, plaid armchair, table with two chairs. Her Bible and prayer book were on the table, along with Seamus’s letter.
What was missing was the folded square of black fabric. Tom had seen it on the table when he’d come to pick Bernie up yesterday. She hadn’t mentioned it, and he hadn’t wanted to ask. He’d just been so glad to see her veil there, lying on the table, instead of on her head.
Bernie had put her habit back on.
All the hope, and all the plans Tom had felt flowing through him since they’d left the convent with their son’s information, died inside him. They swirled and fell, just like sand in a last gust of wind.
Bernie had said she wanted to go home, to Star of the Sea. Tom couldn’t begin to stop her, even if he knew how to try. Wherever she was right now, he had no doubt that it had nothing to do with him. He was starting to realize that, ultimately, very little in her life did.
But he had one thing left to do before he returned to Connecticut with Sister Bernadette Ignatius. He tucked Seamus’s letter inside his jacket pocket, took one last look around, and then locked Bernie’s door behind him. His footsteps echoed on the stairs as he walked down to the street. He had the letter, the picture, and the postcard from Kathleen, and he knew what he had to do. He had never been surer of anything in his entire life, and he was positive that two people’s lives depended on it.
After Tom had dropped Bernie off at the apartment, she’d gone upstairs, every step taking its toll, her legs so heavy, as if they were made of iron. But once she reached the third landing and heard her phone ringing, she started to run. It was crazy, she knew, but she thought maybe Seamus had found her—he had tracked her down, had a change of heart, decided he had to see her and Tom after all.
Fumbling with her key, throwing open the door, she’d flown to the telephone and nearly dropped it, grabbing the receiver to her ear.
“Hello?” she asked
“Bernie?” came the female voice.
“Honor?” she asked, her heart splitting—she loved her sister-in-law, but it wasn’t Seamus.
“Yes, it’s me. How are you, Bernie? Have you found him?”
“Oh, Honor,” Bernie said, her voice breaking. “We did find him. It’s been incredible. But he doesn’t want anything to do with me—with us.”
“Bernie, I’m so sorry,” Honor said, falling silent as Bernie sobbed quietly for a few seconds. Then, “How is Tom taking it?”
“You know Tom. He’s trying to be so strong for me, but that only makes it worse. I look at him and see him holding it together, trying to,” Bernie said, sniffling, wiping her eyes.
“This trip has been a dream for Tom,” Honor said. “You know that. The culmination of a whole lifetime of them…”
“Yes,” Bernie said. “Just looking at him, I can see those dreams swirling around his head.”
“He can’t hide them from you, of all people,” Honor said. “You probably wouldn’t even want him to.”
“At this point, I’m not too sure about that,” Bernie said softly, picturing his eyes, filled with passion and hope. “How is John? And the girls?”
“We’re all fine. Just thinking of you so much—you, Tom, and your son.”
“His name is Seamus,” Bernie said. “That’s what he wants to be called.”
“Well, he has three cousins who’d love to meet him. You know that you’d only have to say the word, and Regis, Agnes, and Cece would fly over there and tell him what’s what.”
“I can imagine,” Bernie said, thinking of her three headstrong nieces. “We saw Sixtus Kelly today.”
“Give him our best, okay? He was amazing with Regis. He counseled her through everything and when they went before the judge, he helped her to have the courage to tell what happened. She’s doing so well now, Bernie. Tom has such wonderful cousins.”
“He and I were supposed to have dinner with them tonight, but I can’t. I can only think of Seamus….”
“I know, Bernie. I’d be the same way. Do what feels right to you, okay?”
“Thank you, Honor.”
“Listen, I’ll let you go. I only called to say I love you—we all do. We’re rooting for you, Bernie. Don’t give up hope….”
“We’ll be home soon,” Bernie said. “Tom and I.”
“Give Tom our love,” Honor said.
“I will,” Bernie said. She hung up the phone, and almost instantly it rang again. Once again she grabbed the receiver, said hello.
“Bernie,” came another woman’s voice—Irish this time.
“Annie?”
“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”
“Oh, Annie,” Bernie said, her voice catching. “Don’t ask.”
“Listen,” Sister Anne-Marie said. “I have a surprise for you. A
shock, in fact.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone asked me to set up a meeting with you. Face to face. And it has to be a secret.”
“Who?” Bernie asked, skeptical.
“Sister Theodore. She made me promise not to tell Eleanor Marie. She wants to see you on her own, and not here at the convent.”
“What does she have to say to me?” Bernie asked, feeling empty.
“You should hear her out,” Sister Anne Marie said. “But I think it’s important, something you really should hear.”
Bernie hesitated, clutching the receiver. Thin gray light came through the big window, breaking through rain clouds over Dublin, rippling across the river’s surface. Bernie looked for silver, but right now there was nothing but flat, pewter gray.
“All right,” Bernie said. “Where?”
“She said she’d meet you anywhere you want.”
“At St. Augustine’s, then,” Bernie said, her voice breaking. “At the Children’s Home, where my son spent his childhood. Tell her I’ll see her there.”
And an hour later, after Bernie had changed from her street clothes into the garment she had worn all these years—that defined her inside and out, that reminded her of the choice she had made—she knelt by the window, praying for guidance. Taking her habit off had been a very mindful decision, having to do with meeting her son. Even more than that—and she could barely admit it to herself—it had had to do with Tom. Putting it back on was no small act, and she prayed she was doing the right thing. Blessing herself, she left the apartment and she walked north through the city streets in her black habit and veil.
Nuns were not an uncommon sight in Dublin, but perhaps seeing one practically run along the sidewalk, her face twisted with grief, looking as if she was about to do battle, was enough to give people pause. Because Bernie got a wide berth, people parting like the Red Sea as she hurried along.
When she got to St. Augustine’s, she felt her heart constrict, her blood freeze, as if she had just entered the Arctic Circle. The children who had been absent on her visit here with Tom—off on a trip to the beach—were now back. She saw them in the courtyard, playing basketball, drawing on the pavement with chalk, two kids pushing each other while a nun tried to break them up.
She glanced around for Sister Anastasia, didn’t see her. An office worker—a layperson, not much older than Seamus—gave her a form to sign. Because she was a member of the Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires, she wasn’t asked many questions; it was assumed she had a reason for being there. Bernie cast an eye over the playground, wondering what Seamus had liked to play, what his favorite games had been.
“Sister Bernadette.”
Bernie was so distracted by the children playing, she didn’t hear her name being called. She watched the kids, heard them talking, couldn’t stop thinking of Seamus.
“Sister Bernadette!”
This time she heard. She turned around, saw Sister Theodore walking heavily up the sidewalk. She was extremely overweight, but here at the Children’s Home, away from the home turf of her convent, she looked almost fragile. Her brown eyes were watery, worried, darting around. Bernie saw the spirit draining right out of her, heard her wheezing breath, as if she was having a hard time walking.
“Sister Theodore,” Bernie said, alarmed by how she looked. She gestured toward a bench in the shade at the edge of the play area. Bernie helped her sit down, felt concerned by her pallor, the sheen of sweat on her face and neck.
Bernie took a deep breath, gathering herself together. She felt like stone. She asserted herself, as Superior of this nun, giving her the coldest look she could summon. Back at Star of the Sea, when she had to deal with problems, she had a certain way of sitting: erect, hands folded, waiting for the other Sister to start talking, so she knew what she was dealing with. At the same time, she felt worried about Theodore’s health.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Please, don’t be concerned,” Sister Theodore said.
Bernie was, however, and offered her a handkerchief. Sister Theodore took it gratefully, wiping her face, balling it up in her hand, trying to catch her breath.
“Why did you want to see me?” Bernie asked after Sister Theodore had composed herself.
“To tell you something,” Sister Theodore said. “You were wise to suggest meeting here. This is exactly the right place for us to have this conversation.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here at St. Augustine’s. Where Thomas grew up…”
“He calls himself Seamus now,” Bernie said. “He obviously wants no reminders of the name his father and I gave him.”
“Sister, I have to confess something to you.”
“I’m not a priest,” Bernie said. “I can’t absolve you of anything; you should go to confession.”
“You’re the only person who can absolve me,” Sister Theodore said, grasping Bernie’s hand. Bernie recoiled at her touch, but forced herself to sit still.
“Look around here,” Bernie said quietly. “Please, Sister Theodore. The broken tar, the weeds growing up, the children…they have such wild looks in their eyes, don’t they? I was just watching them, thinking how alone they must feel. How abandoned by the universe.”
“I see that, Sister.”
“I never wanted to abandon my son,” Bernie said. “It was a terrible decision I had to make. I’d felt called to the convent. It tormented me, as dramatic as that sounds. I’d been yearning for a life of prayer and contemplation. And then I made what I thought was an awful mistake. I got pregnant.”
“Many girls do,” Sister Theodore whispered. “And many babies come here, to St. Augustine’s. And they are placed in wonderful homes.”
“But my baby wasn’t.”
“No,” Sister Theodore said, shaking her head. Her breath came heavily, sounding labored. She’d started wheezing again, and her eyes flooded, overcome with emotion.
“Is that why you needed to see me? To tell me about that?”
Sister Theodore nodded.
“Please, Sister. What is it?”
“Thomas, your son,” Sister Theodore said. “He was the sweetest, most gentle boy I’ve ever seen. I used to come here, to see him. Sister Eleanor Marie wanted me to, to make sure he was getting along well. I thought it was because you were one of us, a Sister…and not just in an ordinary way. The most blessed of us, the one who had received a visit from the Virgin Mary. I thought that we were giving special treatment to your son for that reason.”
“But that wasn’t it?”
Sister Theodore shook her head. “No.”
“Tell me, Sister….”
“There was a young girl,” Sister Theodore said. “Your son and she were inseparable. Truly, it was a sight to see. I would come here, sit on this very bench…” She gazed out across the playground, and Bernie shivered, knowing that her son and Kathleen had played here.
“Kathleen?” Bernie asked.
“Yes. Kathleen Murphy,” Sister Theodore said, sounding confused that Bernie would know.
“Sister Anastasia told us about her,” Bernie said. “She said that she and Seamus had done everything they could to stay together, even sabotaging adoption attempts.”
“Not every attempt,” Sister Theodore said, her voice throaty and low.
“What are you talking about?”
“Because someone wanted to adopt them both—keep them together.”
“What?” Bernie asked, her stomach lurching.
“A couple came to Dublin from Connemara. He was a poet, and she was a playwright. They were very kind, they saw right away the bond between Thomas—Seamus, I mean—and Kathleen. They had such heart, and the kind of creative spirit that allowed them to see the children’s connection. They wanted to adopt them both, keep them together.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“Because Sister Eleanor Marie interfered,” Sister Theodore said.
“Why? For what reason?” Bernie a
sked, her eyes wild. “I thought the only reason Seamus was never adopted was that he’d refused to leave Kathleen!”
“He never even found out about this couple. They never got as far as the interview. When Sister Catherine Laboure, Sister Anastasia’s Superior, first heard about them, she was so happy, she called Sister Eleanor Marie directly. And Eleanor Marie…”
“What did she do?”
“She instructed me to investigate. I called the couple’s parish in Westport. The priest told me that he had had a problem with drink several years back, but seemed to be doing better. The woman had been a widow, with an older child from her first marriage. And that child had had some behavior problems at school.”
“And Sister Eleanor Marie used that against them?”
“All of it, taken together. The alcohol problem, the older child…she’d made a case to Sister Catherine about how precarious the situation could be, trying to take not one, but two children into a home. She said she believed that adopting two children at the same time would cause a great deal of stress on all concerned in this particular family….”
“Do you think she really believed that?”
Sister Theodore hesitated, her lips pursed. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I wish I did, but in all honesty, I do not.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Bernie asked.
“Because you have come to Ireland for answers,” Sister Theodore said, her voice spiraling away into nothing.
“You helped Sister Eleanor Marie hide the truth all this time,” Bernie said, rising from the bench, pacing around it, eyes never leaving Sister Theodore. “Tom Kelly and I had to break into her office just to get our son’s records. She’s gone to a great deal of trouble to keep this buried, and you have been with her every step of the way.”
“I know,” Sister Theodore. “I’ve protected her.”
“She’s evil, if she really did what you say,” Bernie said. “I’ve never wanted to believe that before; I know she suffered when she was young, but to do this…”
“She’s ill,” Sister Theodore said. “That’s what I believe, Sister. Not evil. Do you know about her mother? She used to bring men home to their house; little Eleanor used to hear them night after night. She’d pass her mother’s room on her way to the bathroom and see what was going on. Once, when she was thirteen, one of the men went to her bed; it was a miracle Eleanor didn’t get pregnant.”
