The Divine Economy of Salvation

by Priscila Uppal

  Sister Pina, five years ago, committed suicide—or euthanasia, depending what you call the deed done by a dying cancer patient. But in the convent, in the eyes of the church, she died of natural causes. She struggled, one of her breasts removed, her stomach and chest in great pain. Her skin had developed lesions, the sores shaped like hard pits of fruit along her arms. Throughout her chemotherapy, Sister Pina had trouble standing, could hardly keep solid food down, and her flesh had taken on a yellow hue not unlike jaundice. Mother Superior turned the other cheek when her nephew smuggled her tiny sealed baggies of hashish sent by cross-town courier; and most of us ignored the heavy smell clinging to her sheets and blankets, escaping underneath the crack of her door. Those who opposed were told to heed Sister Ursula, who, as a doctor, claimed no crime was being committed, only mercy. I remember sitting with Sister Pina one day, wheeling her outside to take in the spring air, admiring the red and white tulips planted throughout the rock garden in the orchard. Her hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair, steadying her as we went over the grass. She had refused the electric wheelchair Mr. Q. had obtained for her, saying it should be donated to a patient at the hospital or one who lived alone and didn’t have all the Sisters she had to take care of her. She fell asleep in the sun that day, and I imagined her following the light shining down upon us: Pina rising from her chair ascending into the heavens. No wheelchairs or X-ray machines, no blood tests and cardiograms. The machines’ broken screws and plates disintegrating with her bones. Imagined each pound she lost erasing a pound of memory. What use is suffering? I remember thinking. What use is it if we can’t leave ourselves behind?

  She took painkillers with her other medications, sometimes doubling the doses as she was told to do if she couldn’t sleep. She hoarded her painkillers for five full days. The concentration of codeine in her system, we found out later, was enough to kill a horse. Sister Katherine found her in the morning. Her doctor was telephoned, an ambulance summoned. There was nothing we could do to bring her back. Her body was hard and cold as stiffened clay. The official report said Sister Pina died of cancer.

  The depictions of martyrs have always seemed strange to me. The burning, the crosses. Rising fires, rising bodies. Christ, his feet nailed to the wood, his sides bleeding, crown of thorns. Joan of Arc, man’s clothing over a woman’s young body, draped by fire. Her heart, unburned in the ashes, sold as a relic, but the skin and bone destroyed. Saint Catherine martyred on a wheel of fire. A virgin sacrifice. Saint Christina who went further, the wheel of fire no match for her faith. She was rocked in an iron-hot cradle, sent into a burning furnace. Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins slaughtered. Mutilated, tortured, piecemeal women. Saint Margaret. Saint Agatha. Saint Prisca. Saint Restituta. Marry or burn, St. Paul wrote. But we burn anyway. The symbols are wrong. On Ash Wednesday, the priest pronounces, Remember, you are ashes and to ashes will return. Ashes are the lot of us common sinners. Martyrs do not burn; they freeze.

  I washed and dressed in a black wool skirt and a black sweater that I had brought back with me at Christmastime, and I was combing through my wet hair when Sister Marguerite knocked on my door and entered the room. Mother Superior needed to speak with me immediately. Sister Marguerite looked concerned, her usually firm face softened. I held the brush in my hand, nearly paralyzed, and she opened my palm for me, releasing the brush from my grip.

  “I’ll go down with you,” she said, placing it back on the dresser. “Take your coat. And take a book or something.”

  Rachel was in the hallway holding her father’s hand, preparing to go down to the church for Bella’s service. She too was wearing black, as was her father, whom I’d never seen in black. They were completely drained of colour. Rachel stared at me directly and I longed to run to her, beg her to take care of me, give her a sign we were all done for and Mother Superior knew everything. I was being summoned and would have to tell all, accept the shame and the punishment. The only time Rachel had spoken to me over the last three days had been to say that the silver candle holder was in the metal garbage bin outside. “We can forget about it,” she had said. “I don’t want it any more. My father won’t notice.”

  I was hurried along by Sister Marguerite and began crying before we reached the stairwell, a textbook in my left hand. Finally I spilled tears over Bella’s death, and this made me feel worse, knowing they had come only when I was threatened. The last glimpse I had of Rachel was her free hand, by her side, waving goodbye to me upside down.

  Sister Marguerite ushered me into Mother Superior’s office and left, and Mother Superior motioned to the chair on the opposite side of her tidy desk. It was free of papers, completely cleared of any books or items save a photograph of her family in a humble brown frame with a studio’s blue background. In it the figures were poised on stools, with Mother Superior in her habit like a huge black-and-white banner behind them, no smile on her lips. The rest of the family seemed closer to one another. Their smiles, if not broad and beaming, implied comfort, their knees and arms naturally facing the other family members while their eyes looked towards the camera. The picture unnerved me. I had never thought of Mother Superior coming from anywhere or being a child of anyone. I rarely exchanged words with her, even in History class, and feared my face must have betrayed the guilt I was carrying. Heavy as lead, my legs numb and motionless in front of me, I wanted to sink into the floor. Mother Superior wore a silver cross that moved between her breasts as she breathed, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I fixated on the silver like an oracle, hoping it would help me find the words to explain Bella’s death.

  “There is no easy way to begin,” she said, pacing behind me then stopping and laying her hands firmly on my shoulders.

  I jumped under her touch. Her strong and large hands were cold and intrusive. Was she going to strike me? Wait for my confession or send me to Father McC. crawling on my knees to beg for forgiveness? Would she call the police?

  “Your mother died last night,” she said authoritatively. “God has taken her to Him.”

  She continued to hold onto my shoulders as I tried to wriggle out of her grip and confront her. Had I heard right? Was Bella alive and my mother dead? Whose funeral was I dressed for? Why was her silver cross hanging so close to my cheek I could feel its coldness like bone?

  She let go, put a glass of water in front of my face, and motioned for me to drink. She was a hundred years old to me, an endless survivor. Her eyes betrayed only a hint of concern, her face as stony and monumental as always, a bronze eagle. The water slid down my throat effortlessly, tastelessly. Death is a blessing in our faith. We were reminded of this daily. Sister Marguerite told us Death meant Peace. If one had cleared one’s debts with a confessor, there was nothing to worry about.

  “Sister Marguerite is going to drive you home immediately,” Mother Superior continued, directing me towards the doorway. “It may take some time because of the storm, but you’ll get there.”

  The door of Mother Superior’s office ajar, I could see Sister Marguerite wearing her stylish green winter coat with the white faux-fur collar, a Christmas gift from a relative. My expression must have betrayed my bewilderment, for Mother Superior added, uncomfortably, “I’d take you myself, but I don’t have a driver’s licence.” Wearily I stood, almost disappointed in this monolithic woman who could instill in me the fear of expulsion, but who was unable to take me to the trial, let alone carry out the sentence.

  Father's unmarried sister, Heather, whom I had only heard of in passing since she lived in England, arrived by plane the day before and managed to make her way to our home by morning. During the past year, my father had told us that Aunt Heather would visit when it was more feasible. They had believed there would be plenty of time for us all to meet and to get to know each other before my mother’s decline. Then my father warned Aunt Heather that Mother was very ill and asked her to come help him, since his own strength had been depleted over the months of caregiving. She had inherited the family home a
nd a sum of money from their parents to live on and was between secretarial jobs at the time my father called. He sprang for the ticket. She had no idea when she finally arrived that the bride she had never met had already died.

  She introduced herself when Sister Marguerite accompanied me to the house on Ashbrook Crescent. Sister Marguerite had been silent for most of the trip, cautious with the car the convent communally owned and she rarely drove, doubly anxious due to the treacherous condition of the streets. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I spent the time flipping mindlessly through a textbook filled with mathematical equations. We were learning algebra, how letters stand in for numbers; how to compute equations to identify the worth of a letter. It seemed too much like the Bible exegesis Sister Aline performed, the answers obvious only to those privy to the hidden meanings. Sister Marguerite regarded me distressingly at one point during the drive but said nothing. The three days had been hard on all of us. We’d all cope differently.

  A woman stood directly on the threshold of our house, her auburn hair pinned on top of her head in a swirl, her makeup on thick, caking between the lines in her face. She wasn’t unattractive, her eyes large and hazel, framed by black mascara and blue eye shadow, but her entire demeanour was one of exaggeration. Her face displayed an openness that startled me. She wore a purple dress with large sleeves and a black belt at the waist. Her skirt fanned out generously in front of her.

  “Who are you?” I asked, suddenly fearful we had come to the wrong house or, because of my mother’s death, the house had been sold overnight and these new people were using our things, sleeping in Mother’s bed, and eating our food.

  “I’m your Aunt Heather,” she replied, taking Sister Marguerite’s hand and then hugging her, burrowing her auburn hair into Sister Marguerite’s shoulder. Sister Marguerite’s stance held firm but she accepted the embrace. “Joseph’s sister, from England.”

  Sister Marguerite turned to me as if for confirmation. I shrugged, dropping my book on the doorstep, irritated underneath my coat by the black wool skirt I was wearing, eager to find refuge from the cold, but unable to get past this woman who stood in my way. I didn’t care who she was.

  “You must be Angela,” she said, cornering me next for a hug, but I pressed myself close to Sister Marguerite’s side, distressed to touch a relative I’d barely heard of and had never met. She seemed hurt but smiled at Sister Marguerite apologetically, rubbing her elbows in the chill of the open door. Sister Marguerite pinched my arm and gave me a stern look of disapproval at my impoliteness. She was letting me go. I dropped my hand from her side to enter the house.

  “Hello, Aunt Heather,” I said. “My mother’s dead.”

  AFTER MY APPOINTMENT WITH Sister Ursula, I run into Kim. She waits by my room, I gather, to reconcile after our exchange in the orchard. I’ve been avoiding her for a week, and though I don’t mean to hold a grudge, I find that I do. When the Sisters meet at Mass or in the common room or the cafeteria, I make sure to lodge myself between them so Kim cannot sit with me. But I keep an eye on her. I want her to know she’s hurt me and to judge whether she’s hurting too.

  Flustered, I am ashamed at my pettiness when I see Kim waiting there, her body slouched as she sits with her knees up against my door. Kim’s presence here is ill-timed. I am reminded of my youth as if it were a flag waving over me. As Kim’s young face looks up, I could be easily convinced I am standing in a hallway at St. X. School for Girls and she is quietly waiting for one of her young friends. With her hands against her cheeks, holding her chin up, she could be daydreaming about boys and dances, mentally calculating whether she has enough money to buy magazines in the Market. She’s even wearing a blue cardigan, torn at the elbows, similar to the style we wore then as uniforms. One uniform for another. This is what I’ve accomplished.

  I have just returned from Sister Irene’s room. She was more lucid than normal and showed me she could hold the can containing her liquid meal by herself with her one good hand. She was straining, but she did keep the can up. Her fingers gripped the rim while the working side of her face spoke of victory. She even gave me a gift.

  Sister Irene has come to the point where she is giving away her few possessions. If you walk by her room when the door is open, she’ll scream as best as she is able with her partly numb mouth, then point at an object until you leave with it. When I went to see her this afternoon and read to her the Psalm The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, she waved her middle finger jaggedly in the air. I didn’t notice at first where she was pointing, because I was reading the lines she likes best as she attempted a smile, her head bent to her aching shoulder. I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Her skin has moved past its yellow hue to a dull brown. She is unable to wash her face without help, so I held a cool cloth to her forehead, wiped spittle from her chin, crumbled crackers into a bowl until they turned to dust. She likes to lick the salt.

  She focussed on the typewriter, the same one I use when she needs to send letters. I suppose she thinks all her letters have been sent. It looks like an antique, although any typewriter must now be antique. But this one is made of metal, with the arms of each of the keys visible. I helped her after her initial stroke, when she wanted to inform her relatives and friends about her illness and ask them to come. The only one who heeded her plea was an aunt, so old and thin she could barely climb the two concrete stairs to the door of the convent. I felt little pity for Sister Irene at the time. She had been so critical of everyone, not just in words but in her actions, that I felt she didn’t deserve to be remembered. But as I carry the typewriter back to my room, I think otherwise. She deserves to be remembered like anyone else.

  And then there is the thing I can’t shake from my mind. The keys on her typewriter. All are in working order except for the small a; the lower half of the letter does not complete the full loop back up to its curved spine. I typed the alphabet three times on a sheet of paper before leaving Sister Irene’s room, demonstrating for her benefit how happy I was to receive this present from her. Each time the small a snagged. I hadn’t noticed before. When I typed my form letter, I used only capital letters. I typed out my name. I pressed all the other keys. The ribbon is good, black, dark. A single key faulty. This same letter was faulty in my name on the package that brought the candle holder to me. Who has come for you? How can it be one of us?

  Kim moves with the sound of my shoes on the tiled floor.

  “I came to . . . are you all right?” she says, using the wall to support her weight as she gets up. I do not offer her my hand to help, wanting to make it clear I am not pleased with her, but with the heavy typewriter in my hands, I also do not have a hand free.

  My knees are sore. I need to sit, and I can’t feign the motions of a casual conversation, so I just jut my chin to indicate she should move away from the door. She complies while I struggle with the door handle. I rush to the dresser, where I rest the typewriter. Kim tenderly inches her face in around the corner.

  “Do you need anything? I can get it for you. Sister Ursula says I’m doing much better.”

  “I just need to catch my breath,” I tell her and plop on my bed with a sigh.

  “Oh.”

  She shuffles in, wearing one of the skirts with an elastic waistband that I salvaged from the rummage sale. It’s a little large on her, like everything else, but she manages to keep it up by tucking her shirt into it. Her neck is slight, and the oversized clothes make her head appear larger than it is. A round face, like a doll’s. The skirt should be hemmed and taken in. I’ll direct her to Sister Humilita for the alterations, I think, before realizing she probably doesn’t care about her appearance here in front of a bunch of celibate old women anyway. Let her fix it herself. Sister Humilita has enough to do. The old-fashioned wool habits have been replaced with cotton ones, which rip and fade more easily. Yet she makes do with them as long as possible, because it is a sin to waste anything.

  “Are you just going to stand there staring at me?” I
say, petulantly resentful. I’m worried about who she’s been talking to, unwittingly perhaps exposing me to further scrutiny.

  “I wanted to apologize,” she says in a half-convinced voice as she shuts the door behind her and walks over to the bed. I don’t move to make room for her to sit with me, although she could if she wanted to squeeze in close.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “I’ve long forgotten about it.”

  “Oh.”

  I’ve hurt her feelings now. Well, she hurt mine, I tell myself. Does she expect us all to spend twenty-four hours a day on her case? Does she think we have no one else to think about, no problems of our own? I’m exhausted by her ignorance. By her need for us to help her, save her. I want her to understand she is just one of many in this world whom we are meant to protect. She’s nothing special. And if she doesn’t appreciate us, we can find others who do.

  “Look,” I tell her, “I’m not feeling well. I need to rest.”

  Her hands are shaking. She has cupped them together in a handshake behind her back.

  “Why don’t you go see Sister Josie or Sister Sarah? Sister Bernadette? They’re always willing to listen to a good story—aren’t they?”

  Kim doesn’t respond to my comment, perhaps because there is no response. She hasn’t had much experience conversing with adults, and she acts as if she hasn’t heard me at all. She begins to admire the picture of Christine and me in the frame on my dresser. She ignores the candle holder and the typewriter. They don’t seem to have any significance to her. In my mind, I tick off a point in her favour.

  “You must miss your sister sometimes,” she says, squinting for a closer view.

  “I should.”

  Kim is in profile, but I can tell she’s struggling to ask me something. Her mouth opens and closes and opens again. The tip of her tongue peeks out the side of her lips and retreats inside. Meanwhile, I rub my forehead to fight off a headache I know will be full-blown by the end of the evening.