“If I could only see just one miracle,” said Alice.
“You’re my miracle. My very best miracle of the whole day,” said the nun. “And tomorrow there’ll be another.”
“There was snow and rain on the same day!” exploded Alice. “The day the retreat center burned down! And you got burned and almost died! That’s a miracle? You grabbed that with both hands? Miami got a family and I got nothing! I’m supposed to be happy God puts us through stuff like that?”
“Ah, Alice.” Sister Vincent de Paul drew herself up and reached for Alice’s hand. “The storm. The snow. Did you ever hear, Alice, did you ever hear people say that no two snowflakes are alike?”
“How could I? What people say don’t come through.”
“Now you’re being petty. Tell me the truth.”
“Yeah, I heard it. But who could ever check all them snowflakes to be sure?”
“It’s the idea. A snowflake, Alice. Listen. A snowflake begins in the air. It’s like a tiny life. Think of two snowflakes formed at the exact same instant, an inch apart, Alice. They drift and tumble and float to earth at the same time. But the wind, the heat or cold of the air, the particles of dust or whatnot that they encounter, each little thing that happens to them helps in the shaping of them. They grow differently. They respond by growing a molecule this way, a molecule that. Maybe ten minutes go by. They’re unique in the whole universe.”
“So,” said Alice. “So what.”
“You and Miami are twins,” said Sister Vincent de Paul. “You have some things in common maybe. But your paths through the air are entirely different. Your characters are maps of things that happen to you, in a way. We each have our own path to take. Don’t begrudge Miami hers. She didn’t choose it any more than you chose yours. I didn’t choose to get burned. But since I couldn’t prevent it, Alice, I at least accepted it. I don’t blame myself or God for it.”
“You’re not making anything any easier,” said Alice.
“Alice, we’re all like snowflakes. We’re snow people. If you try to live someone else’s life you’ll never be happy. You have to live your own.”
“But what is my own?” said Alice.
“If I had all the answers, I’d be the president,” said the nun. “You have to find it yourself. But if you don’t do it with a good heart and an open spirit, you’ll waste a lot of time.”
Alice sighed. She sat digesting the idea that things weren’t going to get much smoother. Then she remembered the wallet. She handed it to Sister Vincent de Paul. “I made it for you at Camp Saint Theresa,” she said shyly. “Even though I thought you were dead.”
“Now that’s faith,” said the nun. She was very pleased. She admired the bright red stitching. “I can keep my holy cards in here. Oh, I see you had the same idea. But Alice, I don’t have anything to give back to you.”
“It’s okay,” said Alice.
“I can tell you this,” said the nun. “The new kitchen wing on the retreat house has just reopened.”
“But I thought the retreat house burned down.”
“Only the back wing and part of the chapel. That crazy storm was bad in icing over the roads, but it helped control the spread of the fire. The insurance money covered the renovation.”
“Oh,” said Alice. They were silent for a minute. “But you never explained one thing. How can we be grateful God does fires and makes us orphans and all? I still don’t get it.”
“Oh, well,” said the nun, “here come the old biddies for their game shows. We can’t talk about such things in front of them; they’ll just get depressed. They aren’t as brainy as you and me.” She winked at Alice. “Besides, some things you have to save to ask God. It’s one of the best things to look forward to about dying.”
They sat for a while, holding hands, not talking.
The sun turtled its way across the sky, and the shadows slowly lengthened. A deeper blue came into them, and slanting light caught a congregation of leaves fluttering in the strengthening wind. The nurse came through with paper cups of apple cider and handed Alice one too. It was sweet and brown and thick as syrup, the first scrumptious cider of the season.
By the time Miami and Larry returned, Mr. Shaw and Garth had already arrived. Sister Vincent de Paul, wrapped in her roses and flounces, had progressed to the front hall, and they were all waiting there together. When Miami saw her father, she drew in a breath and said, “Uh-oh, it’s my dad.”
“Oh, hi,” said Larry, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“If you ever come near these girls again,” said Mr. Shaw, “I’ll break both your legs. You’ll be lucky, young man, if I don’t press charges for kidnapping. Don’t you dare try to shake my hand—I won’t answer for my actions.”
“What?” said Larry Deeprose, appalled, incredulous. “What?”
“You heard me,” said Mr. Shaw. “You’d be smart to keep your distance, young man.”
“Look,” said Larry, flustered, “look. You—I don’t—there’s a terrible misunderstanding.”
“Daddy, you’re embarrassing me!” said Miami. “Oh! I’m so embarrassed!”
“The kids said it was a family crisis, and they needed my help,” said Larry. “I thought I was doing a favor—I never—I wouldn’t—”
“I’ll deal with them,” said Mr. Shaw, “but you’re either innocent to the point of stupidity, or you’re a fool. Get out of here.”
“Daddy, I’m going to die of embarrassment,” cried Miami. “Don’t be so mean! What do you think this is, a crime show on TV? He’s just a friend of Alice’s! We were just coming to see this old nun Alice is so dotty over.”
“I don’t suppose a cup of tea all around would help?” said Sister Vincent de Paul. “I thought not. Well, Alice, then I’ll say good-bye. Remember, mind the details. Even of this.” She hugged Alice tightly and held the crown of Alice’s head in her left hand. “Go with God and the angels.”
“Thanks, you too,” said Alice. And they had moved out onto the stone porch before she could think of anything better to say. Larry Deeprose was inside, still mired in flummoxed phrases of explanation. Mr. Shaw propelled the girls before him, a hand on each of their necks.
“You called Daddy?” guessed Miami, hissing at Alice. “You rat fink.”
On the way south to Albany the girls both sat in the backseat, as far away from each other as possible, staring out opposite windows. Garth sat in front with Mr. Shaw, who as he drove delivered himself of a nonstop harangue that was just as furious at Alice as it was at Miami. This was the last straw. This was the living end. This took the cake.
This is family life, thought Alice, hardly minding a bit. Soak it up while you can.
Part Six
THE MIRACLE
The first snowfall of the season came, an early one. Sister John Bosco stood with her hands behind her back looking out at the streets. The dismissal bell had rung a bit ahead of schedule, and the girls in their hand-me-down snowsuits and parkas and jackets were making a merry racket in the school yard. Beyond, the normal view of Fifth Avenue was thickened and bleached with the squall. Traffic was moving slowly. A number of fender benders would occur, no doubt; they always ushered in the winter.
She was waiting for the Coynes. Most likely the snow had held them up. This was too bad. Sister John Bosco had planned to release Alice to them while the girls were still at their lessons, to avoid protracted good-byes and difficult, maudlin scenes. But now there would be the mess of sympathy and grief to deal with. Ah, well.
When she saw the Coynes, inching along on the slick pavement, having parked perhaps over on Congress Street, she felt a thrill of relief. She hadn’t quite allowed herself to admit that she was afraid they’d be no-shows. And Alice with her suitcase packed, sitting in the cold hallway all this time.
Mrs. Coyne, Mary Coyne: a woman in her forties, bland, intelligent, restrained. How wrong to have imagined her as a potential kidnapper. For after Mr. Shaw had called to explain where the girls were, Sister John B
osco had had to swallow her pride and apologize to Mrs. Coyne. It turned out that Mrs. Coyne had had some theory that the twins might’ve been the daughters of her estranged younger sister, who had died in unfortunate circumstances not long after giving birth. An analysis of all the facts on hand, including blood tests, proved this to be a false lead.
But while the blood parents of Miami and Alice were still a mystery, and likely to remain so, Mrs. Coyne’s interest in Alice proved to endure beyond the inquiry over the facts of birth. She and her husband had applied to take Alice for a trial period. The marriage was strong. Mr. Coyne worked for the state budget department. They were regular parishioners of Saint Thomas in Delmar, and the pastor there had given excellent references. Alice would be only a few miles away from Miami, and they could continue becoming friends and sisters after the punishment period was over. Mr. and Mrs. Coyne seemed sensitive to the complexities of Alice’s needs, and of their own.
They drew nearer. Mr. Coyne with two bunches of red roses in his arms! Mrs. Coyne’s straight black hair hidden by a scarf. The snow blotting them from view, revealing them again, teasingly, capriciously.
“Alice, please come in,” said Sister John Bosco into the hall.
“They changed their minds, I know they did,” said Alice, entering. “No. Did you change yours?”
“No.” But the girl looked terrified. Thin and eager and pale as the snow. She’d labored over abandoning little Ruth Peters, who had fits of screaming whenever the subject of Alice’s leaving came up. Sister John Bosco had had to take great pains to point out that it would be wrong for Alice to allow the cries of Ruth Peters to keep her from this opportunity.
“I want to say something to you, Alice,” said Sister John Bosco. “It is something I say to all my girls when they leave. I say it to the little ones who won’t remember. I say it to the girls who graduate and go on to live elsewhere for high school. I say it now to you, and I mean it as deeply as ever I’ve meant it.”
“Well, say it,” said Alice, jiggling a little; through the high icy windows she could see the Coynes approaching.
Sister John Bosco jettisoned the homily about God being the real home of all souls. She bypassed all the subthemes about elevating obligation over devotion, maintaining the sterling reputation of Sacred Heart girls, and keeping sacred the sanctuary of the Holy Spirit, which was to say Alice’s developing human body. She said, “Alice, I love you. We all love you, and we always will.”
“Oh,” said Alice, standing on one foot, then on another. Then she put both feet down. She turned her head and peered at Sister John Bosco. “How can you love all of us? There’s so many.”
“It’s a miracle,” said Sister John Bosco. “The heart has infinite room inside it.” She never talked like this. “Now straighten up and let me look at you. Have you your handkerchief? Have you our phone number in your purse? Do you have your rosary?”
“I knew there were miracles. That’s what I said to Sister Vincent de Paul,” said Alice. She was chattering. “Do you think we’ll have a snow day tomorrow? Ruth would love to make a snowman.” Oh, but tomorrow she’d be in a new life. She paused, flustered.
“We’ll make a snowman with Ruth,” promised Sister John Bosco.
Sister Francis of Assisi knocked and entered. “Sister, Mr. and Mrs. Coyne are here,” she announced.
“Show them in, Sister,” said Sister John Bosco.
Dripping snow onto the threadbare Oriental rugs, they came inside. They were ceremonial, shy, and flushed with high color. “Sister, for you,” said Mr. Coyne grandly, presenting a bouquet of roses in a sodden mass of pastel-colored paper. “And Alice, for you.”
“How lovely,” said Sister John Bosco, whipping her handkerchief from her sleeve and blowing her nose. “I shall put them at the altar of our Blessed Mother, and we will be reminded to pray for your continued happiness.”
Alice looked a little hidden behind her clutch of blossoms. “Ow,” she said, “thorns.” Then she laughed. “Details,” she continued, almost to herself.
“Shall I call the children inside?” said Sister Francis of Assisi. “To avoid a scene? Although you know what they’ll be like if we don’t let them stay outside until suppertime. The first snow and all,” she explained to the Coynes.
“Might you postpone leaving a bit?” asked Sister John Bosco.
“The roads, Sister,” said Mrs. Coyne, “they’ll only get worse. And we’ve a lot of settling in to do tonight.” She smiled at Alice, who stared down into the roses, blushing.
“Well, then, Sister, you just have Sister Isaac Jogues take Ruth Peters inside for a few minutes to warm up,” said Sister John Bosco, anxious at least to avoid the worst scene of all. She had already withheld from Alice the information of Sister Vincent de Paul’s stroke and quiet death last week; she would do everything she could to launch Alice as confidently as possible. “And now if we’re ready? Alice, button up,” she said.
But Mrs. Coyne was already bending over, wrapping the scarf around Alice.
So Alice walked with roses down the long, dark hall, to where Sister Francis of Assisi, Sister Francis de Sales, and Sister Francis Xavier stood flanking the broad double front door. Both sides of the door were opened to add to the ceremony, and a square of blowing snow showed beyond. Mystery, adventure, and hope. Between the Coynes, Alice stepped out into the world. The girls in the school yard saw her go, and clambered up the short rise to the inside of the fence, calling Good-bye, good-bye, and the nuns behind them waved like mad, their black veils slowly turning white with the drifting of snowflakes.
About the Author
GREGORY MAGUIRE, like Alice, spent some time in a Catholic home for children when he was small. In addition to MISSING SISTERS, Gregory is the author of more than a dozen novels for young readers, including LEAPING BEAUTY, and five novels for adults, including the New York Times bestselling WICKED. He holds a Ph.D. in English and American Literature from Tufts University, has lived abroad in Dublin and London, and now lives in Massachusetts. You can visit him online at www.gregorymaguire.com.
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Also by Gregory Maguire
LEAPING BEAUTY: And Other Animal Fairy Tales
SEVEN SPIDERS SPINNING
SIX HAUNTED HAIRDOS
FIVE ALIEN ELVES
FOUR STUPID CUPIDS
THREE ROTTEN EGGS
A COUPLE OF APRIL FOOLS
ONE FINAL FIRECRACKER
THE GOOD LIAR
Credits
Jacket photograph © 2009 by Sean Justice/Getty Images
Jacket design by Joel Tippie
Copyright
MISSING SISTERS. Copyright © 1994 by Gregory Maguire. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-191929-9
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