The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  People were already moving about the sleepy town of Hodges. An old man swept the pavement before his barbershop with metronomic strokes. The florist was setting out buckets filled with daffodils, daisies and long branches of pussy willow that Rose claimed she must have.

  The Country Diner was a cheery, airy place with blue-and-white gingham at the windows, round oak tables and rabbit-eared chairs, and little framed plaques with homespun sayings like Home Is Where The Heart Is scattered on the wall. The front of the restaurant had an old-fashioned soda fountain complete with Hamilton blenders and stainless steel milk-shake mixers. Behind the counter were shelves filled with gleaming glasses and dishes for sundaes, and best of all, a glorious old cash register that was a collector’s item. The wood and chrome-trimmed counter was a thing of beauty, lined with twirly stools topped with red leather seats, most of them torn in places and carefully taped.

  “This place hasn’t changed a whit in all these years,” Jilly muttered.

  “You’ve been here before?” Rose asked.

  She didn’t want to start dredging up memories before a cup of coffee. She only nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.

  Even the waitress looked like an original from way back when. She was a jovial woman in her seventies, as tall as Jilly but broader in the chest and hips and without any of Jilly’s reserve. She greeted them with a robust voice and led them toward a table near the window.

  As Jilly passed the fountain, empty now, in her mind’s eye she saw five teenage girls sitting on the stools, twisting left to right, their ankles hooked around the stool, sipping on straws like teenage girls all across the country. Except that each of these girls was dressed in baggy clothes to disguise the bulge of her belly. Not that they fooled anyone. Whenever the girls were allowed to town for their once-a-month outing, they traveled in a pack, closing ranks as a defense against the pointed fingers and behind-the-palm whispers.

  “I’m Maude,” the waitress said, pulling out her pad. “You girls aren’t from around here, are you?”

  They shook their heads, smiling cautiously.

  “Where you from?”

  Rose, Birdie and Hannah looked at Jilly, unsure.

  Did they think this was a secret spy mission, for heaven’s sake, Jilly wondered? “Chicago,” she replied with her reserved smile.

  Maude smiled broadly. “Chicago, huh? We don’t get too many Chicago visitors this time of year. In the summer they like to pass through on their way to Door County. Nice antique shops in town. That’s a draw.”

  In a casual voice, Jilly said, “We’re looking for the convent that’s not too far from here. Do you know the one I mean?”

  “That’ll be Holy Hill.”

  The name rang a bell in Jilly’s mind. Holy Hell. “So, it’s still there?”

  “Oh, sure. But it’s pretty lonely up there now. Not too many nuns anymore. Just the old ones who go there to retire and die. It was different years ago. Lots of folks used to stop here on their way to and from Holy Hill. The girls from up there still come for a visit from time to time, too, just to see it again. You one of them?”

  Jillian startled. She closed her menu and folded her hands. Her smile was brittle. “The girls?”

  “Well, women really,” Maude corrected, misunderstanding Jilly’s response. She twiddled the pencil between two fingers. “You know, the gals who were in the novitiate.” Seeing their empty stares, she added, “The young ones in training to be nuns. As the years went by most of them dropped out, then they just stopped entering. Young folks want different things these days, I guess. A couple of exnuns come by, too, from time to time. I just thought you might be one of them. But—” she laughed and shook her head “—mercy, no. You don’t look the type.” She turned to Birdie and Rose with her brows raised in question, but her eyes were on Birdie.

  Birdie bristled and reached up to tug at her short haircut. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, well, I’m gabbing here.” She pushed back her black-framed eyeglasses and put her pencil to her pad. “And you all want your breakfast.”

  “I’m not very hungry,” Jilly said. The burning pain in her stomach was starting up again at the prospect of returning to Marian House. “Just coffee and orange juice for me.”

  “Me, too,” said Birdie.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Rose admonished. “We all need a little sustenance for the day’s work. Are those bakery goods on the shelf homemade?”

  “We bake them ourselves every morning,” Maude replied with pride.

  “Perfect. We’ll have a basket of blueberry and corn muffins, jams, and orange juice and coffee for everyone.” She pursed her lips. “Better add a double order of bacon, too.”

  Her sisters stared at her.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, closing the menu and handing it back to Maude with a smile.

  When the order was delivered, Jilly ignored the pain in her stomach and asked as casually as she could, “Maude, can you tell us how to get to the convent?”

  As they approached the black iron gates of Holy Hill, she felt she was again a seventeen-year-old pregnant girl, unsure and scared. Like then, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home. She shrank into the corner of the car and looked over at Birdie, who was driving. Her sister looked so much like their father, with the same angled nose, the same broad build and the same serious set of the mouth. She was about to tell her to stop, that she’d changed her mind and couldn’t go through with it. To say what she wished she had cried out the first trip through these gates.

  But Birdie turned at that moment to look at Jilly, and seeing the terror in her eyes, her own blazed with the fervent message: Buck up, sis! You’re not alone.

  So Jilly persevered, but she felt very small as they wound up and around the wooded hills of the impressive estate. They passed the lake, quiet and still, surrounded by cypress, then the grotto where the Blessed Virgin still reigned in splendor. The engine hummed as they rounded the highest hill—and there it was.

  Marian House. The plain-front, three-story redbrick building that she had lived in for four life-changing months in 1973 loomed before her. She sucked in her breath. When they pulled into the parking lot, she shrank back in her seat, her hand hard against the dashboard as though to ward off a blow.

  “Jilly, are you okay?” Rose’s hand was on her shoulder. She’d leaned forward from the back seat to press her face close.

  “I don’t want to be here,” she said in a tight voice. “I don’t want to come back here.”

  Rose looked at Birdie, alarmed.

  “Just stay in the car,” Birdie said with decision. “I’ll go knock on the door. The place looks pretty deserted, anyway.”

  Birdie opened the car door and stepped out, breathing deeply. She had looked a little green around the gills earlier, but the crisp spring air seemed to revive her. Jilly watched from hooded eyes as Birdie approached the front door. It was crazy, she knew, but she expected Sister Celestine to open the door with her razor-sharp smile. Birdie rang the bell, waited a moment, then knocked loudly.

  Jilly rolled down her window and breathed in the morning air. Above, the birds cried and circled in the treetops. Jilly closed her eyes and heard again the calls of the girls as they cut across the lawn of the convent on their way from chapel to Marian House. Jilly, wait up! Everything was so quiet now. Ghostly.

  “No one seems to be here,” Birdie said, leaning in the car window, startling Jilly from her reverie. “Is there another building we can go to for information?”

  They drove over a small rise past the tall, shaggy border of pines and trees. Suddenly the mansion appeared in the distance, eliciting the same sighs of surprise from Jilly’s sisters as it had from her the first time she saw it.

  “You lived there?” Hannah asked.

  “Fat chance,” Jilly replied, halting any ideas they might be forming in their minds of a sweet life she had led here at Holy Hill. “That house was only for the young brides of Christ. Strictly off-l
imits to the Mary Magdalenes. We were pretty much confined to Marian House. Not that we could waddle that far, anyway.” She smirked, disguising the burn of shame she still felt. “You could say we lived on the other side of the tracks.”

  She saw Rose frown before she looked out the window.

  “Who’s Mary Magdalene?” Hannah wanted to know.

  Another time, another place, Jilly would have enjoyed niggling Birdie over that one, but now her mind was overflowing with voices and faces from her past. As they drove away from Marian House, she looked out toward the bedroom windows and thought of Simone, Sarah, Julie and the others. What were they doing now, she wondered? Had they searched for their babies? She longed to see them again and talk to them. They’d understand what she was feeling now, as only they could.

  They drove on past the apple orchard and vineyards, overgrown now from years of neglect. Seeing the lovely green open spaces Jilly felt a vague sadness, knowing it was only a matter of time till they were gone. It was clear the old nuns were dying off and young women were not entering the convent. The estate was prime land, likely to be soon sold and parceled into development plots.

  The road ended at a long, yellow-brick building, more modern and updated than the others on the compound but equally bland. This was the conference center where the main offices of the motherhouse were located; the likely place any files would be stored. Jilly stared at the municipal-looking entrance and wondered if she’d run into Sister Celestine here, or Sister Benedict, or any of the nuns she once knew.

  Well, if it isn’t Jillian Season. What’s become of you?

  Well, Sister, I’m a thrice-married and divorced ex-model, ex-spaghetti-western queen a bit down on her luck.

  Hardly a success story. During her time here she used to dream that she’d come back one day, a huge success, just to show them she was somebody. Her return only seemed to magnify her failures. She’d crumple if they gave her that superior look again, the one that designated her as her parents’ shame, the unrepentant sinner, the lost soul.

  “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” Rose said, always the perceptive one. “Just give us the journal with all the information. We can handle it.”

  “You have nothing to be afraid of, you know,” Hannah told her.

  Jilly felt a quick pulse of anger at her niece. What did she know? She was fifteen years old!

  “I mean,” Hannah continued, inching forward on her seat with youthful earnestness. “Think about it. You’re, like, so successful. You’re famous! You made something of your life. In another country, no less. And no one helped you. You did it all on your own. That’s so cool. You can look anyone in the eye and not be afraid. I’m really proud you’re my aunt.”

  Jillian’s heart soared. This was so unexpected. So sincere. And so perfectly timed. This young woman viewed her life not as something pitiful, but as something to be proud of. The words flowed over her bruised self-esteem like a soothing balm. She never knew anyone to be proud of her.

  “Thank you, chérie,” she said, reaching out to cup Hannah’s face. “All my life, people have only complimented my beauty. I wondered if that was all they saw when they looked at me. Without question, this is the best compliment I’ve ever received. I love you, baby.” Jilly took a deep breath, then grabbed her journal. “Let’s go.”

  Inside, the large institutional building was also seemingly deserted.

  “Looks like no one is here, either,” said Birdie.

  “Someone must be. Or little elves come at night to clean the place,” Hannah joked. “The place is spotless.”

  It was true. Endless halls of cream-and-green linoleum, smelling of pine soap and glistening in the filtered light of the venetian blinds, seemed to go on forever. Jilly stood mute, assaulted by the scents and sights from her past. She knew the nuns slaved over these halls to keep them pristine. When she looked down the halls she saw shadowy images of them, their long habits billowing and their wooden rosary beads clicking as they hurried from one task to another.

  Even after all these years, she felt she’d get in trouble if she was caught in the conference center. It was off-limits to the girls of Marian House. She had stepped foot in the conference center only a few times—for Sister Benedict’s sessions and to formally sign away her baby before leaving. She looked down the hall, then, on a hunch, walked to the third oak door on her left. The echo of her heels seemed to click thunderously on the floors. The door swished silently open and her breath seized. This was the room. There was the same round oak table upon which she had signed the adoption papers. Even the picture on the wall was the same—a large framed print of Rubens’s Blessed Mother and Child. She could not bring herself to go in.

  The memory of that afternoon flashed in her mind. She saw the social worker sitting in the chair, staring at her through Coke-bottle eyeglasses. She could smell again her cloying perfume in the cramped quarters. Sister Celestine stood beside her, erect and tidy, her hands tucked into her voluminous black sleeves. Why couldn’t she remember the social worker’s name? She could remember her voice, though. It was husky, like a man’s.

  “Sign this one,” she’d said, placing a paper in front of her.

  Jillian, exhausted from childbirth only forty-eight hours earlier, had just returned to Marian House from the hospital and was taken directly to the conference center. Jilly weaved in her chair as she stared down at the papers with a vague, numb appreciation of what she was doing.

  “Go on, Jillian, we don’t have all day,” Sister Celestine said tightly.

  Jillian did as she was told.

  “Then this one. And this. Very good,” the social worker said, satisfied. She quickly collected the signed legal papers and tucked them into her briefcase. “You’ve made the right decision, Miss Season.”

  The deed was done. Her parents were in the foyer at Marian House, waiting for her. Exhausted and emotionally drained, Jilly felt a deadening relief that it was over. At last, she could go home.

  “Jilly?”

  Startled, she turned to find her sisters standing beside her, worry etched on their faces.

  “I’m okay,” she hastened to assure them, quickly wiping a tear from her cheek and closing the door. “I was just looking around. That’s the main office over there,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction. She walked briskly away, leading them to a closed, unmarked door to the right of the entrance. “This used to be the receptionist’s office. Let’s see if anyone’s here.”

  The pale mint-green office was also deserted. Behind a shiny Formica counter there was a large old-fashioned switchboard, the kind high schools around the country used to have, complete with an enormous handheld microphone for the PA system.

  Birdie walked up to the counter and called out, “Hello? Is anybody here?”

  There was a scurrying from the back, the sound of a chair scraping against linoleum, and then the unforgettable swish of long skirt and rosary. Jilly automatically stood straighter. From around the switchboard appeared a short, stout elderly nun, remarkable both for the fact that she still wore a habit and had a single, bushy black brow hanging over her eyeglasses like a wooly caterpillar.

  “Good morning,” Birdie greeted her with an imposing cheer that demanded response.

  The nun smiled, but her eyes were filled with confusion. “Good morning.”

  “Apparently she isn’t having a good morning,” Hannah whispered to Jilly behind her palm.

  Jilly gave her a silencing look, then stepped forward. “Hello, Sister,” she said in her parochial school voice that showed respect. “My name is Jillian Season. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for some records. Can you tell me where they’d be stored?”

  The nun scrunched up her face and peered at her. “Records? What kind of records?”

  Jilly felt as if she were walking on quicksand. Mr. Collins had warned against telling anyone that she was a birth mother seeking information. But she’d vowed she would not lie again. To lie would
mean she was doing something wrong, illegal or even immoral.

  “Adoption records,” she replied smoothly.

  “Adoption?” The old nun seemed momentarily confused. She stared vacantly for a moment, then realization dawned. She cast a dark glance at Jilly. “Are you one of those Marian House girls?”

  Birdie and Rose closed ranks.

  “Yes, I am. I was, rather. I’m searching for the adoption records of my child,” she repeated, looking her straight in the eyes. Inside, however, she was quivering. “Can you tell me where I can find them?”

  “They aren’t here anymore. They’re gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. All the files of that place were moved when Marian House closed down. Back in 1981 or ’82. I don’t remember.” Then, in a voice laden with accusation, she asked, “What do you want to go searching for those records for?”

  “I’m hoping to find—” Jilly paused, then said the words that she’d never allowed herself to use before. “I’m hoping to find my daughter.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Leave the child be. What’s done is done. You don’t want to go in and disrupt that child’s life, and the life of the whole family. To do so would only be selfish, if you ask my opinion.”

  Birdie drew back her formidable shoulders. “I don’t believe we asked your opinion.”

  “Birdie…” Jilly put her hand on Birdie’s arm.

  The nun’s face flushed red against the white wimple. “That’s all I know. You should go now. I’m sorry, but we can’t help you.”