In This Small Spot

by Caren Werlinger

  “How are you really?” Sister Anselma asked.

  “Okay,” Mickey answered vaguely. “I feel better physically now, but it’s harder being away from St. Bridget’s, and away from you,” she added. Looking intently at Sister Anselma, she asked, “What about you?”

  Sister Anselma’s grey eyes focused on her for several seconds before she responded, “Not so well. When you were in the hospital, when we didn’t know if you were going to live…” She had to stop for a second, diverting her gaze to a nearby clump of azaleas. Mickey waited. “Nothing felt the same. Even after you were past the worst danger, there was no joy, no sense of purpose in being at the abbey without you.” She looked down at the ground. “I hope you will understand, but I’ve been talking with Mother.”

  “It was time to be honest with her,” Mickey admitted. “What was her reaction?”

  “She guessed of course,” Sister Anselma said with a wan smile. “She’s been very supportive, trying to help me discern what it is that keeps me at St. Bridget’s versus the things that might prompt me to leave.”

  “Have you reached any conclusions?” Mickey asked, her mouth dry and her heart suddenly hammering.

  “The only conclusion I’ve reached is that we both have to decide independently whether we are still being called to religious life or not. I’ve decided to go on a retreat to help me figure that out. I’ll be leaving this week for St. Anne’s near Buffalo.”

  “When will I see you again?” Mickey knew full well that the fact that she asked that question indicated where her heart truly was.

  “I don’t know,” Sister Anselma said softly.

  Tears sprang to Mickey’s eyes before she could stop them. Sister Anselma shifted on the bench so that she could pull Mickey to her. Resting her cheek against the soft fuzz on Mickey’s head, she whispered, “I love you as I have never loved anyone, but we can’t go on as we have been.”

  Mickey was still crying when Sister Anselma, steeling herself, left to go find Mother Theodora. All the physical pain, all the surgeries, all the fear of what the future would bring in her compromised condition felt as nothing compared to the despair and anguish she felt at the thought that, when she finally got back to St. Bridget’s, Sister Anselma might not be there to come home to.

  ╬ ╬ ╬

  A cold November breeze stirred the few remaining leaves on the trees as Mickey waited. Ignoring the curious stares of other patients and visitors, she self-consciously rubbed the sleeve of her new habit. Sitting beside her chair in the lobby was a small suitcase, crutches and a lightweight wheelchair. Father Andrew was due any minute to bring her at long last back to the abbey.

  He had taken to coming to the rehab center every Saturday for the past three months to visit, occasionally with Mother or Sister Mary David or Jessica in tow. He brought her Communion each week and, together, they wandered the grounds in good weather, Mickey taking her first tentative steps without a therapist at her side while he pushed the wheelchair until she dropped into it, exhausted. Week by week, her endurance had improved – “let’s try to make it to that next tree up there,” he would encourage as she clopped along clumsily with her crutches. He brought her updates on the abbey and the nuns, but never any mention of Sister Anselma – “and I can’t bring myself to ask,” Mickey said to herself nearly every Saturday evening after he was gone.

  One week, he surprised her by bringing Sister Linus. “She insisted,” he said with a bemused smile.

  “So how are you?” Sister Linus asked, her sharp eyes probing as she looked Mickey over, taking in every detail.

  “I’m doing all right,” Mickey said noncommittally.

  “No, you’re not,” said Sister Linus. “And you shouldn’t be. Not yet. Not after what you’ve been through. But you will get through this.”

  Mickey’s eyes hardened. She was getting sick and tired of everyone telling her it would all be fine, everything would be okay – her therapists, her doctor, even the rehab center’s psychologist. “How the hell would you know?” she wanted to rage because no one knew, no one could know….

  Sister Linus looked at her as if she could read her mind and was almost daring her to say aloud what she was thinking. When Mickey remained stubbornly silent, Sister Linus held out her hand. “I wanted to give you this.” She dropped a delicate white mother-of-pearl rosary into Mickey’s palm. “It was given to me on my first Communion.”

  Mickey stared open-mouthed at the polished beads puddled in her hand. “I can’t accept this,” she protested.

  “Of course you can,” Sister Linus snapped. “It’s helped me through some rough times. I expect it can help you now.”

  “Thank you,” Mickey said humbly.

  The next week, when Father Andrew came out, he looked haggard.

  “What’s wrong?” Mickey asked.

  “I have some news,” he said reluctantly, as if he dreaded being the bearer of any more bad tidings. “Sister Linus passed away this week.”

  “What?” Mickey asked, startled, reaching into the pocket of her sweatpants where the rosary was safely tucked, with her constantly since Sister Linus had given it to her.

  He shook his head. “Her heart just gave out. She… she must have known.”

  Mickey stared at the iridescent white beads, the engraving on the silver cross nearly worn off from decades of Sister Linus’s fingers praying with it – “… ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae…” – but her eyes remained dry. There had been no more tears since that day with Sister Anselma. No tears, no happiness, no anything….

  When the abbey’s stationwagon pulled up to the front door, Mickey slipped the cuffs of her crutches around her forearms inside her sleeves and stood. To her surprise, it was Mother Theodora who got out of the car. Mother smiled when she entered and saw Mickey waiting for her, and came over to embrace her tightly.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” Mickey said.

  “I thought this would give us some uninterrupted time to talk,” Mother Theodora responded. “Is this everything?” She wheeled the chair and suitcase to the tailgate of the stationwagon and placed them in the back. Mickey noticed gratefully that Mother allowed her to make her own way to the passenger seat, not rushing to open doors for her.

  “You look thin,” Mother Theodora commented as they got underway. “Did they not feed you?”

  “They fed me as much as I wanted,” Mickey replied. “I guess it’s all the exercise.”

  “You seem to be walking better than the last time I saw you. How do you feel?”

  Mickey glanced at her. “It’s like walking through mud. Each leg feels as if it weighs a hundred pounds.”

  “And your wounds?”

  Mickey looked out the car window and didn’t answer immediately.

  “The physical ones, to start with,” Mother Theodora clarified.

  “They’re healing,” Mickey answered. “The scar tissue tears easily and the grafted skin doesn’t have any functional oil or sweat glands, so it still requires care. But because of the location…” Her hand clenched tightly on the door handle of the car.

  “You have to depend on others to do it for you,” Mother Theodora finished for her. “Yes, Sister Mary David explained that to me. And what about your spiritual wounds?” When Mickey didn’t respond, she said, “I don’t know if he said anything to you, but your doctor called me several times. He was concerned that you seemed to be depressed. He had noticed that you didn’t laugh or smile or interact with the staff or other patients, and wondered if that was typical of you. I assured him it was not, but felt it was understandable, given the circumstances. He was afraid your mental state might impede your physical progress. Father Andrew confirmed that you were quieter than normal, but he felt you were making good progress from what he could see during his visits with you.”

  Mickey looked back out the car window and stated in a flat voice, “There wasn’t anything to laugh or smile at. I was there to accomplish specific physical goals, and
I think I worked toward those to the best of my ability.”

  “Have you been able to pray?”

  “I’ve done nothing but pray.” Mickey replied, biting the words off angrily.

  There was silence for a few minutes.

  “Do you have any regrets?” Mother Theodora asked at last.

  “About going back in to get her?” Their first reference to Sister Anselma. Mickey had wondered how it would happen. “Never.” She looked over at Mother Theodora. “Does she think that I blame her, or that I wish I hadn’t done it?”

  “Have the two of you communicated?”

  Mickey shook her head. “Not since that day in August when you both came to see me.”

  “She loves you very much,” Mother Theodora said gently. “That is something I doubted I would ever say about Sister Anselma.”

  Mickey felt her face get hot and said in a gentler voice, “And I love her. But you already know that. I should have seen it coming, should have been able to prevent it, but by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. We tried to keep our feelings under control, and for the most part were able to. But the day of the fire, I would have done anything to get her out.” She looked down at her hands. “We never meant to deceive you. And I want you to know that nothing… inappropriate happened.”

  “I never questioned that, Mickey. You are both too honorable for that. Do you remember my telling you on the day you entered that, in the monastery, the true you would be magnified?” Mickey nodded. “When you entered, your grief for Alice was like a shade pulled down over your soul. As you healed, the light of your presence began to shine more brightly, and it was inevitable that others would be drawn to you. Like Sister Helen. I thought it ironic that the one most strongly drawn to you was Sister Anselma. In an effort to protect herself from anyone else ever hurting her as her mother had, she erected walls no one had ever been able to breach. Until you. As stoic and self-possessed as she has always been, she was completely unprepared for you.”

  A few miles rolled by in silence.

  “What now?” Mickey finally asked.

  “What indeed?” Mother Theodora sighed. She glanced over at Mickey. “If you have not communicated with Sister Anselma since August, you probably don’t know that when she came back from her retreat, she requested a dispensation from her vows. She has left St. Bridget’s,” she finished quietly.

  Mickey closed her eyes. All during the months at rehab, all the weeks she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask Father Andrew, she had clung to the hope that Sister Anselma would be there when she got back, not wanting to hear anything to the contrary. When she could talk, she asked, “Do you know where she is?”

  “In San Francisco, dealing with her family. She writes often. I’ve kept her up to date on your progress.” Mother glanced over. “She has wanted to write you –”

  “She won’t.” Blinking back tears as she looked out the window again, Mickey said in a strangled voice, “She told me in August we each had to decide separately where our hearts lay.”

  “And where does your heart lie?”

  Mickey’s throat burned. “I’ve agonized over this. I love her, and I love the abbey.” She looked over at Mother Theodora. “And I love and revere you.” She squeezed her thighs with her hands. “This is probably as good as it’s going to get. In the back of the car is a wheelchair that I have to use when I get too fatigued. I’m forty-one now, and as I get older, I’ll probably have to rely on it more and more. My cell is on the third floor. The vestment room is fifteen steps down. The whole abbey is laid out in such a way that I don’t know how fully I can contribute.” She paused. “But it’s safe there. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the thought of facing the outside world again like this is terrifying,” she confessed. “All these conflicting thoughts and emotions have been battling within me for months.” She hesitated again. “It hasn’t felt like a decision I could really make without having been at St. Bridget’s for the past six months.”

  “I agree that you need to be back at the abbey for a while before you make that decision,” Mother Theodora concurred. “But I would have asked you to come back for at least a few months anyway, Mickey. St. Bridget’s needs you. There has been a pall hanging over us ever since the fire. The physical damage to the building felt devastating to many, but more important has been your absence. The gravity of your injuries, followed by such a lengthy convalescence, has left many of us feeling almost as if there had been a death. And with Sister Anselma’s departure… We need you, at least for a while, so we can heal. As for your feelings of doubt about being able to contribute, if you decided to stay, I assure you, you would continue to be an integral member of the community. We have actually had an elevator installed as part of the rebuilding process – you are not the only one having difficulty with the stairs,” she smiled.

  “If I decided to stay, how would you feel? Knowing about Sister Anselma and me…”

  “Unlike my predecessors, I do not feel that situations like this automatically require expulsion or exile to another abbey. Your situation is already altered by the fact that Sister Anselma has chosen to leave.” She paused for a few seconds as she negotiated a sharp curve in the road. “My viewpoint, I’m sure, is influenced by the fact that I lived through a similar situation. Except that I have never revealed it to anyone – until now.”

  Humbled by Mother Theodora’s trust in telling her that, Mickey waited.

  “For now, I would ask that you return to work in the vestment room for one work period a day, and for the other, I would like for you to go to Sister Mary David to have your wounds tended and work on your exercises.”

  They were getting near the abbey by now. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mother, for your understanding and guidance through all this,” Mickey murmured.

  Mother Theodora reached over to squeeze Mickey’s arm. “You can thank me best by promising me that you will be as open as you can to where God leads you, even if it is not where you would wish to go.”

  Chapter 42

  Mickey sat in her choir stall – a new one at the end so that she didn’t have to clumsily try to climb over others to get to her old stall in the middle of the row. If she’d wondered how she would know which was hers, she needn’t have worried – the stall was layered with cards of welcome, as her cell had been. When Sister Lucille had greeted her the day she arrived home with Mother, she carried Mickey’s suitcase and led her to her cell where nearly her entire bed was festooned with notes and homemade cards all welcoming her back. In a vase on her desk sat a small arrangement of holly leaves with a cluster of brilliant red berries.

  “You were missed, my dear,” Sister Lucille said with a smile, leaving her to rest.

  There, on her pillow, was the one note she had been certain would be there.

  My dear Michele,

  There are no words to express my gratitude for your act of unbelievable selflessness and bravery.

  Much has happened that I will tell you about someday, but for now, the most immediate thing is that I have decided to leave St. Bridget’s. I think you know me well enough to know what a heartwrenching decision that was for me.

  My biggest regret in making that decision while you were gone is that I will not be here to welcome you home. However, it will allow you the opportunity to make your own decisions without unnecessary distractions.

  Please know how fervently I pray for you, and that I will see you one day soon.

  Lauren

  Mickey had read it over and over, and then, placed it in her Bible with Alice’s letter.

  Moving about the abbey, Mickey had quickly realized how noisy and conspicuous she was, with her crutches and awkward gait. She’d made a habit of trying to get to the Chapel early, and, as she sat now, a bell sounded above her and soon the Chapel was filled with the quiet shuffling of feet and the creaking of wood as the nuns filed in for Vespers. Once the organ sounded and the voices rose, the music of the Office enfolded her, transported her, as i
t had since the first day she had wandered in in her fishing waders, to a place where her pain was “not gone, but lessened,” she would have said. Closing her eyes, she tried to absorb and memorize every scent – incense, flowers, the lemon wax Sister Fiona preferred for polishing the walnut choir stalls. But when she opened her eyes, it was a harsh jolt to see Sister Anselma’s empty choir stall.

  When she arrived at the vestment room for the first time, her heart was pounding, “and not from the exertion of walking.” There was still a very faint smell of smoke, but visually, it looked almost as if nothing had happened. “I’m not sure what I expected,” she would say to Jamie much later. “I knew it would be repaired, but…”, “But it felt like nothing had happened, like they moved on without you,” he guessed. New timbers criss-crossed the vaulted space high above, supporting the new roof; the stone walls had been scrubbed clean and new windows had been installed. She was standing at the top of the stairs when the others saw her. Awkwardly, she descended the wooden steps and made her way toward them.

  “Welcome back,” Sister Caroline said solemnly, giving Mickey a hug. As the most senior nun there, with the longest tenure working under Sister Anselma’s guidance, she had taken charge of the vestment room and the work they were doing. Sister Paula, Sister Madeline and the others also came over to greet her.

  “Where would you like me to work?” Mickey asked.

  “Would you mind helping at this embroidery station?” Sister Catherine asked. “We’re trying to get caught up on the work that was lost in the fire. We don’t know when or if we’ll resume any restoration work for the museum.”

  Mickey suspected Mother Theodora had already explained Mickey’s physical limitations to Sister Catherine as this embroidery station was one where she could remain seated. To her surprise, there was a small basket with an arrangement of pine greens and dried baby’s breath sitting on a table next to her embroidery frame. Shrugging, she studied the pattern marked on the silk, and threaded a needle.