The Divine Economy of Salvation

by Priscila Uppal

  “When does it stop?” Bella whimpered. Her entire body was in a cramp, her arms tightening against our shoulders, her knees buckling. “When does the pain stop?”

  “Soon,” Rachel kept saying, her small hands cupped around Bella’s waist dabbed with blood. “Don’t worry, Bella. Just wash up and it will end soon.”

  Her motherly stance surprised me. Rachel, the one so intent on hurting Bella, had instantly become her protector.

  Water running in the bathroom was no cause for alarm. Many of the girls would leave their rooms in the night to get a glass of water or use the toilet. Caroline filled a jug of water kept beside the sink and handed Bella one of the white washcloths from the hamper. Bella entered the middle shower stall, her woollen skirt at her ankles, visible under the curtain. We could hear her wincing and scrubbing. Caroline prayed over the sink, Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee, her knuckles clenched to the porcelain. Rachel and I sat in front of the shower like uneasy guards.

  “Is she . . . is she going to be all right?” I asked Rachel, who had curled into a ball on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking back and forth.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted blankly, her eyes on her kneecaps, her lips close to the skin as she rocked.

  “But you told her that she’d feel better—”

  “How the hell should I know?” she spat back while keeping her voice down and continuing to rock. I didn’t care whether she had the answers or not; I just wanted her to say she did. Whatever she said I would accept, so we could get to sleep without nightmares, so we could wash this night from our hands and forget. I wanted Bella to be all right. Her pain to end. Rachel was our leader. I didn’t know who else to turn to.

  Caroline recited the Hail Mary without pause, her head bent over the sink as if she were going to be sick. She was marking a bar of soap with her fingernails with each repetition, counting as one does beads on a rosary. Sister Marguerite made us say the rosary whenever we did badly on a test or disobeyed her instructions. We had to sit in the corner of the room and recite it softly to ourselves, then sign on a piece of paper when we had completed the assigned penance. It was worse than Confession. She always prescribed more punishment than Father McC. did. Caroline had switched to her native French after the first prayer, unmindful of the reprimands she usually received from Sister Marguerite when she did so. Matters between the English and the French had exploded into violence only a few years before. We had seen pictures and news reports regarding the kidnapping and murder of an English official. A bomb had gone off. Caroline’s sister had warned her that even with time she should not be so forthcoming about her French background.

  Rachel said little to Caroline, except to ask her for a glass of water. Caroline handed it to her, stopping her prayer in mid-line and then returning to it as if she hadn’t been interrupted. I was afraid Caroline would leave us alone with Bella, as Francine had done, but Caroline stayed. I was tempted to join in her prayer, but I knew it wasn’t going to be adequate punishment for what we had done.

  After about fifteen minutes, Bella dropped the washcloth, its fresh whiteness turned a dark burgundy, the colour running down into the drain. What else is down there? I thought, horrified. Under the ice of the canal?

  “I’m feeling better,” Bella managed. “Just a little dizzy.”

  Caroline spat in the sink with a heave.

  “It’s OK. You can go now.” Bella stayed behind the curtain. Rachel and I confronted each other with nervous smiles.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I need to use the washroom first.” Her voice was level, almost confident. She had stopped crying and I thought how odd it was that she was now embarrassed to show her naked body to us, after what we had seen.

  Although we were filled with guilt over the bruises the candle holder might have caused, we believed her, eager to trust. We left Bella in the washroom sometime after nine o’clock. Caroline stopped praying. Rachel accompanied her down the hallway to their rooms and I left in the opposite direction to mine, noticing a light flickering on and off in Francine’s like a signal.

  My room was cold. I turned on my bedside lamp and curled under the covers, shivering, desperately hoping I could sleep soundly for once. Beside me on the dresser, the dried pink carnations I had kept from a centrepiece at Rachel’s birthday party amazed me with their stubbornness. The original bright colour of the petals had faded, yet their skeletons were preserved, the stems upright in the vase. I brought them to my nose and breathed in their lingering perfume, trying to keep the night from my mind. The precious flowers in my hands, I said my nighttime prayers, careful not to crush them. But Bella, Bella would be dead by morning.

  “Does anyone know where Bella is?” asked Sister Aline finally, approaching the stairs before the altar where the majority of the girls had congregated, seated on separate stairs, their knees kept together modestly, the hems of their skirts hanging to their ankles while Rachel and I sat on the top stair.

  “I saw her last night,” replied Yvonne. “I went to the washroom, and she wasn’t feeling well.”

  Rachel concentrated on the red carpet in front of her. I stared at Yvonne, who didn’t seem concerned, only relaying basic information with the same tone of voice she would use if you asked her directions to a classroom or what she ate for breakfast. Caroline got up and excused herself.

  “Probably the flu,” asserted Yvonne. “She said she didn’t feel well in the stomach.” She gestured to her midriff with her hands to indicate nausea and glanced around the room furtively, since girls frequently said they had the flu to disguise the fact they were having their periods. Some of the girls caught her euphemism and returned Yvonne’s sympathetic glance.

  “Maybe someone ought to check,” mused Sister Aline absently.

  “Francine’s not here either,” piped up Jessica, who was always meticulously on time for any class or event.

  “Francine had to take a test she missed,” Rachel muttered. “She told me so, yesterday.”

  “Well, all right then,” Sister Aline replied, clapping her hands against her hymnal. “Angela, why don’t you go check on Bella and we’ll begin with the scales. Can’t do much more without Bella. Just ask if she’s in need of a nurse.”

  I rose, but it was difficult for me to do so. I moved slowly, the way a pregnant woman struggles to rise from a chair, my body weighing me down. I wasn’t even sure whether I would actually go to Bella’s room or just walk around the residence for a few minutes and return. I descended the stairs and crossed the threshold, shuffling my shoes, my cardigan tied around my waist. Rachel stared at me with dread. My black soles clicked against the wooden floor of the church as I departed, marking time.

  I ran into Esperanza in the washroom collecting the laundry. The shower stalls were empty, their curtains pushed to the sides, and I lied, told her I was looking for a missing hair clip Mr. M. had bought me. At the mention of Mr. M’s name, Esperanza immediately searched the drains in the showers and under the garbage can. She rifled through the laundry to see if it had slid to the bottom of her cart. The last time I’d spoken with Esperanza had been when she washed my nightgown.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Esperanza,” I added, “I’m also supposed to check and see if Bella has the flu. She’s not at choir practice.”

  “So, why don’t you?” Esperanza retorted, hands against her hips.

  “She’s no friend of mine,” I said and turned to sort through the garbage can, filled mostly with Kleenex.

  Esperanza, accustomed to continual bending, prostrated herself on the cold floor, combing with her fingers under the sinks.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” she said.

  “Could you check on her for me?” I asked, my voice cool and controlled in a manner surprising even to me. “I don’t want to have to take her to the nurse. I’ve got choir. You could get out of work for a while, couldn’t you?” I kne
w from Rachel that Esperanza liked to deviate from her regular routine as much as possible, just for the sake of change.

  “No. I’d still have to finish,” she snorted, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation. “What does it look like?”

  “What?”

  “The hair clip. What does it look like?”

  “Forget about it,” I said, and I was on my way out to face my own punishment when Esperanza grabbed my arm, drawing me close.

  “You trade me that bottle of perfume Rachel gave you last week and I’ll go for you. I’ll even sniff around the other rooms for your hair clip if you like. Maybe someone stole it.”

  It was then that I realized Esperanza rummaged through the things in our rooms. I thought of a couple of missing magazines and tiny trinkets Rachel couldn’t locate that I assumed she had been careless with, had left or lost outside the school. Rachel’s father had bought her a bottle of perfume, a more expensive brand than the one I’d given her for Christmas, but she sneezed when she used it and passed it on to me. As far as I knew she hadn’t shown it to Esperanza. I had been so pleased with the bottle itself, a blue-tinted glass in an oval shape, I hadn’t worn the perfume yet. The only way Esperanza would have known about it was if she had pried into my top drawer, where it was hidden inside one of my socks. She’s taking things from me, I thought angrily. People are always taking things from me.

  Esperanza removed her cleaning gloves and draped them over the rim of her empty pail.

  “Forget about it,” she said, pushing her grey cart past me, bumping it against my side.

  “I know about you!” I screamed.

  Esperanza stopped her cart. She didn’t turn around to face me, but gripped the handle tightly.

  “I know about you and Rachel’s father! I know!”

  I attacked Esperanza from behind, smashing her up against her cart, then punching her in the stomach when she turned to defend herself. Esperanza, doubled over, rammed her head back into my ribs. Without a cart to steady my balance or catch my fall, I landed on my tailbone. A number of dimes I had in my blouse pocket, tokens from Mr. M. I hadn’t yet spent, clattered to the floor. Esperanza raised her leg as if to kick me.

  “You fucking bitch!” I screamed, raising my arms to shield myself. “Mr. M. is going to kill you when Rachel finds out! You hear me? Kill you!”

  Esperanza lost her nerve and lowered her foot back to the floor. She smoothed out her apron. Then she dropped down to my level, taking my shaking fists into her own hands, dry and rough with callouses. Resistant at first, I soon accepted her grip like a child finishing a tantrum, aware I’d passed the point of tolerance. She then spooned herself behind me, her legs wrapped around mine, holding me as I cried openly, my anger dissipated into helplessness.

  After I calmed down, red with tears and embarrassment, Esperanza loosened her grip and kissed my hair at the nape of my neck, the way my mother used to. I pressed her cheek to mine.

  “I didn’t mean it,” said Esperanza. “I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t tell Rachel.”

  I shook uncontrollably, tried to collect the dimes off the floor as Esperanza got up. I barely noticed her leave for Bella’s room.

  KIM IS SHAKING ME, and I lift my hands against her in fear. Her hair appears white under the angle of the sun, but then my senses return to the waking world and I can see it is black and I am huddled in my winter coat on a bench in the snow-covered orchard of the convent, among the buried flower bulbs and stones. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a low moan.

  “Are you all right? Do you need . . . need a doctor or something? You fell asleep right in the middle of our conversation,” she says.

  “No. No. I’m fine, dear. Fine.”

  It is early afternoon and sunny, although the chill of winter is persistent. Ice along the maple tree branches sparkles. Kim has taken her gloved hands off my shoulders and now holds her belly like a package in front of her.

  “You were screaming in your sleep,” Kim says, her forehead scrunched up in confusion. “I thought maybe you were having a heart attack or something.” She chuckles nervously, watching me carefully for a response, digging her boots into the hard ground underneath our iron bench.

  “I’m sorry,” I respond. “I didn’t know I was . . .”

  “Well, I didn’t really think you were. I thought you’re too young to have a heart attack, right?”

  “I hope so.” I can’t help but be a little amused and smile amidst my own embarrassment. The walkway is clear, not a Sister in sight, and the orchard is about thirty feet away from the road. Kim was no doubt torn about leaving me to get help. She has been so quiet in her stay here, she was probably afraid of a commotion. She is visible enough.

  I let my back rest against the bench and pat the metal beside me. Kim sits down, her knees wide apart, more like a tomboy than a soon-to-be mother. She lifts her bangs by exhaling, her lower lip punched out. Her breath freezes in the air for a moment like fog.

  “Oh, I suppose it’s just stress,” I tell her.

  She looks at me quizzically. I am aware she too, no matter that she sought refuge with us, must think like other outsiders that a nun leads a very sheltered existence, that we are practically inhuman. It might even have been one of the reasons she wanted to live with us: to erase herself from the regular world. That we could be under stress or distress might be a revelation for her. I must admit, it was for me when I was her age. The nuns at our school existed in the hours we beheld them, that was all. Their private lives were of no interest. They seemed to merely do: schoolwork, chores, church activities, sleep. This was the extent of my imagination for them.

  But I am stressed out. The phone call has unnerved me. I couldn’t sleep last night. When I went to return the messages Sister Bernadette warned me about, I used Mother Superior’s office. Mother Superior paced outside the smoked-glass window the entire time. She couldn’t view me entirely, but she could see my outline. And she might have heard me if I hadn’t been careful about the tone and pitch of my voice. She must certainly have some legitimate suspicions now.

  I put down the phone after giving my account and address information to the man. Mother Superior wanted her office back. She is possessive over the only computer in the convent, claiming it should only be used in emergencies and to keep the lines of communication open with other sects. But I think she was rushing me out in hopes I’d forget to cover my tracks. No one likes being lied to here, least of all our leader. It seems I’m becoming as mysterious in their eyes as Kim. Two girls on the run. I am relieved it is Kim who heard me scream.

  The messages were from a lawyer: Mr. Y. He didn’t wish to reveal the name of his client, but he called to ask me where I went to school and what my current occupation was. He said I could not be forced to answer his questions, but I would be of great help if I did. “How did you find me?” I asked. “Who is this for? What woman has hired you?” Who has come for you? But he refused to answer me. I was right from the beginning. Someone is toying with me. Would this lawyer find enough to have me arrested? “We’d like to pay you a sum for your time,” he said when he finished taking notes. “I don’t need money,” I replied. “I’m a nun.” “Oh, we are sure you’ll think of something to spend it on. People always do,” Mr. Y. said, although I suspect this will only put me further in debt. Yet when it comes to money, I suppose Mr. Y. is right.

  “We have pasts too, you know,” I say to Kim, staring at a solitary rock brushed free of snow, sitting at the edge of the orchard. There is a pull between us, the rock and me, and I rub my hands together as if feeling the coldness of it between my fingers.

  Kim places her hands in front of her while I meditate. The sun is above us, not nurturing this humble spot, but killing it further, in conspiracy with the cycle of the seasons. Although winter offers some small consolations, I regret this time of year, with its gross injustice to plants and animal life: the way birds pack up and leave, how squirrels and raccoons must go into hiding after rummaging through
garbage bags and hoarding nuts, huddled in holes in the ground or tight spots in attics. The trees have surrendered, let their lifeblood drip from them bit by bit through their weary limbs. It is these slow deaths that affect me most. The people too lose their colour with each new layer of clothing they don, space themselves farther and farther apart from each other, keep heads bent, hands in pockets, looking up only for landmarks along the way. The homeless of the city, who know deeply how blind the elements are to human suffering, come to church more frequently for a warm place and anonymity, carrying their regrets inside. Father B. offers them coffee sometimes, a bit of money out of the collection plate, asking them to vow not to spend it on drink, even though he knows they’ll search for warmth in whatever form it takes. I overheard him once talking to a middle-aged woman with a Jamaican accent who walked to the front pew of the church and knelt down, leaving a shopping cart filled with her belongings by the holy water. When she finished, he put some change into her gloved hands and told her, “God loves you.” “Of course He does,” she replied loudly. “It is them.” She pointed to the exit at the front. “It’s them who don’t, Father.”

  The wind helps, but I am still groggy, loath to go inside. There is tranquility out here, somewhat tainted by melancholy thoughts, but tranquility nonetheless. Kim is good company. She is a girl oddly detached from herself; she blends into her surroundings.

  “You were calling someone’s name, I think. I couldn’t make it out,” Kim says dreamily, as if the incident had occurred years and not minutes ago.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh-huh.” Perhaps she thinks I’ve been praying.

  “Oh.”

  The nights have been long, the candle holder on my dresser like a sentry. It is difficult to sleep in its presence, to relax. I nod off for only brief periods at a time and am aware it isn’t enough. During the day my eyes are constantly closing. My legs and lungs tell me to stop moving, to take rest. But I continue on, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Yet no one has come. No one besides the lawyer, and he asked no questions beyond what I might have discovered about myself in the City Archives. He mentioned no other names to me. It’s as if I’ve been followed by a ghost, by one of the children buried underneath the old St. X. School for Girls, and not a living person at all.