“Didn’t you eat lunch?” she asked as she set her bundle down on a worktable.
“I wasn’t hungry,” Sister Anselma answered, not interrupting her rhythm.
Mickey wavered a few seconds, then went to sit next to Sister Anselma at the loom. “Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”
Sister Anselma stopped the action of the loom, but her hands maintained a tight hold on the shuttle wound with the deep purple thread she’d been weaving. “My visitors the other day were my sister and two of my mother’s attorneys,” she said. She shook her head. “Even from her grave, my mother is still finding ways to manipulate us all.”
She looked at Mickey with eyes the color of steel. “In her will, she divided her estate in half – one half to my sister, and the other half to me.”
Mickey frowned. “I thought you had other family – your father and a brother?”
Sister Anselma laughed bitterly. “Oh, I do. That’s the beauty of my mother’s plan. I can only claim my half if I renounce my vows and leave the abbey. If I don’t, everything goes to my sister. She’s crueler than my mother, if that’s possible. If she’s in charge of the entire estate, my father will be lucky if she lets him stay in the house. As for my brother, well… he’s an alcoholic. He’s burned a lot of bridges. My sister would like nothing better than to see him cut off completely.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
Sister Anselma hesitated as if it were distasteful to even say it out loud. “Something like twenty million.”
Mickey choked out a half laugh. “Your half is twenty million dollars?” she asked weakly.
Sister Anselma nodded.
Mickey thought for a minute. “What did you say?”
Sister Anselma shrugged. “I didn’t know what to say. The will stipulates that if I haven’t left and claimed my portion within five years of my mother’s death, it all goes to my sister anyway.”
Mickey stared at her. “But that means two years have already gone by. I don’t understand why you’re just now hearing about this.”
“I guess my sister has been trying to see if there was any way to break the will. Apparently there isn’t, or she wouldn’t have come.” She looked at Mickey again, but this time the hardness was gone from her eyes. Instead, there was only doubt and vulnerability. “Can you believe the irony of her timing? Before you, I would have said no without a second thought. But now…” she looked down again, “I can’t help but think about the possibility of leaving.”
Without thinking, Mickey reached out and took her hand. Sister Anselma’s fingers wrapped tightly around hers. “I can’t deny I’ve thought about it, too,” Mickey said in a soft voice, “but whatever we decide has to be based on… on other things. I wouldn’t want one cent of your mother’s money to taint our lives. You are all –” She stopped and withdrew her hand.
Sister Anselma lifted her face. “What were you going to say?”
Mickey met her eyes, frightened at where they were going. “You are all that I would need.”
They stared at one another for several seconds. Sister Anselma’s eyes filled with tears. “God help me, I love you so much, sometimes it is physically painful.”
Mickey stood abruptly. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant for this to happen.” She spent the remainder of Recreation in her choir stall, praying, “Oh, God, you brought us together, probably the only other woman I could love this much. Please, please help us through this.”
╬ ╬ ╬
By unspoken agreement, Mickey and Sister Anselma avoided any situation which might have left them alone together. The other nuns in the vestment room were unwitting buffers in this dance. Despite her efforts at self-control, Mickey felt like anyone who really looked at her would see the truth. She felt raw and chafed, beat up by the tumult of emotions churning within her. Her only balm was the Divine Office. For brief moments, the beauty of the chant and the ancient Latin words would transport her to a place of calm, a place where “I could remember why I had chosen this life,” she would explain to Jamie much later. But ever since Sister Anselma had admitted to thinking about leaving, that possibility had been gnawing at her. Images would pop into her head of their life together, although she often had to smile as she had difficulty picturing Sister Anselma in anything other than a habit.
The nuns in the vestment room were startled one afternoon by the arrival of Mother Theodora, Sister Scholastica and the rest of the Council. Sister Anselma and the others all ceased their work and looked questioningly at one another.
“May we speak to all of you, please?” Mother Theodora asked. They gathered round and Mother continued, “As I’m sure you know, we have received a proposal from the Mannheim Museum to do some of their restoration work on tapestries, vestments and other cloth art they acquire. This has been initiated by a very persistent young woman who is an old friend of Sister Michele’s.” She looked at Mickey with a droll smile.
Mother Theodora glanced around at the excited faces of the nuns. “The idea holds tremendous promise for the financial security of the abbey, however, our ability to take on this work is based almost completely on Sister Anselma’s expertise. Despite the fact that all of you contribute to our finished product, it is under her direction and artistic guidance that the abbey’s work has become so well-known. If we are to consider taking on the additional work, it would mean assigning more sisters to the vestment room, and it would necessitate more training for all of you. In addition, we would have to update the physical layout of this area to meet the museum’s insurance requirements. Our old knob and tube electrical wiring would all have to be replaced, and the air-conditioning would have to be upgraded to control the environment more precisely.”
Sister Scholastica spoke up. “Our concern is that we will spend so much money in renovating this space and become so preoccupied with productivity in here that we might become a tapestry factory instead of an abbey.” She glanced at Mother Theodora with what Mickey thought was a disapproving look. “If we agree to take on this… project,” – Mickey had the distinct impression “travesty” might have been her preferred word – “it must be with the firm understanding that the Divine Office is our highest priority, and the restoration work may take longer than they would like.”
“So,” Mother Theodora said, looking around at all of them, “our questions to you: is it feasible to take on more work, and are you willing to undertake the additional training and study it would require, not only for you, but for the extra sisters I would assume would be needed to meet the demand?”
Sister Anselma frowned a little as she considered. “I don’t think we could take on any additional work now, with just the five of us. I think we would need to bring other sisters in and train them first, then we could decide who would continue with our current work and who would do the restoration work. A small team would probably be best for the museum work. I assume the museum will assign a curator to work with us?”
Mother Theodora nodded. “Jennifer Worthington would work closely with us.”
“Do we have enough sisters to assign more here without compromising other areas within the monastery?” Mickey asked.
Sister Bernice responded, “We have averaged two to three new entrants a year for the past several years, so, yes, we could assign five to ten sisters to the vestment room without leaving other parts of the abbey short-staffed.”
There was a long pause as the five current vestment workers considered the impact of this change.
“Mother,” Sister Anselma said, glancing at the others, “I believe I speak for all of us – we are willing to take on this new challenge. Realistically, we’re going to need at least six months to train new workers in here and to study enough to be ready for the restoration work.”
The Council members looked pleased, with the exception of Sister Scholastica.
“My only other concern,” Sister Anselma added with some hesitation, “is that this assignment may be looked upo
n as more desirable or prestigious than other work within the abbey. But the training is so intense that it really isn’t practical to rotate these positions on a regular basis.”
Mother Theodora looked at Sister Anselma appraisingly. “I appreciate your sensitivity to that issue, Sister. I agree, this has the potential to turn into a competition, and we must handle it carefully so that those who are not chosen do not feel slighted. After all, entering religious life does not mean that we checked our egos at the door.”
Chapter 32
“Am I interrupting?”
Mickey looked up from the table in her office where she was poring over medical references, researching a rare cancer which had been newly diagnosed in one of her patients. “No… well, yes, but it’s a welcome interruption,” she said, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “What can I do for you, Kara?”
Kara Anderson was one of the best surgical residents Mickey had ever worked with. She would never say this to anyone else, but Kara reminded her of herself, “professionally,” she would have clarified if she had said it out loud to someone. She was extremely intelligent, learned quickly and exhibited tremendous skill in the OR. Physically, Kara was slender and blond and gorgeous. In the women’s locker room, she was not shy at all about walking around naked after showering, showing off her triathlete’s body. Mickey, to her embarrassment, had been caught looking a few times.
“Well, I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Kara said as she closed the office door and came to sit next to Mickey at the table. “About a few things actually.” She looked at Mickey with eyes that were a beautiful chocolate brown. Her gaze moved to the books on the table. “Oh, yes, I was researching this case earlier today, also.” Mickey could smell Kara’s perfume as she leaned near to look at one of the open texts. Kara had a disconcerting habit of positioning herself so near to Mickey during rounds and consults that their elbows or shoulders often were in contact. She looked back up at Mickey. “I wanted to ask you how you’re doing,” she said, laying a hand on Mickey’s forearm. “I know these last few months have been difficult for you, but you’re always so busy looking after the patients and us – I don’t know how many people are looking after you.”
Mickey could feel her heart beating faster. She had to avert her gaze. “I’m managing,” she murmured. “Work has helped to keep me focused.”
“I worry about you,” Kara said, increasing the pressure of her hand on Mickey’s arm. “I see the lights on in here at all hours. I have a feeling you’re avoiding going home.”
Mickey turned away, but didn’t pull her arm away. “I’ve had plenty of family and friends checking up on me.”
“But,” Kara boldly moved her hand to Mickey’s cheek and made Mickey face her again, “is there anyone taking care of you?” She leaned dangerously close. “Because there should be,” she whispered, gently pulling Mickey to her for a kiss.
Mickey resisted for a few seconds… Kara’s lips were so close, Mickey could feel the warmth of her breath, she could see the variations of the colors of her irises… as Kara’s lips touched hers, she gave in to the closeness, the softness. She stood, pulling Kara up with her and pressed her against the table, one of Kara’s thighs between hers. She kissed Kara hungrily, probing deeply with her tongue, her fingers digging so roughly into Kara’s shoulders that she make her gasp. Kara pulled Mickey’s hips more forcefully against her thigh. She returned the kiss just as hard, catching Mickey’s lip against her teeth and nicking it. Mickey opened her eyes as she tasted blood. Suddenly, she pulled away, her eyes having trouble focusing on Kara’s face.
“Go,” she said in a strangled whisper, her breathing rapid and harsh.
“Don’t,” Kara protested, “please don’t –”
“Please… just go,” Mickey repeated, releasing Kara and backing away.
“Don’t push me away,” Kara pleaded, reaching a hand out to Mickey’s shoulder.
“Get out!”
Kara brushed tears from her cheeks as she crossed the room. Closing the door as she exited the office, she touched a finger to her lips and looked at the drop of blood there. She jumped at the impact of something shattering against the other side of the door.
Chapter 33
Over the next few months, there was a flurry of activity, but “in monastic life, what counts as a ‘flurry’ would probably not even make a ripple in secular life,” Mickey wrote to Christie who was back home with Susan, going to counseling with her and learning to deal with her mother’s death and Susan’s illness.
Professed nuns who had an interest in learning more about the work in the vestment room were rotated through in two week shifts so that they could receive some introductory training, and mutual compatibility could be assessed. “I never realized this work was so detailed and so… tedius,” more than one nun said, and most realized they weren’t suited for the concentration required to spend weeks or often months working on the same piece.
“I wish I could give it a go,” said Sister Linus to Mickey one day as they sat under the cherry tree. “But ninety-five-year-old eyes and these hands –” She held up her gnarled hands, reddened from working in the laundry just that morning. “Oh, well,” she sighed. “That’s for the younger ones.”
“It doesn’t mean you can’t come see what we’re working on,” Mickey suggested.
Jennifer began coming to the abbey once a week for a series of lectures on the history of weaving and cloth art, and to discuss some of the issues that went into deciding whether or not to restore a piece. These lectures were open to anyone who wished to come, and Mother Theodora was pleased to see nearly the entire community in attendance. Mickey felt a warm flush of pride every time Jennifer gave one of these lectures. She was very well-spoken and more knowledgeable than Mickey had realized. Sometimes, she could still see Alice in Jennifer and her mind would wander… “I can’t seem to help wondering, ‘what if’,” she would admit to Mother later, but invariably, she would come back to the moment to see Sister Anselma glancing at her, as if she could feel Mickey slipping away, and was trying to guide her back.
These lectures, which were Sister Anselma’s idea, had the hoped-for effect of uniting the community in the endeavor they were about to undertake. Whether they worked in the vestment room or not, the monastic contribution to the history of European cloth art was something they could all take pride in and had become a frequent topic of conversation during meals and Recreation – “tapestry factory,” Sister Scholastica scowled.
“You are creating the pieces that someone like me will be lecturing on two or three hundred years from now,” Jennifer told the nuns one afternoon as she reverently held a sixteenth century altar cloth she had brought as an example next to an elaborately embroidered chasuble Sisters Catherine and Paula had just completed.
Mother Theodora noted the murmur of approval that rippled around the room at Jennifer’s comment. “You are as good at public relations as you are in your area of expertise,” she said to Jennifer at the end of the lecture. Jennifer just laughed.
Much of the “flurry” involved the abbey’s need to upgrade the electrical and air-conditioning systems in the vestment room. The high, beamed ceiling was stripped of its old knob and tube wires, while new wires were run, looking like stark white strands of spider web against the dark beams and stone walls, all springing from a large box of circuit breakers attached to the back wall.
It was rumored that the Council, spurred by Sister Scholastica, had rejected higher bids from electrical contractors who proposed more aesthetic solutions for hiding the wiring and the box in favor of keeping expenses to a minimum.
“It’s so ugly,” Sister Madeline complained, looking at the grey metal box stuck on the stone wall. “It’s like a pimple on a beautiful face.”
Mickey laughed. “But it’s practical and it’s a lot safer than what we had before.”
By October, seven new nuns were working in the vestment area, with the emphasis on trying to get caught up on old orders before they
began any of the restoration work. The new nuns were learning quickly, but Sister Anselma looked exhausted. Mickey was still learning much of the work herself and could not do much of the training. Sisters Catherine, Paula and Madeline did as much as they could, but not even they had realized how much they relied upon Sister Anselma for the final word on almost every aspect of their work.
One afternoon, when she was interrupted for the fifth time while working on a particularly complex weaving on the loom, Sister Anselma lost her temper.
“What is it now?” she snapped angrily.
Sister Stephanie, one of the new nuns assigned to the vestment room, was the unfortunate one who had interrupted her. She backed away, apologizing. Sister Anselma was immediately on her feet, reaching for Sister Stephanie’s arm.
“Sister, please forgive me. I had no right to speak to you so harshly.”
Sister Stephanie, still red-faced, murmured that it was all right.
“No, it isn’t,” Sister Anselma insisted. “Would all of you come here for a moment, please?”
When they were gathered round, she said, “We need to make some changes in here. I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow, it seems the work we produce is seen as my work, with all of you assisting me. I’m ashamed to say even I have thought that way at times.” Mickey saw Sisters Paula and Catherine exchange knowing glances. Sister Anselma continued. “It can’t be like that. The vestments and cloths we produce are St. Bridget’s work, all of us contributing anonymously. If something happened to me, this work would go on. I am your teacher, not your boss. As you learn in here, you must also feel free to create. Let’s agree that we will speak up if anything we produce is unacceptable as a reflection on the abbey, but otherwise, small differences in how we do things are part of the art.”
In This Small Spot Page 20