Saints for All Occasions

by J. Courtney Sullivan

  Sometimes late at night, she was awakened by screaming. Girls disappeared and weren’t spoken of again. One morning, a blonde let out a yelp in the breakfast room and grabbed her stomach, so alarmed by whatever sensation she felt there that she dropped a water glass, which shattered on the floor. The nuns hurried her out the door, and that was it—they never spoke of her again.

  Theresa wrote home to her family, just short notes about the weather. She hated lying to them, and making Nora lie on her behalf. She said a novena for forgiveness.

  Nora visited one evening a week, as much as was allowed. She was sometimes stern. She didn’t say much. Other times, when Theresa herself was particularly sad, Nora endeavored to make her laugh and whispered that it would all be fine in the end.

  Theresa tried not to be hurt when, on Nora’s second visit, her sister came in and said, “I have news.”

  She sounded bashful, embarrassed.

  “What is it?” Theresa said.

  “Charlie and I were married over the weekend.”

  “What! Nora!”

  “I hated to do it without you. But there was a cancellation at the church and Charlie had been wanting to get it done. It all happened so fast. The priest even waived the banns. We’re moving our things into a new apartment. Mrs. Quinlan’s helping me fix it up. You’ll come and stay there with us when all this is over.”

  Nora made no mention of what she had said about marrying him when they were alone together. That the very thought of it made her sick.

  —

  The girls at Saint Mary’s were allowed one outing during their stay. After Theresa had been there ten weeks, Nora and Charlie signed her out. They drove a long way in his cousin’s car, nearly an hour’s drive. All the way to a town called Hull. A pretty place, right on the ocean. It reminded Theresa of home. Charlie said they wouldn’t be seen by anyone they knew there. They could go to a movie if she liked. The Apollo Theatre glowed, massive, welcoming, in the evening light. King Creole was showing, Elvis Presley in the starring role.

  Afterward, they strolled along beside the seawall. The ocean on one side and an amusement park, all lit up, across the road. Theresa wished they could go inside the gates.

  “Wouldn’t this be a lovely place to live,” Nora said.

  She was in a particularly friendly mood, Theresa thought. Marriage suited her, then. Nora walked ahead alone, taking in the scenery.

  People smiled at Theresa as she walked at Charlie’s side. She thought they must have taken her for a proper wife, a soon-to-be mother. She loved the simplicity of the lie, the purity of it, when the truth had become such an ugly thing.

  When they dropped her off afterward, Charlie stayed in the car.

  Nora took Theresa to the door.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said.

  Theresa could sense that Nora didn’t want to say it.

  “It’s about your Walter,” she said, finally. “Theresa, he’s married.”

  “No,” Theresa said. “That’s impossible.”

  “Charlie knows people who work at the Edison. They told him Walter has a wife. She had a baby not too long ago.”

  Theresa’s knees began to shake. “Oh.”

  “It’s awful,” Nora said. “A married man, a father, behaving that way. The nerve of him. Really, the gall. I’m so sorry, Theresa. He’s a snake. I’m glad you’re rid of him.”

  Theresa thought of the nights he hadn’t shown up for a date. He had never visited her here. She had forgiven all of it. She had blamed herself. She had never wondered for a moment if his absences hinted at some deeper transgression. A wife. A child. There was no worse piece of news her sister could have delivered. Walter’s love had been the bright light in her thoughts, the one thing she had to look forward to when all this was behind her. She wanted to go after him, to rage at his doorstep, to demand that the truth not be the truth.

  Nora put her palms on Theresa’s cheeks, holding them there, as if by doing so she might release some of the pain and take it upon herself.

  “Don’t be too sad,” Nora said. “Please.”

  Theresa felt a sob welling in her chest.

  “There’s something else I want to discuss with you before I go,” Nora said. “It’s very big news, in fact.” Nora stopped. She couldn’t get the words out. She inhaled deeply and then tried again.

  “I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve decided Charlie and I will take the baby when it’s born. I’ve worked it all out. I already have everyone thinking I’m pregnant. I wear these big, baggy dresses to work. I send Charlie alone to family parties, with stories about how I’m home sick in bed.” She paused. “This way the child will be in your life, Theresa. I know you don’t think you care about that now, but you will someday.”

  Theresa thought of how Walter knew his way to that closet at the Intercolonial. He wasn’t discovering it that first time. He was leading her someplace he’d already been.

  “Theresa,” Nora said. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “I want to go to bed now,” she said. “I’m tired.”

  “This will be the best thing for everyone,” Nora said. “You’ll see. The baby will stay in the family.”

  “All right,” Theresa said. “Good.”

  She didn’t care about a baby she had never met and couldn’t even imagine. She cared about Walter, gone to her now.

  All night, she lay awake, thinking of him.

  —

  After fifteen weeks at Saint Mary’s, Theresa woke one night in what she took for a puddle of blood. She cried out. A moment later, Sister Josephine was at the door, switching on the light.

  Theresa saw that it was not blood but water.

  Sister Josephine called down the hall, “Sister Bernadette, it’s time!”

  They brought a wheelchair in. Theresa was wheeled through a long tunnel she had never seen before. On the other side, they emerged into the bright maternity wing of Saint Margaret’s Hospital.

  Next thing, she was lying on a table, the nuns strapping her wrists down.

  “God bless,” said Sister Josephine. And they were gone.

  Theresa lay alone, screaming, for what seemed like days. Every few hours, a nurse entered the room, checked her, and left without a word. Theresa begged the woman to help her, but the expression on the nurse’s face was flat, as if she couldn’t hear.

  The pain was intolerable, like nothing she had ever known. She stared out the window at a brick wall across the way. She tried to summon the courage of her own mother, who had done this at home three times. But then, her mother was probably surrounded by ladies from town, rubbing her back, telling her stories. Theresa wished she could locate a memory of her face. She screamed for Nora, half expecting her to hear.

  She slipped in and out of consciousness. Her head ached as if she had banged it against the table. She couldn’t remember seeing day turn to night.

  She wailed. She bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood. After several hours, she swore she saw an image of the Virgin Mary flash on the brick wall outside. Theresa thought she must be dying and accepted it willingly if the pain would only go.

  A doctor entered the room.

  Just before sunrise, her baby was born.

  —

  She must have fallen asleep. Next she knew, she was lying there, her arms untied but bloodied and bruised.

  Sister Josephine came in holding the child, wrapped in a blue blanket.

  “Well done,” she said. “Would you like to hold him?”

  Theresa said she would. She wanted to know if he looked like her.

  “You’ll have to learn to feed him,” Sister Josephine said. “You’ll do it for a few days, until he’s ready to go home.”

  Theresa stared down at her son, this beautiful creature with wavy black hair and blue eyes. He was so clearly Walter’s boy, the only proof of what the two of them had been.

  “Like this,” the nun said, trying to avert her eyes and unbutton the top o
f Theresa’s nightgown at the same time. “Go on.”

  Theresa put the baby to her right breast and nudged his chin up to latch on to her nipple. She had to attempt it three times before he understood. A strange and extraordinary thing, to watch a child so young learn something new.

  “I’m going to name him Patrick,” she said.

  “I think it’s up to your sister to name him, Kate.”

  “My name is Theresa.”

  They were both silent until the nun continued, “It’s such a kind thing your sister is doing. Most girls here won’t ever see their babies again. She fought very hard for you.”

  When Nora visited for the first time, only the two of them and the child in the room, Theresa said, “I want to call the baby Patrick.”

  “Fine,” Nora said.

  “You don’t need to do what you planned,” Theresa said. “I’ve decided I’ll raise him myself.”

  “How on earth do you imagine you’ll do that?”

  Sister Josephine came in then. She went to the baby, who had started to fuss in the bassinet. She patted his head, lifted him up.

  “I wonder,” Nora said, “if we might bring them both home sooner. Today, even.”

  “I’m sorry, no.” Sister Josephine’s tone grew curt. “We have a way of doing things. Rules must be followed, even in a situation as unusual as this one.”

  Theresa wondered what made it unusual. She thought for the first time of the family Sister Bernadette had mentioned that first day. The family who had been chosen to raise her son. She felt overcome by the injustice of the thing. To this good Catholic family, a baby would appear, begotten, not made, like Jesus in the Nicene Creed. Or so it would seem. But no one had spoken of them. Her baby was going to be Nora’s now instead.

  The next day came, and then the next. Theresa rocked Patrick, fed him, walked the halls with him in her arms to stop him from crying. She could not believe he was what had been inside her all this time.

  “I’m sorry I called you a boil,” she whispered to him once.

  On what was to be her fourth and final night alone with him, Theresa stayed awake past dawn, staring down at his face. The nuns wanted to take the baby to the nursery to sleep, but she begged to keep him with her.

  In the morning, they told her, the usual protocol would be followed. Patrick would be taken from her and brought to his new parents in some other room. Nora and Charlie would come get her afterward. The baby in Nora’s arms. A clean slate. A new story.

  When the moment came, Theresa felt that she might die.

  “It’s time,” said Sister Josephine. “His parents are here.” She held out her hands. She began fussing with the baby, even though Theresa still held him. Sister Josephine took a white plastic comb from her pocket and smoothed Patrick’s hair. She pinned something small to his diaper.

  “What’s that?” Theresa asked.

  “The Medal of the Immaculate Conception. We give them to all our babies when they go home.”

  “The Miraculous Medal,” Theresa said.

  “That’s right. Just one more minute now. Say your good-byes.”

  The nun left the room.

  Theresa looked down at the tiny silver oval. There was a ring of blue around the edge. The familiar Virgin, bathed in light, and the words O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.

  She thought for the first time in years about how the medal came to be. How the Virgin appeared to Saint Catherine in a Paris church and commanded her to make these medals, so that they might protect whoever wore them. Theresa’s favorite part, always, was the rebellion. She loved when Mary said, God wishes to charge you with a mission. You will be contradicted, but do not fear; you will have the grace to do what is necessary.

  Theresa felt the power of Mary and all the saints with her now.

  When Sister Josephine returned and said, “All right, darling. Give him to me,” Theresa said, “No.”

  She said it softly. Even so, she surprised herself. Saying no to a nun!

  The sound grew louder. “No, no, no, no. No.”

  “Sister Bernadette!” Sister Josephine said, panic in her voice. She went quickly from the room.

  Theresa looked out the window at where Mary had been, and then down at the medal. Saint Catherine. And here, all these weeks, they had called her Kate. She understood.

  The nuns flew in, their black robes swooping like witches’ cloaks. Sister Bernadette didn’t say anything, just came to her and tried to take Patrick from her arms. Theresa held tight to the child and screamed.

  She heard the noises and felt shocked by them, as if they weren’t coming from her own mouth.

  Patrick started to cry.

  “See what you’ve done to him?” Sister Bernadette said.

  “He’s mine!” Theresa yelled. “They can’t take him!”

  Sister Bernadette said sharply, “You signed the paper. This child shouldn’t suffer for your sins. Give him to me before I call the police. You’re an unwed, unfit harlot.” She turned to Sister Josephine. “I warned you this would happen.”

  Sister Josephine looked distressed. “If you love him, let him have a real home,” she said. “A mother and a father. Someday you’ll have a child of your own. For now, you’ll make a lovely auntie.”

  When Theresa glared at her, Sister Josephine said, “I’ll get the sister.”

  Nora walked in a few minutes later, Charlie behind her. They were dressed in their Sunday best, as if they were off to Easter Mass.

  “Don’t make me, Nora!” Theresa begged.

  “Everyone’s excited to see you,” Charlie said. “Mrs. Quinlan keeps saying the house isn’t the same without you. We’re supposed to go over there for dinner tomorrow. She’s making a strawberry pie.”

  Theresa regarded Nora and Charlie, husband and wife. They expected her to go home and eat pie and invent stories about the summer, as if her son had never been born. After they had forced her to come here.

  Her sister was forever trying to tame her, clean her up for the world. Nora had married a silly man she didn’t love. How could the fact of his existence make her more of a mother than Theresa was to her own child?

  She could tell from their faces that they were just as terrified as she was.

  Theresa was growing tired. She needed Nora to understand.

  “I had a sign,” she said, bitter tears pricking at her eyes. “He’s meant to be mine. I’ll take him away from here tonight.”

  “Where would you go?” Nora said.

  “Please help me,” Theresa said. “Please. If you don’t, I’ll find a way to keep him just the same. I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done to me. I’ll scream it in the streets. I’ll run off with him and you’ll never find us.”

  “Theresa!” Nora said.

  Her sister came up close. She made her voice soft and low, the way she did when Theresa was a child and needed soothing.

  “You’re going to be a teacher,” Nora said. “You’re going to meet a wonderful man. Remember the ones your friend on the ship told you about? Rich and handsome. You’ll find one just like that. And Patrick will always be near you. This is the only way.”

  “Stop this chatter now,” said Sister Bernadette. “There will be no more discussion.”

  She took the baby from Theresa’s arms and handed him to Nora.

  Part Three

  2009

  6

  THE NUNS AT THE Abbey of the Immaculate Conception chanted seven times daily at the ringing of the bells. The two a.m. call to Matins was the most difficult, and so, Mother Cecilia believed, most important. She had long since trained herself to wake up for it, to dress and get to the chapel, alert and attentive to the prayers at hand.

  On Monday morning at one-thirty she rose in darkness, and noticed the silence. After seven straight days, the rain had stopped. Over the course of the previous week, every corner of the abbey’s four hundred acres had gotten so thoroughly drenched that the flat rubber soles of the nuns’
shoes sank into the grass and seemed to want to stay there, stuck in the mud, forcing the grudging earth up with each step.

  All over the property, the branches of two-hundred-year-old pine trees sagged, threatening to snap. In the raised vegetable beds, the last of the winter broccoli stalks grew heavy with water. The beanstalks that climbed the lattice fence shook in the wind. The goats and cows and llama had to be coaxed from the barns with ripe pears. Even the dogs—four yellow Labradors who had spent so many happy afternoons getting filthy in the river—wanted to stay indoors, darting out only a few feet from the porch and right back in again each morning. The river itself had overflowed, swamping its banks.

  Inside, moisture clung to every surface. Someone was assigned to wipe down the valves of the chapel organ at regular intervals for fear that they might rust. Wooden doors throughout the dormitory had swollen from the humidity and refused to shut. A damp cold filled the long stone corridors. Everyone was in a wretched mood. Old tensions resumed, and new ones sprang up like mushrooms, taking them all by surprise.

  In her cell, rain dripped through cracks in the ceiling into three saucepans at the foot of the bed. Every night, she listened to the rhythmic tapping of each drop as it landed and wondered how they would afford a new roof.

  But now, at last, it was over. After Matins, she fell back to sleep in an instant. When the bells rang again at dawn, she dressed, feeling content. She went about her morning plans—Mass and paperwork and baking bread—with a cheerful sense of order restored. She praised the beautiful day to the postman and the youngsters staying in the guesthouse. They all complained that the air had turned cold, but that was to be expected in Vermont, in January. It was the unseasonable warmth that had brought them rain in the first place. She preferred the winter weather. Even at her age, she still got excited by the sight of the abbey in snow.