by Anbara Salam
After an exchange of queries, Nancy turned toward me but didn’t catch my eye. “They have questions,” she said in a tight voice. “But they’re not exactly relevant.” She took another sip of water.
I let a long breath of air out of my nose. Just as I’d thought. Good old Nancy.
“And as you promised—this information is confidential?” I said, batting my eyelashes.
Nancy held my gaze and nodded seriously. “Of course. This interview is strictly confidential.”
“So . . .” I trailed off.
Nancy scratched the back of her head. “So, I don’t think they’ll need anything else. Hang around for a few minutes, though, anyway.”
The cops scribbled notes and talked between themselves, and Father Gavanto joined in. Vigile Roberto made a joke, and the father laughed.
“Thank you, Bridget,” the father said at last. “Very helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” I said stiffly.
The two cops stretched. Vigile Mario lit a cigarette, offering the pack to Nancy and to me. We both shook our heads.
“Bridget, you are free to leave,” the father said.
I stood up slowly, trying not to seem too eager. “Should I send in Greta?”
The cops looked between themselves; Vigile Roberto folded his arms behind his head and rubbed the back of his ear. “No,” he said, smiling.
When I left the library, I could smell my own sweat, a sweet, faintly tomato smell on my clothes. Greta was in the same spot where I had left her, still smoking.
“How was it?” She stabbed out the cigarette in an ashtray.
“Fine,” I said. “I think it’s all over now anyway.”
I opened the door to the courtyard, and a gust of cold air mixed with the sweat under my arms. I longed for a bath. The wind stirred petals in the courtyard, gathering them in silky whirls. A cigarette carton wheeled under the gate and tumbled around the paving stones. I wondered if Isabella was awake.
The door to the library opened and Nancy appeared, followed by the father. He nodded to us and crossed through the courtyard doors.
“What’s happening?” Greta said.
“It’s all fine. Over,” Nancy said, leaning against the doorframe and rubbing her eyes.
“Oh.” Greta’s shoulders dropped. “What a relief.” She turned to me. “I’m going to call Bobby.” Greta put her hand on my arm. “Thanks, Bridge. For the advice.” And she half skipped along the corridor after Donna Maria.
“What was that about?” Nancy said.
“Nothing, trust me.”
Nancy smiled weakly. “You’re all right?” she said, squinting at me in an anxious way.
“Of course,” I said, as somberly as I could. “Thank you for being discreet.”
Nancy blinked. “Bridget—” She looked around us. “Thank you. For being so brave.”
* * *
Two steps at a time, I ran up to Isabella’s room. My limbs were tingling, my body light. First, Isabella needed a decent meal. And a proper night’s sleep. She’d probably sulk for a while. And it might take a few days for her to feel better, but then we could forget all about the fuss Sister Teresa had caused. The weather would soon be hot again. We would sunbathe by the lake and sit outside the enoteca late into the evening, drinking red wine. We would get up early to go to the market together, crunch through bags of almond biscotti sitting at the Brancorsi pier. I felt as bright and peppy as if I were floating in ginger beer. I was safe—we were safe! Graduation was approaching, and the long vacation beyond. And the last few weeks of term would be for us alone. I reached the landing with a jump and only just restrained myself from doing a jig. If Isabella saw I was so cheery, she might not take it kindly. I composed my face.
As I walked along the corridor to her room, there was a sudden flash of orange in the courtyard. I stopped and glanced out. It was Isabella. What was she doing? I knocked on the window, but the sound was swallowed by the glass. With a creak, I yanked the window and opened my mouth to call for her, then stopped myself. Isabella was running. Running with a lilt to her stride, like she was preparing to jump on a carousel. I stood by the window and watched as she passed through the courtyard gate. The breeze cast a velvet flutter of petals against my neck. It took me a moment before I understood why she looked so suddenly strange. She was happy.
Without thinking, I ran to the end of the corridor and down the back staircase, then out by the side door. Over the top of the hill I spotted her orange sweater behind a cloud of blossoms. She was winding through the back of the orchard. I picked up my pace and jogged up the hill to see her disappear behind the cypress trees on the path that led toward the lake. I ran after her, my heartbeat lodging somewhere in my throat. The day was cooler than I had realized at first, and I was unpleasantly sticky, like a thawing piece of meat. I crossed my arms over my chest. A ticking began in my temples, a clutch of dread in my gut. Why was she so happy? She was almost skipping. What could she even have to do down at the lake? Then it came to me—she was going to the spa.
34.
March
I entered the spa as quietly as I could, straining to detect any sound. First I went to John Henry’s room. The door was open, and I crept toward it, my breath catching. But the room was empty. Even the mattress had gone. I slumped against the doorway. Isabella was in the building, I was sure of it. Unless she had run through and crossed out the other side? I peered through the window onto the front patio, where white butterflies were flickering among the weeds. Maybe I had misunderstood? Maybe she wasn’t cheerful after all. She might have just been running off somewhere to cry. Somewhere that reminded her of Sister Teresa. I dragged my knuckles over the wooden paneling. I was so sure she would be here. Walking back along the corridor, I opened each door in turn. Eventually I arrived at the ballroom and caught sight of my dim reflection in the rust-spotted mirror. When Sister Teresa worked here, she’d often had to light the furnace to keep the pipes from freezing and bursting. Maybe Isabella had gone to the boiler room. The room was barely more than a cupboard behind the central staircase, and when I pulled the door open, the room contained nothing but the furnace and a pair of heavy gloves. I put my hand toward the copper pipes. They were warm. Why were they on? Surely it was far too late in the year to risk freezing pipes now. I was closing the door when I heard the half squeak of a footstep. I stood still and listened. The kitchen. Someone was in the kitchen. I ran through the arched door, down the stairs, and along the hallway, catching a gust of bitter charcoal even before I swung open the kitchen door.
There in the middle of the room was Isabella. And standing on her left was Sister Teresa.
They both turned to look at me.
“Oh,” I said. My pulse rippled through my eyeballs. I steadied myself on the doorframe. I thought I might be sick.
“Bridget,” Isabella gasped, a hand at her chest. Then she broke into a smile, as if she’d been expecting me. “Oh, Briddie, thank God.”
“What?” I stared at her, and then at Sister Teresa, who was wearing a pair of men’s trousers, a knitted blue sweater, and a woolen cap. The outfit made her look so unlike herself it was like seeing an actor auditioning to perform her in a play.
Isabella wiped her face on her sleeve. “What a relief it’s only you . . .” She trailed off. She had clearly been crying, but her eyes were bright.
Although they were standing apart, their bodies were angled toward each other. There was intention in the space between them. As if they had been poised on the brink of embracing, or as if they had only just pulled themselves apart.
My vision was churning with glitter. I rubbed my tongue around my mouth.
“I thought you ran away,” I said eventually. I couldn’t bear to look Sister Teresa in the face, staring somewhere in the direction of her collarbone.
“I did,” she said with a smile in her voice. “I suppose.”
“It’s not funny,” I snapped, catching her eye now. “The cops are here. Donna Maria was crying.”
Her face fell.
“And what are you doing?” I turned to Isabella. “You know everyone is looking for her.”
“Why are you mad?” Isabella frowned.
“Mad? The whole academy has been searching for her! All anyone has talked about is Sister Teresa for days.”
“She’s not a sister anymore,” Isabella said. “It’s Rosaria now. Right?” she said to Rosaria, and although I felt her nod in the corner of my vision, I didn’t turn to look at her.
“Did you know?” I said to Isabella. “Did you know she was here the whole time?”
“Bridget—,” Rosaria began, but I ignored her.
“Well, did you?”
Isabella smiled, a tear running down the side of her nose. “No.” She shook her head. “I only just found her note.” They exchanged a look of such saccharine intimacy, my stomach swirled.
I turned to Rosaria. “You should probably hurry up if you’re running away,” I said, crossing my arms. “Since the cops are looking for you and everything.”
“Briddie, it’s OK,” Isabella said. “You heard what Nancy said. They’re not going to chase after her.”
“Well.” I straightened my shoulders. “We can’t be so sure about that. I had a meeting with them this morning, and they are seriously concerned.” I swallowed. “And anyway, it’s not going to help if they find you here.” I motioned to the room, looking for evidence of a tent or a mattress. Had she been hiding out here the whole time? Had anyone even thought to check the kitchen? “Let’s go,” I said to Isabella. “Before they catch us and start asking more questions,” I said pointedly.
“Briddie—” Isabella licked her lips. “Wait.”
“For what? Let’s not waste any more time,” I said, heading toward the door.
“Bridget—wait.”
I paused, my hand on the doorframe.
“I’m going with her.”
The floor seemed to roll under my feet.
“Rosie knows some people,” Isabella continued. “They can put us up for a while.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I snapped, turning back to face her.
Isabella was chewing her lips. “I just—the last few days have been like—like—hell.” Her face was flushed, tears glittering on her eyelashes. “I was already wondering, thinking about it”—she sniffed— “and now—”
I gritted my teeth. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve decided,” she said. “I want to go. To leave with Rosie. We’ll stay out of the way until this has all blown over.”
I heard a hollow bubble of laughter rise from my throat. “And then what? Don’t be ridiculous. What about Ralph? Your family? Remember? In St. Cyrus. In our hometown, back at home.”
Isabella swallowed. “I’ll write Ralph a letter,” she muttered. “And my mom.”
“Saying what?” I spat. “‘Dear Ralph. Sorry I broke your heart but I’ve spontaneously decided to go on vacation with a runaway nun’?”
Isabella licked her lips. “I’ll tell them the truth.” She hesitated. “Nearly.” She shifted her weight. “The academy is making me crazy. I need a break. And term ends in a couple of weeks anyway.”
I pinched my fingernails into my palms. I could feel the situation sliding beyond me. “Listen,” I said quietly. “Do you honestly think Ralph won’t ask questions? That your mom won’t call up Mrs. Fortescue in hysterics? For what? A whim?”
She licked her lips. “It’s not—it’s not.” She held her hand out, and after a moment, Rosaria reached out, and they clasped hands once and let go. My heart pulsed so painfully it throbbed in my jawbone.
“And your vows,” I said, turning to Rosaria now.
Rosaria’s lip twitched.
“You turned your back on your vows. You made a promise,” I said. “A holy promise to God.”
Rosaria’s eyes flickered. “I did. And then—” She swallowed.
“Well?” I said. “Is it so easy for you to break promises to God?”
“Bridget!” Isabella gasped.
“She’s not the victim here.” I pointed at Rosaria. “Why does everyone act like she’s the victim? Like she’s perfect. Like she never makes mistakes. She ran away! And now she’s trying to convince you to do the same! She acts so wise and holy—but she’s been lying—”
“You’re right,” Rosaria said.
I stared at her, nonplussed.
“I am a liar,” she said, crossing her hands over her chest. “I’ve been lying to myself and to the father.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “And to my sisters, and to you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Oh brother,” I said. “You really expect me to feel sorry for you when you’re forsaking God?”
Rosaria swallowed. “A novice must make a pledge,” she said. “To empty themselves. It means to commit to death of the self—”
“Yeah, you already told us all about that.”
“But I can’t.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve failed. I’ve prayed and prayed but I can’t make myself die.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t actually die,” I said.
She grimaced. “It feels like it sometimes.” She rubbed her face. “And when you told me about the wedding—”
My gaze flew to Isabella, but she was watching Rosaria with wet eyes.
“I realized the extent of my hypocrisy. Failing before God in my vows. Trying to empty myself, but—but—myself keeps fighting back. And to feel—” She glanced at Isabella. “To feel pain over such human things—” She began half laughing. “Jealousy. Regret.”
“Jealousy?” I said woodenly.
Isabella took a step toward her, and without looking at each other, their hands found each other and intertwined. “Briddie, me—Rosie and me, we trust each other—we—” She wiped her face with the inside crook of her elbow.
“Don’t,” I said tersely. I couldn’t bear to hear it. “Don’t. I don’t want to know.”
Isabella released Rosaria’s hand and rushed toward me. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “What will I do without you?”
I stood rigid. Her tears fell against my neck. Over her shoulder I stared at the drops of melted plastic hanging from the shelves. Without me?
“I can’t bear to go back to it, Briddie. Being Mrs. Wifey. Becoming my mom. Waiting around at the club, bored out of my mind, eating scallops.”
“But you love scallops,” I said into her hair. I seized on the image of Isabella, mournfully gazing into the salty liquor of a scallop shell.
She laughed ruefully. “It’s not about the seafood.”
“No, wait—” I was gulping for breath. “You can’t.” I gripped her to me, bracing her by the elbows. My ears were thick. “I don’t understand. This is a mistake.” I must have misunderstood, misheard. We were a pair. We were a set.
Isabella sniffed and pulled back, looking over at Rosaria. Her eyes were swollen and her lips mottled. “It’s not a mistake, Briddie.”
My body filled with heavy, wet sand. I was sinking through the floorboards. I put a hand on my chest. My ribs were cracking together and pressing into my lungs. She was leaving. She was truly leaving. She had finally seen that I had nothing to give her. I could stop trying. I could become nothing. An empty room, unobserved.
“We can write?” Isabella said.
I pictured her letters arriving in the mailbox while I sat at home, waiting. Dull postcard reproductions of famous paintings, starchy, polite messages. “The weather is fine,” she would say. “I had a cold but it’s better now.” It was too awful.
My ears popped; my limbs grew light. “But I could come with you,” I said breathlessly. “I’ll come too.”
“What?” Isabella stare
d at me. A strand of hair fell into her mouth and she yanked it out.
It flashed before me. Me and Isabella standing at the window of a clapboard summerhouse. Isabella might yet become ill again, feverish, yielding. I would wipe her brow. She would gaze up at me, limpid, grateful. If I had just a bit more time, she might snap out of it. The whole thing would all be over by September.
“I don’t want it either,” I said. “The club. St. Cyrus.” Even as I said it, it didn’t feel true. But I continued. “The girls here—they don’t understand me. My background,” I said.
Over Isabella’s shoulder, Rosaria’s eyes focused on mine.
“I’ll be back in half an hour. I’ll pack a bag. I can meet you back here.”
Isabella spluttered. “I’m not leaving right this exact second. Tonight maybe.”
“OK. Tonight, then.” I would have to write to Granny immediately. I’d tell her I was touring art galleries. She’d send me an allowance, I was sure of it. Which bag would I use? “Tonight’s perfect,” I said. “Should I bring Rhona’s fur, do you think? Will it get cold at night?”
Isabella was frowning. “No, but—but—you can’t.”
Rosaria tapped Isabella aside. “Bridget, are you sure you want to?” she said. Her eyes were willing. “Why not wait until after graduation? We could write with an address—”
“Oh, I don’t need to wait,” I said wildly. “It’s like you said—when you know you’re not happy, you have to make a decision.” Had she said that?
Rosaria smiled. “You’d have to leave a note, explaining. And talk to Donna Maria—”
“I will,” I said.
“But your mom,” Isabella said woozily, and chewed on her lips. “Your grandmom.”
“Don’t worry about them,” I said. “This is about me, not anyone else.”
“Bridget’s right,” Rosaria said. “She has the right to determine her own future.” She folded her hands in a reflexive, nunlike way. “Yes. Of course. Yes—come with us!”
