by Maura Weiler
The smooth, cool tiles felt good under my feet as the scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted in through the open windows. I retraced the steps of Sister Teresa’s tour and photographed every one of Sister Catherine’s paintings along the way. Only the rustle of my cotton pajamas and the tick and buzz of my camera broke the unearthly silence. Unsure of the dim lighting, my rookie skills and my bourbon-impaired coordination, I took several pictures of each painting using different shutter speeds. At one point I had to duck into an alcove and share the tight space with a statue of St. Someone Or Other as Sister Scholastica passed by on her way to what I guessed was her perpetual adoration shift in the chapel.
Fifty images later, I wracked my brain for other places where there might be a painting. I had risked the creaking doors of every storage closet and still hadn’t found Sister Catherine’s studio. I was scrolling through the images when I nearly tripped over Penguin. The feline let out a blood-curdling caterwaul.
“Shhh! You’ll bust me,” I whispered.
Penguin replied with a hiss and reached for the dead mouse I’d unwittingly kicked away from her.
When I saw that the fur my bare foot had touched belonged to something other than the cat, I let out my own screech of horror.
Nonplused, Penguin batted the corpse onto a colorful tile that framed it as its own work of art.
I looked around. No one appeared to be within earshot. Penguin had placed the mouse beside a closed door, reminding me of the way my mom’s cat, Socrates, had left dead birds next to the porch door as a gift for her. The familiar smell of the citrus paint thinner Trish used back in college hovered in the air.
“Animal sacrifice went out years ago, you little heathen,” I informed the cat. “But thanks for the heads-up.”
I checked for light under the door. Seeing none, I turned the handle and stepped carefully over Penguin’s offering to enter the confined space. The rough cement floor scratched my bare feet while the citrus thinner assaulted my nose. It was too dark in the windowless room to see more than vague shadows. I threw aside any caution exercised in the previous two hours and flicked on the light switch.
A single, harsh fluorescent rod sent a chemical blue sheen over everything. I blinked and understood why the other sisters preferred to paint by the natural light of the common room windows. I cringed to think what it must’ve been like to try to paint in such a space and doubted I could get decent photographs given the conditions. After adjusting my eyes to the light, I blinked again for a completely different reason.
The walls were a riot of color, brilliant beyond the handicap of poor lighting. Canvases in different stages of completion hung haphazardly on hooks designed to store mops and brooms. On the back wall, high, slotted shelving designed for buckets and cleaning solvents now held a bunch of paintings tipped up against one another. The paint-splotched edges of the canvases indicated that nearly every one had been used. A dented electric fan provided ventilation, plastic wrap kept the paint moist on a Tupperware lid palette, and an old A-frame ladder served as a makeshift easel. Aside from the lack of natural light, it was a functional little studio.
Never before surrounded by so much of my twin’s work, my eyes darted from painting to painting. Dependable as the trademark Ninas in a Hirschfeld, each canvas had at least one figure with a right hand shaped like mine.
As I reflected on the sketch artist who hid his daughter’s name in all of his drawings, it dawned on me that the acknowledgment I craved, but hadn’t received, in my encounters with my sister existed in every painting she’d ever done. Suddenly, the room full of artwork seemed to close in on me with the affirming warmth of a womb. I sat down in the office chair and hugged my knees to my chest. A lump rose in my throat. Catherine remembered me every time she picked up her brush.
Overwhelmed and uncomfortable with my feelings, I leapt up and began taking pictures of the paintings as fast as the camera allowed. I finished the memory card within seconds but continued to press the button in frustration. Only when I paused long enough to pull out the card did I realize Catherine stood in the doorway staring at me. I jumped and stubbed my toe on the uneven concrete.
“Oh, it’s you.” I hopped on one foot and forgot that Grand Silence meant just that. “You startled me. How did you know I was here?”
She tugged on her ear.
“I guess I did kinda scream, didn’t I? That little thing scared the bejesus...I mean, the daylights out of me.” I pointed to the mouse lying in state just outside the door.
The only small object Catherine seemed to care about was the one in my hand. She held out her own hand and waited.
“I’m sorry. I can’t give you the card because it belongs to my coworker, but I will delete the pictures.” I replaced the card in the camera and deleted the last ten pictures. I knew I should have deleted the rest of the images as well but couldn’t make myself do it, rationalizing that it was okay as long as I didn’t show them to anyone. “See? Gone.”
I leaned over and showed Catherine the word “delete” on the display screen, praying she wouldn’t want to inspect it herself and discover the other pictures. She nodded and appeared satisfied. “It was wrong of me to photograph your work without permission, but I couldn’t resist.”
I tried and failed to curb my used-car salesman enthusiasm. All that practice presenting story ideas to Phil and I still couldn’t act nonchalant. I hadn’t planned to suggest a gallery show while drunk and guilty of invading Catherine’s privacy, but the bourbon forged ahead and I followed.
“Do you have any idea how talented you are?” I asked.
Sister Catherine replied by scooping up Penguin’s bounty with an old newspaper and tossing it in the trash.
“You should do a show,” I said. “Nobody else paints like this. People need to see how amazing your work is.”
Catherine glared at me from under a furrowed brow as she donned her robin’s egg-blue paint smock. She lit a candle in the corner of the room, flicked on the electric fan, peeled the plastic wrap from the paint-dabbed Tupperware lid, and chose a brush from several that poked bristles-up out of an old coffee can, all without taking her eyes off of me. Now that I had her attention, I feared it and pinched my arm just to distract myself from the power of her glance.
“Look, I know you don’t want to sell your stuff. But think about how much money you’d make for the cloister. I’ve spoken to an art dealer who’s very interested. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger on the business end.”
My appeal was lost on my sister, whose steady gaze alone made me back out of the room.
Desperate, I considered acknowledging our twinship right then but didn’t want to cheapen that moment by throwing it into a sales pitch. Besides, I wasn’t sure it would help my cause at that point. Instead I pulled my religious trump card.
“Think about the vocations your art could attract.”
Catherine rolled her eyes and shut the door in my face.
“Remind me never to go into sales,” I muttered and turned away from the closed door.
Penguin watched me from across the hall.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
The cat tipped her head and resumed licking her paw, suggesting a response of “Not much.”
A moment later, the first bell rang for Vigils. Catherine emerged from the studio and headed to the chapel without further acknowledging me. Sheepish, I followed, both energized by the art and embarrassed by our exchange.
As midnight Vigils began, my energy gave way to guilt over my recent behavior. Between bouts of self-loathing and trying not to breathe bourbon on anyone, I found the mystery of the prayers whispered in darkness enchanting.
• • •
I misjudged the distance to my pallet on the floor and literally fell into bed after the prayer service. Too tired to care, I slept well despite a bruised elbow.
When the bells rang at 4:55 a.m., I stared at my phone in disbelief. I rolled over, swore I’d get up in a second, and prom
ptly dozed off again. When the bells rang a second time, I only had five minutes to get to chapel for Lauds.
“So much for hygiene.” I swished a quick glob of toothpaste around in my mouth and swallowed it. As I pulled a pair of jeans over my pajamas, my body bewailed what most would consider an ungodly hour with a wave of nausea. I kicked myself at the thought of my overbaked gallery pitch a few hours before.
With no time to put in my contacts and unable to locate my glasses, I stumbled down the hallway. My impaired vision made my hearing more acute. Outside the windows, dozens of birds sang different songs that somehow blended seamlessly. I decided to buy a bird feeder for my patio at home, preferring birdsong to the all too acoustically accessible whoosh, gargle, and sneeze symphony of my neighbors’ morning routines in Venice.
I stifled a yawn and rushed inside the chapel to find all the sisters already washed and dressed for the day. Just as I caught my breath and found my place, they began to sing, not unlike the birds announcing the day outside and every bit as beautiful.
I will sing of the mercies of the Lord forever:
With my mouth will I make known thy faithfulness to all generations.
For I have said, Mercy shall be built up forever:
Thy faithfulness shalt thou establish in the very heavens.
I closed my eyes and truly listened for the first time in my life. Sitting in the midst of the generous voices, the chant had an even lovelier tone than when I’d heard it from the other side of the grille. I hummed along as Sister Teresa helped me find my place in the hymnal.
By six a.m. Mass, I was still tired but ready to grapple with the Latin in my missal. I belted out the songs that were familiar to me with enthusiasm, though often in the wrong key.
Terce followed Mass with a prayer for blessings on the day. The longer I deceived these women, the less I felt worthy of such blessings.
Too nauseated after the morning offices to follow the sisters into the refectory for breakfast, I took a quick shower. My lungs screamed silently for nicotine. I settled for a tall mug of ink-black coffee from the refectory sideboard on my way to report for kitchen duty. It was only eight a.m., but my body insisted the day should be over. I took a swig of the brew and pushed open the kitchen door. Before the bitter liquid could slide down my throat to deliver its much-needed caffeine, I let the door swing shut again and turned back to the refectory wall.
The blank space over the sideboard stared back at me. Catherine’s painting of The Last Supper was gone. Flooded with guilt over whatever role I may have played in its removal, I prayed she hadn’t altered it.
I went into the kitchen and took in the daunting industrial sinks, stovetops, and oven. The moist smell of yeast floated on a current of oven-heated air. At the counter, Sister Dominica peeled potatoes while Catherine kneaded bread dough with quick folds and angry jabs. Judging from the pile of potato skins and the rise in the dough, they’d been at it for a while.
“I thought Mother Benedicta told me to be here at eight,” I said. “Am I late?”
Sister Dominica smiled and shook her head, and then handed me a blue smock like the ones she and Catherine wore to protect their habits.
As I put on the apron, Catherine carried a stack of empty mixing bowls still sticky with dough over to the sink where I stood. She placed them in front of me with a clank, but without a word, and returned to her dough. I found the dish liquid and filled the sink with hot, soapy water, grateful for a task I could handle.
“I noticed you took down the painting in the refectory. Are you working on it?” I couldn’t help asking despite being unsure I was ready for the answer.
No answer came. Catherine gave the bread dough one last punch and left the kitchen. Soon the sounds of rattling cans and clattering utensils emanated from the pantry down the hall.
“We try not to speak during the day unless it’s work-related,” Sister Dominica murmured after the artist was gone.
I scowled in frustration and began washing the bowls. After a few seconds, Dominica checked the hallway and shut the door.
“She took them all down,” the novice whispered. “Sometimes she removes one or two at a time, but she’s never taken them all down at once before. I don’t know why she did it.”
I knew why, and I was ashamed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The missing paintings clinched it. I washed the mixing bowls clean, but I couldn’t rationalize away my indiscretions any longer. In less than twenty-four hours, my presence had already become detrimental to my sister and her art. I took off my apron, mouthed “bathroom” to Sister Dominica, and left the kitchen in search of Mother Benedicta.
I considered the situation as I walked. Clearly, the more I insisted Catherine share her work with the public, the more she’d make it unavailable. Why was I so driven to expose her against her will?
It wasn’t that I felt some higher calling to introduce an important artist to the world, even if she was my twin. I’d simply chosen to react to my sister’s immense talent the only way I knew how. I needed to write about the paintings as a way to work through all the feelings they stirred up for me, but did I really need to publish the results? Probably not. I would get by with or without my Comet job if it came to that. I always had.
I found Mother Benedicta in her modest office. A perfect calla lily bloom rested in a mason jar on her tank-green metal desk, and the plastic clock on the wall ticked off a military rhythm that matched my racing heartbeat.
“I think I should leave,” I said the moment I entered.
“Already?” Mother put aside her paperwork and gestured for me to sit. “You’ve only—”
“I know. But I came for the wrong reasons.”
“We all do, more or less.” Mother touched the cross around her neck. “Whether they’re delusions of sainthood, suffering, or both, none of us had any idea of what we were really getting into until we got here.”
“Delusions of grandeur in my case.” I sat down and wound my right foot around the chair leg to anchor myself against squirming. “I came because I wanted to write an article about Sister Catherine’s paintings.” I didn’t see any point in mentioning that Catherine and I were twins. It was bad enough to admit I was there to exploit a nun, much less one who was also my sister.
Not even a hint of surprise flickered across Mother Benedicta’s face. “I know you did. You still do.”
“On some level, yes.” My shoulders relaxed. Apparently I was as bad an actress as I’d always thought. “Which is why you asked me not to publish anything about the cloister.”
She nodded.
“And since I’ve promised you I wouldn’t and plan to keep my word, I don’t see any reason for me to stay here.”
“Don’t you?”
I cocked my head and looked at her, confused.
“I’m guessing there is a reason; we just don’t know what it is yet. If there wasn’t a reason, you would have left the moment you promised me you wouldn’t publish.”
“I could have lied,” I said, again aware that I was still lying about my relationship to Catherine. I decided to admit that too before the conversation ended. “Or maybe I stayed because I wanted to see the rest of the art.”
“No.” Mother practically looked through me. “You don’t lie about the important things, except maybe to yourself. And you knew you’d see all the art eventually, even if you hadn’t stayed, given that Sister Teresa shows you at least one painting every Visiting Day.”
“It’s not Sister Teresa’s fault that—”
“That Catherine is an inspired painter? No, I don’t believe it is. There’s no rule against sharing community property with visitors.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and unwound myself from the chair, glad I hadn’t gotten the extern in trouble.
“Why else did you stay?” Mother asked. “Why did you apply for a visit at all, for that matter? You could have written an article about your twin from the outside.”
“I might have.”
I thought about my growing pile of journals on the subject and then stopped, surprised, and looked at the prioress. “You know that Catherine is my twin?”
Mother Benedicta nodded. “I saw the resemblance, then confirmed it by checking your birth date on the aspirancy application.”
Even though Sister Teresa’s warning glance to Sister Scholastica over the Scrabble tiles had alerted me to the possibility that the sisters suspected my relationship to Catherine, I still turned bright red when Mother Benedicta said it out loud. She was the first person who had met both Catherine and me to acknowledge that we were siblings. I was both embarrassed that I hadn’t told her myself and exhilarated that there was now someone with whom I could openly refer to “my sister” (a phrase that still felt unfamiliar) without having to explain who my twin was.
“Does anyone else know?” I asked, guessing the answer. These nuns lived away from the world, but were by no means unworldly.
“I’m sure several sisters have figured it out. Your hand is in all the paintings; it’s hard to miss. Have you talked to Catherine about your relationship?”
“No, but she seems to know.”
“She’s doing as bad a job of hiding it as you are.” Mother nodded. “I’ve never seen such a case of sibling rivalry.”
“We’ve just met, so we’ve got some catching up to do.”
“Well, I expect you two to hurry up and get things resolved. I didn’t grant you an aspirancy visit to watch you conduct a family feud.”
“Why did you let me enter at all if you knew Catherine was my sister?” I asked.
“It’s not uncommon to have biological sisters in the same religious order. Sisters Soteris and Walburga Saenger lived and prayed among us until they passed on within days of each other three years ago,” Benedicta said. “Besides, your sister isn’t the reason you’re here. You could have acknowledged your relationship with Catherine and gotten to know her on visiting days just as easily as you got to know her paintings.”
