The Convent

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘How the fuck would I know, Peach?’ she says dryly. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘I wonder what they talked about!’ I mutter, running my hand over the inlaid woodwork around the fireplace. ‘And I wonder who did this. It’s so lovely.’

  ‘Well, you can bet whoever did do it isn’t around now.’ Cassie is in practical mode. ‘Come on.’ She pushes me out of the lobby. ‘You can look another time.’

  ‘Did they wear ordinary clothes on weekends?’ I ask.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The nuns?’

  Det stares at me. ‘It wasn’t a job, Peach.’

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘A vocation,’ she says. ‘They were called by God.’

  ‘What?’ I start laughing. This coming out of Det’s mouth is just too bizarre.

  ‘Called to the religious life,’ she says seriously. ‘It’s full-on. No wages and no getting away on the weekends.’

  ‘And … do you believe that?’ I ask as noncommittally as I can. ‘I mean the bit about God calling them?’

  She doesn’t say anything for a while and then she chuckles softly. ‘Yeah. In a way I do. Yeah. I do believe that.’

  ‘But you don’t even believe in God!’ I splutter. ‘You told me you didn’t.’

  ‘So?’ She grins at me. ‘Just because I don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that he, she or it doesn’t exist, does it?’

  Cass and I glance at each other behind her back and raise our eyebrows and I decide to let it go. I’ve never been one for talking around in circles. But a picture of a girl on the phone taking the call from God fills my head. Then afterwards, explaining it to her friends. Hey guys, sorry I can’t go to your party because … God called me! He said I have to go to this place and put on all these funny clothes. I don’t get any time off and I earn no money. What do you think? Good career move? Can’t afford to pass it up, can I? The opportunity might never come around again. Yeah, right.

  ‘You look troubled, Peach.’

  ‘Were they allowed out?’

  ‘No. They were enclosed.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I whisper. ‘Did other people come in?’

  Det shakes her head and then grins. ‘Hey, I’m not a world expert on nuns and I’m hungry.’

  We find a long bench under the cover of the verandah, and Cassie deals out the baguettes and the drinks. The three of us are quiet for a few minutes as we get stuck into the food. It’s still hot but the clouds have begun to gather.

  ‘Okay, what’s up then?’ Cassie turns to Det with a hard, in-your-face stare. ‘You look shithouse.’ She takes another bite and hands Det what is left of her baguette. ‘Go on, have it. I’ve had enough.’

  I look at Det and see that she is even more pale than usual. Trust Cassie to notice.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Back off ’ Det mumbles.

  ‘You look pale and you’re edgy,’ Cassie persists.

  ‘Jeez, Cass!’ Det laughs awkwardly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m fine, but … I’ve got something to tell you both.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Det looks away uneasily. ‘No one has died or been attacked or anything important like that.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know,’ Cassie says.

  Cassie and I snatch another conspiratorial glance and go back to eating. We know that if we start firing questions at Det she is likely to clam up completely. So we just sit there and watch her demolish the last scrap of food.

  ‘So.’ Det sighs as she looks up at the church spire. ‘Looks like I’m pregnant.’

  I watch Cassie’s face. It is still for about three seconds, then her eyes narrow, her mouth tightens, and she begins to heave, as if she is going to be sick.

  I turn away, not trusting myself to look at either of them at this point. I know what is going through Cassie’s head, because the same thing is going through mine. For this to happen again is too much. I chuck what is left of my roll out onto the concrete for the birds and crumple up the paper bag into a tight ball.

  Cassie gives a deep, furious moan that sends an echo around my own brain. This – is – too – much. I almost just get up and walk off. I so much want to be somewhere else right fucking now. Seriously, I wish I’d never met Det. She’s too mad, too irresponsible. She lacks even the most basic street smarts. I’m totally and utterly sick of her.

  The cold horrible truth is that Cassie and I have seen Det through two abortions already, and she is only a year older than us. The first one was understandable. She was a green country kid who’d never had any kind of social life at all until she left school. She hadn’t been interested in going out and it had worked well for her. She was a student who got top marks two years running. School and the friends she’d made had been enough. But after school the old lady she was living with became ill and retired to a nursing home. Det had to find accommodation elsewhere.

  Her first place was a share house where everyone was older than her – and things were pretty wild. There were loud parties and lots of drinking and drugs and hangers-on. She went a bit wild too, got involved with one of the guys and … the inevitable happened. That termination knocked her around enough, but it was the second, last year, that affected her so deeply.

  She let herself get run-down after it was over, and then she got physically sick and then she got really, seriously and very deeply depressed. Within a few weeks she literally couldn’t get out of bed in the mornings. Cass and I brought her food every day for three months and made her eat it. We washed her, talked her through everything, again and again and … again. We helped her dress; we took her to shrink appointments; we gave her money. I’m not kidding, we did everything we could; she was a total mess and there was no one else to do it for her. I honestly think if it weren’t for us she would have died. She was that bad.

  After a few months the black fog lifted; gradually and without fanfare she started to come good. She got back to her day job at a cafe in Collingwood and that helped. She started painting again and two of her lecturers let her know that they saw her as someone with exceptional talent. This gave her confidence. She started seeing people again. Slowly, slowly she pulled her life together.

  Then she was invited by a small, prestigious gallery to exhibit with two older, well-known male artists who were initially miffed to be exhibiting alongside a young female student – until they saw the work. The gallery owner added a nought to the price of each work, and much to everyone’s surprise – and to some people’s chagrin – Det’s work sold really well, way better than the other artists’. She was on her way. She had a few grand in the bank and her spirits had climbed right out of that terrible hole. Then she got the government grant at the end of the year. She was on a roll.

  ‘Well, say something,’ Det mutters. ‘Yell. Scream.’

  For the second time inside twelve hours I do want to scream. I want to rant and rave and throw stuff around. Not only do I have my sister at home to look after, but now there is my best friend … all over again.

  ‘This is crazy, Det.’

  ‘I know.’ She bites her lip. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It took you ages to get over it last time,’ Cassie says. ‘You know what you were like.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘It was hard on us too, Det. Then you got the grant for this year and this wonderful place to work at last.’ Cassie’s voice breaks. ‘Every blasted thing is going so well for you!’

  ‘I know, I’m a complete idiot.’

  ‘So who is the—’

  ‘No no. That’s not important. I think—’

  ‘It is fucking important!’ Cassie snarls. ‘Because at the very least he can help pay this time.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m not absolutely sure how to find him. I mean … it was just casual.’ She’s blathering.

  ‘Well, start looking.’ Cassie cuts across the bullshit.

  I’m with her on
this. In fact, my bet is that Det knows very well how to find him but is too proud to involve him, so I dig my boot in too.

  ‘As far as I am concerned, this time whoever he is can be part of the whole bloody thing, Det, because the termination procedure is just the beginning. Then there’s the follow-up visits to doctors, medicines to pay for, time off work.’

  ‘I know. I know. I’m sorry.’

  Cassie and I forked out last time and I’m not going to again unless I really have to. And what if she crashes again? Of course that’s what we really fear. I just don’t want to even think about all that happening again.

  ‘I just … had no idea …’ Det mumbles but doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘We only fucked a couple of times. He said he’d go get condoms … I said it wouldn’t matter ’cause I’d just had my period. So it’s all totally my fault.’

  I look at her and see that she is absolutely miserable and my heart melts – against my will. I still want to scream at her, but I also want to cradle her in my arms because, well, she is Det – so funny and wild and different to anyone else I have ever known.

  Cassie is obviously feeling the same thing. She edges closer and puts one hand on Det’s knee.

  I put one arm around her skinny shoulders. ‘What’s done is done,’ I say softly, ‘and we’ll help, won’t we, Cass?’

  ‘Of course,’ Cass sighs.

  ‘Thanks,’ Det sniffs.

  Cassie takes her diary out of her bag. ‘You’ve been to the clinic?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good. And they’ve given you a date?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So when do you go?’

  ‘Next week,’ Det mutters. ‘Tuesday, I think.’

  ‘Okay, good. We’ll get it over with and then you can start picking up the pieces again.’ Cassie looks at me. ‘There is no need to assume that it will be as bad as last time.’

  I murmur in agreement.

  ‘This time will be different, Det,’ Cassie says sternly. ‘You won’t go down the way you did before.’

  ‘Will you go to the same place?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep.’ Det bends down and takes her packet of tobacco out of her backpack and begins to roll one of her thin little cigarettes. ‘Except that this time, I’m not going to have a termination.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going to have an abortion.’

  Neither Cassie nor I speak.

  As horrible as another abortion is to contemplate, the alternative is simply impossible. Det is the best person, generous, and kind to a fault, but her life is a total train wreck. She has never lived in the same share house for more than about six months. She takes drugs, she drinks, she smokes, she has no family behind her. Or none that she has anything to do with, anyway. She doesn’t know how to eat or look after herself.

  Probably more important than any of that, she has never wanted children. It isn’t a matter of her being ambivalent about it. She was adamant when we first met her. I will never have a kid. She explained that some people just know in their bones they are not cut out for it. I believed it then, and I believe it now.

  ‘If you don’t have an abortion then you’ll have a baby,’ I mutter.

  ‘Yeah, well …’ She smiles weakly. ‘I guess that is the way it goes.’

  ‘And you don’t want a baby,’ I went on relentlessly. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, that’s right … I don’t … want a baby.’

  ‘Because you are an artist who loves her work,’ I push on. ‘You love music, dancing all night, getting off your face on whatever is around. You are twenty-one years old, Det, and you have never wanted a baby. Ever. You have no boyfriend or partner. It would be really irresponsible for you to have a kid.’

  She nods. ‘You’re right,’ she says in a small voice.

  ‘So … what are you really saying?’ I persist, more gently now, thinking that she is just overreacting to the idea of having to have another termination.

  She turns and looks at me directly. ‘I guess I’m saying that I’m going to have a baby.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cassie shrieks. ‘You guess you’re going to have a baby? Det, that is exactly what will happen if you don’t have a termination. You will have a baby! A screeching tiny human being that needs attention around the clock! It has to be fed and changed and … rocked all the time. Have you any idea how boring that is? Well I do! My sister’s first kid sent her absolutely spare for six months. It never shut up.’ Cassie is yelling, her hands flying around Greek style. ‘And she has a husband, a house, the whole friggin’ shebang with bells on … an army of people to help her! You don’t get to give it back when you get sick of it, Det. It’s not a dog. I’m telling you that you must not have a baby. It will ruin your fucking life.’

  ‘I’m pregnant, and I’m going to have a baby,’ Det says firmly, and takes a long drag of her cigarette.

  ‘Look at you smoking! Look at you. You have no money. You’re are a drug addict.’

  ‘I am not a drug addict, Cassie,’ Det cuts in mildly.

  ‘It will be born damaged! All the alcohol and the cigarettes you consume. And you don’t eat properly.’

  ‘I know,’ Det mutters.

  ‘What do you mean, you know?’ Cassie is virtually hyperventilating. ‘Do you know that all that stuff affects how the kid will turn out?’

  ‘I know. I’ve got to change some … stuff.’

  ‘Some stuff? What the fuck does that mean? It’s too late. Vital stuff has happened already to that foetus. Ask Peach. She knows all about biology. Peach, isn’t that true?’

  I nod uneasily.

  ‘See! It’s too late.’

  ‘Hey, calm down,’ I say. People walking past are staring at us. ‘Come on, Cassie. Screaming doesn’t help anyone.’

  Cassie glares belligerently at a middle-aged couple and their two pre-teen kids who seem amused by us yelling at each other.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Cassie snarls. They turn away in embarrassment. She stands up, her face ferocious and unforgiving. ‘Listen, I can’t handle this. I really can’t.’ She looks at me. ‘For Christ’s sake, talk some sense into her.’ Then she picks up her bag and flounces off towards the entrance gates.

  Det and I sit and watch her neat little figure as she disappears out the gate. Cassie hardly ever goes off the deep end. She prides herself on always seeing things through. She likes being in control. So … this is big.

  Eventually Det gets up, gives me an apologetic smile and mumbles something about needing to go back to work.

  ‘How pregnant are you, Det?’

  ‘About nineteen weeks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I haven’t known for that long.’ She shrugs helplessly. ‘I thought it might be something else.’

  Something else?

  I get up to leave too. There doesn’t seem to be a lot to say.

  Cecilia

  Cecilia shifted in her seat and tried to stretch her legs, but it was impossible to get comfortable. Since the Singapore stopover she’d been stuck halfway down the plane between two men. One had some kind of breathing difficulty – he wheezed constantly. The other, in the aisle seat, took every opportunity to engage her in conversation. Cecilia had been friendly at first until she realised that he was flirting with her. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five! She looked at her watch. Three hours to go. She was due to land in Melbourne at nine p.m.

  ‘Excuse me again,’ she said apologetically and stood up. It had only been an hour since the last time, but she couldn’t sit still any longer.

  ‘Getting excited, huh?’ He stood up to make room.

  She smiled without meeting his eyes and edged past, cursing her own naiveté. When they’d first sat down together she’d made the mistake of telling him that it had been fifteen years since she’d set foot in the country of her birth. Whenever she looked up from the book she’d long since finished reading, he was ready with suggestions about the bars and restaurants she should go to,
along with interesting places that had changed or been built since she’d last been home. It wouldn’t be long before he was offering to show her around.

  She made her way slowly up the aisle to the toilet, stepping past row after row of tired, cramped people trying to sleep, the evidence of the long flight strewn about them – bags full of duty-free alcohol, shoes, earphones and plastic cups.

  Cecilia was over fifty and still an attractive woman who looked at least ten years younger than she was. She thought it was ironic that at precisely the stage in life when her looks were fading, she’d finally realised that she was beautiful. She was slim with a good curvy figure. Her hair was honey blonde and curly with only occasional strands of grey. She had bright blue eyes and a full mouth. Apart from the crow’s-feet around her eyes when she smiled, and a few lines etched into the corners of her mouth, her skin was as fine as ever – one of the few positive legacies of spending her twenties in the convent when most of her generation were at the beach.

  She noticed a couple of empty seats near a window and she bent down to peer out. She saw the red sun making the clouds pink and gold. Then the plane dipped a little and swung around and she was looking down on red earth. Australia. Her stomach lurched with apprehension.

  Why? After all this time. Why?

  But she knew why. Breda had written. Breda. After all these years she had hunted her down and written a quick breezy email with promises of more ‘juicy info’ when and if Cecilia wrote back.

  Hey there, Annunciata, is that you? Cecilia had stared at the screen disbelievingly. It had been so long since she’d been called by her religious name. She hadn’t set eyes on Breda since that last evening in the convent. One morning, just two days before they were to make their final vows, Cecilia woke to find that Breda was gone. Not a word to anyone and no note. Her bed was made neatly with just her black lace-up shoes at the end. Not a thing was out of place. It took a whole morning before it became clear that she’d done a bunk in the middle of the night. It turned out that not only Breda was gone, but one of the girls from the laundry had gone too. Cecilia smiled as she remembered how shocking it had been at the time.