In the Vines
Page 27
She peeled out of the Rye driveway in my father’s black Lamborghini, the one quarantined to his show garage, the one hosting low-profile tires. She says she drove “faster than Batman in his piddly little Batmobile.” I giggled, an authentic giggle, when she dissed Batman. Imagine an ex-nun, dressed in a black housecoat, in her midforties, looking like Olive Oyl, racing along the seacoast in an ornamental Lamborghini, during a Northeast hurricane, thinking she’s better than Batman.
When she got to Aunty’s and saw the mechanic, the storm raging around her, her eyes caught sight of the loaded nail gun in Aunty’s open-door foyer. And she heard a woman screaming “Bitch” in the brambles.
After apprising me of how she saved me, Aunt Sister Mary huffed, sent a quick stare at me in the hospital bed, and opened a palm-size box. I did not expect to see the plastic, shriveled bracelet within.
“You asked me in the Cape about my secret. Why I left the church. You were right, I was kicked out. But I’m guessing you don’t know why.”
She took a calm breath, saddened but secure in what she was about to say.
“I would have gotten away with it had the doctor not sent the test results on a day I wasn’t in the rectory,” she said.
Aunt Sister Mary Patience Pentecost’s story goes like this: a single-woman parishioner used to come to her for advice and prayer; this woman desired a baby so bad, but her ovaries were defective, she could not carry a baby, and adoption was basically impossible in her case. Sister Mary knew her for years, and herself desiring the “sensation of the greatest gift of nature, the highest of commanders, the physical sensation of pregnancy,” struck a deal. She called nature the highest commander. And she wanted to feel the greatest gift of nature, in a literal, living, not celestial, sense. I connected with her on several levels the second she uttered these words. She shattered several false boundaries between us. We were finally talking to each other in a pure truth. Not a facade we’d erected, or others erected about the definition of each other, no ancient dogmas, nothing. Just our own beliefs, our raw identities.
The deal was, she’d lease an ovary and her womb, fermented by borrowed, injectable sperm, and hide the pregnancy by taking a sabbatical. She’d then give the baby up in a private, and confidential, adoption.
All went to plan, Sister Mary Patience delivering in the Rye coach house, hence the screaming and the “man in a coat” who came running in one night, never to be seen again: a private, house-call doctor. I had missed the whole thing, for I’d been in high school, partaking in a semester abroad program in France. But Aunty Liv had been in Rye that night, so she had alluded to it, the screaming, the man, Sister Mary holed up in the brick house. These are the details Aunty spewed the night we ate pizza on the Rye roof.
Test results were sent to the rectory, the test results confirming the baby’s DNA and lineage and blood type and other physical attributes and health.
“I had asked the doctor’s office to call me with results. And I was sure I changed my mailing address to Rye, changed it pretty thoroughly, as I recall, from the rectory address. But with all the administrative nests between hospitals and doctors’ offices, there was one database that didn’t get the instruction or update, and thus, the results were mailed to the rectory. And since the office secretary opened everything that came in, that’s what she did. She read the results, all right, tattle-told on me to Mother Superior, and before the end of the day, the entire story unraveled. At my hearing, I told the truth. They kicked me out.”
She nodded to the open box in her hand. Inside was the newborn’s plastic bracelet, the one they put on babies’ ankles in the neonatal room.
“Her name’s Mary Olivia. I asked that she be named after you,” Sister Mary said, a happy tear rolling down her face.
My father and I have walked the ten feet down the aisle to Manny and Sister Mary. Manny grabs hold of my whole right arm. I grab hold of his whole left arm. We merge our sides, unwilling to let this just be a hand-holding.
My mother behind us blossoms out a happy sob. Oh, she’s sobbing and tittering now. I hear her whisper, “Philipp, our baby. Oh, Philipp, our baby girl.”
Mr. Acista whispers from his corner, “She is a beautiful bride. They are a perfect couple. We are so pleased.”
“So pleased,” says Mrs. Acista Number Three.
Aunt Sister Mary clears her throat to shh everyone and begin this ceremony. Manny and I wrote the sermon for her together, our customized sacrament.
“Once upon a time, the rose thief snuck into a colorful lawn. He might have flown there as a seagull, he might have hopped there as a rabbit, he might have slunk there as a crafty fox. He wanted rose petals is what, and he wanted them for love . . . ,” Aunt Sister Mary begins.
I smile at my aunt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No way could I have finished this story without the undying support of my husband, Michael Kirk. I am lucky. Truly. Huge thanks to my son, Max, for his creative inspiration and odd-beautiful input.
My beta readers, mom (Kathy Capone), cousin (Beth Hoang), and sister-in-law (Kim Capone), once again did not leave me down in the well. Invaluable feedback and lifting support from them brought this book to light. Thanks to my dad (Richard Capone), who drew me a beautiful property and character map for this novel.
Forever gratitude to my agent, Kimberley Cameron, who is a tireless champion and guide. Cannot—like no way possible could I—navigate these waters without you. XOXO.
And to the Thomas & Mercer team. I am thrilled to be within this publishing group with the boutique, hands-on, top-notch care and attention. Every step of the way has been professional, educational, and supportive. My editor, Jessica Tribble, LOVE. Her edits: crazy perfect. My dev editor, Andrea Hurst, like my own personal professor. Their edits were challenging, and as such, exactly right. Both of you helped me see things I’d become totally blind to and in the process, gave me an education and brought Aunty Liv and Mop into their true, truest lights. Thank you. And to the copyeditor team, Sara Brady, Karen Brown, and Sarah Vostok, who caught things I can’t even imagine having caught. And the cover designer, very big huge thanks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Lara Keefe
Shannon Kirk is the award-winning author of Method 15/33, an international bestseller; and The Extraordinary Journey of Vivienne Marshall. Having grown up in New Hampshire, Shannon and her brothers were encouraged by their parents to pursue the arts, which instilled in Shannon a love for writing at a young age. A graduate of Suffolk Law School in Massachusetts, Shannon is a practicing litigation attorney and former adjunct law professor specializing in electronic-evidence law. When she isn’t writing or practicing law, Shannon spends time with her husband, son, and two cats. To learn more about Shannon, visit www.shannonkirkbooks.com, or follow her on Twitter @ShannonCKirk.