Monica studies his light tread, head bobbing from side to side. She checks her watch. “Oh, shit, I had no idea.”
Beata is grinning. “Retreats are like this. Time flows. Flies. Floats.”
“Come on. We were talking about ideas, not—”
“Not what? You didn’t expect to think on a retreat?”
Monica yawns. She doesn’t know what to expect. She does know she’s not going to win this round with Beata.
At sunrise, Monica rambles in the woods. She loves early October when the colors are most vibrant and cool mornings lead to warm afternoons. Light is sharp and bright. If only this lasted longer, if only…
She finds a seat at the back of the hall, on the aisle: her customary location, a position for slipping in and out unnoticed.
Mary Arneson speaks simply and clearly, about the Buddhist concept of generosity, the habit of sharing, of letting go of need. Her dark hair is pulled back in a silver barrette. She’s persuasive because of her indifference to persuasion.
Father Daniel exhibits the same disregard for conversion. He provides colorful examples from the New Testament of Christ’s generous nature, about the satisfaction of being a good neighbor, about the manifestation of joy through giving.
All sensible, straightforward concepts. None of it seems religious at all. Fervent young Carol Fitzpatrick would be very disappointed as would her pious friend Monica. She’s not sure how the current Monica feels about…anything.
She ducks out before the session on “Renunciation.” A useful topic, but she’s too fragile with guilt and shame. She showers and lies down for a few minutes.
Wakening an hour later, she gapes at the clock. She hasn’t napped since childhood. She holds her forehead, but finds no fever. Actually, she feels invigorated.
The second day passes swiftly. Mary’s talk about Lovingkindness feels like a testament to Mom. There are degrees of virtue Monica knows she’ll never achieve. She does agree with much of what Mary and Father say about patience, truthfulness, determination, but she’s irritated by their enthusiasm. Their spiritual gusto.
The afternoon is intense with eager people testifying about their successes and failures with equanimity.
Monica likes the other participants, although some are rather earnest. She glances out the window at an orange maple.
Then she finds her hand in the air.
“Yes, Monica,” Mary calls on her.
“Equanimity is the one I have the most trouble with.”
Father Daniel regards her playfully. “Why do you think we left it for last?”
She persists, “This accepting—surely some things aren’t acceptable. Many of the most vocal anti-war activists are Buddhists and Catholics.”
Mary mulls this over. “We work for social justice and to assuage pain when we can, but sometimes—”
“That’s it,” she interrupts. “How can God or ‘the Spirit’ allow war? How can you believe in a power so unfair, cruel?” She hears Jeanne’s voice. Finally, an accord.
“A fascinating challenge, Monica,” Father Daniel acknowledges. “Tell us what you mean by fair and unfair.”
A bell rings.
End of session. They often end like this, on a question. Monica doesn’t know if she’s more relieved or aggravated.
The final ritual is inclusive and brief. She doesn’t pay much attention, still chewing on the question. She does feel respect for the retreat leaders and gratitude the weekend didn’t turn to be sanctimonious or woo-woo.
Beata hums as they pack for the car. Monica is still brooding about unfairness.
“Monica!” someone calls.
Father Daniel rushes toward them, breathless, holding a small white card.
“Oh, Father, we were coming back to say good-bye.”
“I trust you found the weekend…” he regards her mischievously and pauses as if wishing her to finish the sentence.
What does he want to hear? Instructive, inspirational, useful? Honesty, she tells herself and out spills, “Provocative.”
“Precisely,” he declares. “I, too. Please take my email address.”
She smiles in surprise.
“We do have email in India. In fact, we are a nation known for our techies.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Minnesota isn’t far from Tamil Nadu when you connect electronically.”
She hands him a business card. “It would be fun to hear from you.”
They drive back to the Cities in silence.
As Beata takes the exit for 35 W, Monica says, “Your powers are unpredictable.”
“Yes?”
“Of all the outcomes I might have anticipated, I never thought I’d wind up with a priest as a pen pal.”
“Don’t forget, he’s invited you for haute cuisine in Pondicherry.”
“Right,” Monica says as they pull up to her apartment. “I’ll book a flight next week. And be sure to send you post cards.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
October, 1999-August, 2000, Minnesota
It’s a symphonic autumn morning, Monica thinks, the crisp edge of cold. On the lawns of grand lakefront houses, Japanese maples pulse fiery red. The lofty gingko in Adam’s yard is sheer gold now, on the cusp of dropping leaves. She loves the Sunday morning walk around Lake Calhoun, watching joggers, bicyclists and skaters. And people strolling in jeans or Sunday dresses. Since Holy Spirit parish is directly across the lake from her, she has a chance to think over the sermon. This brisk late October day feels ripe with unfamiliar contentment.
The phone is ringing when she opens the door. Monica runs up the stairs and is breathless as she lifts the receiver. “Hello.”
“In the middle of calisthenics or something?” Her dear, deadpan sister.
“No,” she pants, surprised that she didn’t screen the call. “I ran upstairs.”
“Oh, hanging out with your friend Beata at the Coffee Shack?”
“I’m coming back from Mass,” she says without thinking.
“Church?” she exclaims. “You’ve gone over to the dark side looking for Mom?”
Settling by the window, she drinks in the late autumn colors. “This isn’t about Mom,” she murmurs. Charity, she reminds herself, lovingkindness.
“You have to face facts, Mickey, she’s gone. You can’t go into some airy fairy hereafter looking for her.”
Monica holds her tongue. If she’s learned any spiritual practice it’s silence.
“I guess you called about the financial papers?” Lately this is their only topic.
“Yeah,” Jeanne says. “I’ve made some kind of order. Her affairs were really a shambles.”
“Jeanne, I don’t mind doing that work. You’ve done so much.” She hates bookkeeping, but hates it less than her sister’s carping. Besides, this is her responsibility, too.
“If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s accounting,” Her voice rises. “No, no, I’m only trying to locate the final sale papers on the house.”
Monica wants to ask, You mean the house you made her sell? Instead, she says, “I’ll check my folders. I don’t think I have anything, but I’ll look.”
“Fine,” Jeanne answers, hanging up before either says good-bye.
Monica recalls Mom in the little kitchen, burns on her arms where she wasn’t black and blue. She smells chocolate and oatmeal rising from the cookies. Why did it take her so long to notice the bruises and blisters?
Three Canadian geese fly by the window, heading south for winter. Time is short. With patients. With Mom.
Jeanne is wrong about why she’s been going to Mass. She wants a different perspective on Mom’s death, on her own life. Maybe she won’t continue at
tending. Who knows?
The garden comes into focus. And the brilliant oaks across the alley.
*****
Lucia’s Café is louder in the cold, dark months. Snow on the ground since the first week in November. She waits for Eric at “their” table by the window, trying to concentrate on the book about lovingkindness for her study group. She hopes this is the right choice for their first dinner since the funeral in June. And their first meeting since they broke up over the phone in September.
“Hello there!” Eric looks sharp in the maroon cardigan she got for his last birthday. His smile is provisional.
The earth has revolved a thousand times since that interminable day five months ago. She’s been to Hades and back, with no sighting of Persephone.
He bends over, kisses her cheek.
Feeling the familiar heat, she is touched by nostalgia rather than desire.
“You look great,” he declares.
“You, too.”
Glancing up from the menu, she confesses, “I’m sorry I ignored your calls for so long—”
“Monica, don’t worry, I understand.”
“I’m sorry,” she persists. “I was too full of grief. The suddenness of her death was unbearable.” She pulls out a tissue, but she’s resolved not to cry. “That and the shame. When I wasn’t numb, I was scared, guilty. My whole body was a huge ache, as if someone had ripped out major organs.”
“Monica you have no reason for guilt. When my dad died his best friend said, ‘You’ll always think you could have done, or said, one more thing.’”
She nods, remember his loss.
“I guess you implicate me, unconsciously. She died during our getaway.”
“No,” she takes his warm, comfortable hand.
The waiter recites specials. They both order arugula salad and trout. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.
“I should have been less persistent, more patient,” he says.
“Monica, please pick up the phone and let me know you are okay.”
“I don’t blame you. And breaking up has nothing to do with—”
“Don’t worry, Monie, I’m not going to ask you to come back.”
Something in his voice, or her heart, makes her wonder.
“I just don’t want to lose my best friend. I miss our talks and your wicked wit.”
She clutches the tissue, surprised, a little sad that he’s not trying harder. No, what she needs, and seems to have is a loyal friend.
The arugula is accented with sun-dried tomatoes and a dust of feta. Yuletide colors. Advent. Season of waiting.
“Tell me about the church stuff. Is the bible class interesting?”
“It’s a study group. We read books about Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Daoism, Buddhism.” She doesn’t mention attending Mass. She hasn’t told Beata.
“Is it those people from the retreat?”
“One of them, Mary Arneson, gave a stunning talk last night about the engaged spiritual life.”
“The what?”
“About finding a deeper way to practice your convictions by contributing…”
“You already do that. At Lake Clinic. At the Free Clinic. With your tutoring. Your whole life is working for others.”
“It’s about being mindful, too.”
“Beata tells me you have a pen pal in India.”
“Father Daniel wrote the day he returned home. I think we’re developing a kind of friendship.”
“What do you write about?”
“Medical stuff, like preventive health programs.” She doesn’t mention her spiritual questions and his judicious suggestions.
Eric looks relieved.
“So tell me about Macalester? That drama with the dean?”
“They hired a firecracker in the development office. So I don’t have to hit people up for money or their kidneys.”
She manages a couple of bites of the fish. Even the wild rice tastes too rich. She moves the food around her plate, hoping he won’t notice how much is left.
“I’ve missed our talks.”
“Me, too.” Sipping the wine that appeared on their table at some point, she worries about her tendency of jerking in and out of focus like an old TV.
Eric describes his freshman seminar. She loves his enthusiasm and marvels at her own impatience with this lovely guy.
“And Doctor Jill?” He surfaces from school. “Are you booked for a guest spot?”
“Now, there’s someone I could practice lovingkindness on.”
“Loving whatness?”
“I’ll explain as I walk you to your car.” She’s suddenly wiped out. This exhaustion comes at odd moments and she can’t shake it.
“I had to park way off, near your apartment. Uptown is hopping tonight.”
She buttons her quilted parka. A little premature, but she’s feeling the cold lately.
“I have a feeling we’re going to get hit with a blizzard.”
“Eric,” she pokes him in the side as they walk outside. “You start fretting about icy roads in July!”
*****
Monica slips into her favorite place, the aisle by the wall in the last pew. She kneels, rests her head between her hands. This is the right place for now. She glances at the altar—at the purple and green banners proclaiming, “Agape.” “Peace.” “Faith.”
Beata walks up the aisle with Marion Bradley. Of course! Her old school friend is delivering the homily today. Monica evades Beata’s curious glance. How embarrassing. She’s been waiting for certainty before telling Beata. When will she be certain? She’s tried Quaker and Unitarian services, the Zen Center and none of them feels right. Is she comfortable here because the smells and colors and words are familiar?
It’s childish to hide like this. She kneels straighter.
Beata turns again, catches her eye, winks.
She may not be ready to tell Beata. But Beata is ready to find out.
On the way to the vestibule, Beata links arms with her. “Morning, sister.”
“Hi there, old pal.”
“Shall we go out for Sunday coffee?”
“Aren’t you going to the breakfast for Marion? It was a fine homily.”
“He’ll be swamped by people. I’ve already said congrats and good-bye.” Her voice is no-nonsense. “Explained I saw someone I really need to catch up with.”
“I know we need to talk, but I can’t do coffee. I have an appointment with Father Tom in forty-five minutes. Maybe we could sit in the parish library?”
She rounds those intense brown eyes and purses her lips. “Parish library. Father Tom. You know your way around. Is there something you haven’t told me?”
She ushers Beata into a long room filled with books. On the far wall is a projector and CD player. Beata sits on the green leather couch. Monica takes an easy chair.
“Nice to see you,” Monica tries.
“Come on, hon, what’s going on? You’re going to Church?”
“To this one,” she whispers tentatively, “sometimes.”
“Why not St. Olaf’s? My parish?”
“Because it’s your parish. Your priest. Your community. I also didn’t go to Mom’s parish. I needed my own place.”
Beata is beaming.
“Don’t get carried away. I simply wanted to explore different spiritualities, as Father Daniel would say.”
“Father Daniel? So you’re having a good dialogue with him?”
She nods.
The scents of coffee and hot sweet rolls and re-heated quiche rise up through the vents from the parish hall. Monica wishes they were mingling with Marion Bradley’s fans and not having
this private, strangely raw conversation.
“Will you tell me more?”
Monica looks at her watch; it’s almost time to meet Father Tom.
“Right, your appointment. OK, I’ll stop badgering now. But this is topic number one for Saturday night. Deal?”
“Deal.”
*****
She kneels in the confessional. The old church is redolent with scents of furniture polish and stale flowers and holy water. Cold in here this December afternoon.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
“You don’t have to be this formal, Monica.”
“It has been sixteen years since my last confession.”
“You’re so tense. We could simply sit and talk.”
“Thanks, I prefer kneeling. I need…” She sniffs into a tissue.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Relax if you can.”
Nothing to be frightened of? Her whole life has crashed. Mom has died. Jeanne is drinking herself into oblivion. She hardly hears from Dad, despite his promise to be in touch. She hates her colleagues and for months she’s been prickly at work.
“Tell me, what’s on your mind,” Father Tom suggests.
“I feel so guilty, ashamed about Mom’s death. I should have been more alert for at least a year before. The burns, the bruises, the forgetfulness.” She can’t face the vastness of her neglect.
“You visited her often. And you had patients, volunteer work, a life.”
What does well-meaning Father Tom know? She’s wasting their time and is glad he can’t read her face through the grill. “I should have noticed more.”
“But you didn’t.”
Silence between them. Footsteps in the aisle. A squeaky kneeler being lowered.
“Can you accept, admit, that you didn’t notice?”
“Admit,” she’s disgusted with herself, “admit that I caused—or at least contributed to—Mom’s early death.”
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