“Not as far as you to ruin a woman.”
He spat at her feet. “You’re lucky I paid any attention to you at all.”
Headlights cut through the night. A black Ford pulled over to the curb and settled into idle. Nora could see the driver through the side window. Mr. Roche, the caretaker, leaned over the steering wheel, peering out the glass.
The passenger door opened.
Nora recognized the walk, the tall, erect posture of the nun who climbed out of the car. There was no mistaking the Mother Superior.
“Thank you, Mr. McClure,” Sister Anne said. “I’ll take over now. I assure you this won’t happen again. You’ll never have to worry about this penitent bothering you again. Come along, Monica.”
Pearse looked at Nora, his brows furrowed. “Monica?”
“One of the delightful benefits of living with The Sisters of the Holy Redemption.” She stepped toward Sister Anne. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you, Mr. McClure. Drop by for a visit anytime. I’m sure you’ll be amused.”
The Mother Superior grabbed her arm, but Nora pulled away. “Don’t touch Monica. Monica may get upset and make a big fuss.”
Sister Anne’s lips parted in a thin smile. “I doubt it. Sister Ruth is waiting for you in the backseat.”
Nora shot Pearse a withering look, then walked to the car and got into the backseat. She slid next to a scowling Sister Ruth, as the Mother Superior shut the door.
Sister Ruth held on to Nora with her muscular arms. “You ruined all my plans for the evening.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Nora said and pushed back in the seat. “I’m sure what you had planned wasn’t as important as this.”
“Little—”
“Now, Sister,” the Mother Superior chided from the front. “Be nice to Monica. She’s going to be spending time in the Penitent’s Room.” She turned and smiled at Nora.
Mr. Roche pulled the car away from the curb, and it sped toward the convent. As the houses of Ballybough slipped by, Nora realized she’d given herself to a man and got nothing for it but a return trip to The Sisters of the Holy Redemption. Sean had lost his cigarettes and whiskey, but she had lost something much more important. She could never get it back again.
CHAPTER 10
Sister Anne changed out of her habit and into her nightclothes. Monica continued to surprise her. She had ridden to the convent without saying a word; she had even stepped into the Penitent’s Room without resistance. Perhaps she was learning repentance after all. Perhaps her venture back in the world had softened her to the possibility of a life without sin.
She knelt in front of her bed, her usual location for prayer, and wished she were somewhere else in the convent. The windows were closed against the cold. The radiator rumbled and clacked in the corner. She breathed deeply, the semi-moist air filling her lungs. In the Penitent’s Room all would be black, soundless, now that evening prayers were over in the adjoining chapel. She wished she had the courage to be with Monica, holding her, giving her the comfort and love she needed during her time of penitence. Good Mother Superiors might do that, but her time alone with God was more important than prayers with a Magdalen.
Sister Anne bowed her head and prayed with a reverence and fervor that shocked her. She spit out the words, saying them almost to the point of a scream. Our Father, who art in heaven, hollowed be Thy name! She stopped. Did God hear her prayers? Was He listening?
She looked back to the bureau and thought about the blades, clean, silver gleaming, cold, waiting to slice the soft skin. How many hours had she spent in the Penitent’s Room herself trying to exorcise the pain? Her fellow Sisters never knew she was there. Most of the time it was late at night, long after the others had gone to bed. She had taken the blades with her. No one could see the blood smeared into the wall by her fingers. The ancient rock absorbed it like clay absorbs water.
So many times she had prayed there—the Lord’s Prayer, Hail Mary’s, desolate prayers of absolution. So many times she had sought relief from the despair sluicing through her soul like a rampaging river.
She never understood why her mother hated her so when it wasn’t her fault.
“Why did your sister have to die?” her mother kept asking. “You have conversations with the Lord every day. You are a godly person. Why didn’t He save her? Couldn’t you have saved her with your petitions to God?” Anger scorched her mother’s voice.
The questions kept coming as her mother’s depression deepened. Sister Anne expected her to ask one day, “Why didn’t He take you instead of her?” It wasn’t her fault her sister died in childbirth, but she had been in the room, praying for her, already having assured her mother that she would live, by the grace of God. She prayed so hard her head hurt, but her sister died despite her pleas. The baby lived, but it wasn’t enough. Her mother withered like a dead rose, the red blossom turning to brown, drying to dust. Then there was no family at all.
The guilt, the recrimination, continued until Sister Anne was forced to put the baby up for adoption, while she started a new life at The Sisters of the Holy Redemption. Her mother died a few months later in an asylum. Sister Anne had visited her once after she was admitted. Her mother didn’t recognize her, and she couldn’t wait to get away from the smell of shit and urine, and the constant moaning and chattering of the insane. She returned to the convent, stripped, and stood under scalding water for an hour. Her skin flushed red with heat; she could barely breathe, and her lungs stung from the hot vapor. That was the first time she cut herself.
Prayers tonight seemed to stop at the ceiling. She thought of Monica and wondered what she was doing. Did it hurt being alone in the Room? She knew it did. Sometimes it was more painful than anyone could bear. Was Monica hungry? Of course, but the penitent must bear up against the punishment. The only way to get stronger was to let it come to you, absorb it, make it part of you.
She rose and walked toward the bureau. Time slowed, and each step felt like she was in another woman’s body, walking on a spongy mattress. She reached for the drawer. The fingers crawled, touched the oak knob—smooth and rounded by a half century of use. She pulled it open and the blades came into view, the cool metal calling to her. Press them against the flesh. Let the penitent bleed.
She took one out, turned it over in her hand, being careful not to let it cut. She pulled up her sleeve and looked at the scarred ridges on the underside of her forearm. Just one, another one, would make the pain go away.
Not wanting to indulge in the vanity of her condition, she avoided the mirror over the dresser. A blue delft washbasin sat on its oak top. She held her arm over the basin and ran the blade across her skin. A crimson trail followed the cut, forming a thin line at first, then swelling, running in droplets down her arm. The blood fell into the bowl turning the water a smudgy pink.
A shock, akin to adrenaline, rushed through the cut. Her arm relaxed as she watched the blood run and the water finally turn red. A cool haze crept over her; she imagined the feeling was like the infiltration of opium into the lungs. Nothing much mattered—not the convent, not Monica, certainly not her pain. Euphoria filled her body. She dipped her arm into the water and then gingerly lifted it out. A clean white towel lay nearby. She wrapped it around her arm to staunch the wound. She would add it to the laundry items tomorrow and no one would be the wiser.
She knelt again at the end of her bed and looked up to the crucifix. She began her prayers, this time relaxed and earnest. Jesus was looking down upon her and she knew He was smiling.
* * *
Sister Mary-Elizabeth opened the door and peered in at Nora. A smile formed on the stout nun’s face, not exactly welcoming, but as close to a friendly greeting as she had seen in months.
“You had a rough time, I hear,” the nun said and handed her a plate with a cup of tea and toast. “That’s all you get until you’re out of here, so you better enjoy it. I’ll be back in an hour to take you to the jacks for the night.”
She stared up at her,
defeated, exhausted from her escape and return, unable to think about the future. Even the thought of tea and toast repulsed her. She took the plate and placed it on the floor. “Do you ever get tired, Sister Mary-Elizabeth? Tired of living?”
The nun frowned. “Don’t talk like that. All you have to do is cleanse yourself and all your problems will be solved—just as they were for me. I can’t think of a better life than serving God. You’ll come around.”
She chuckled at the irony of the nun’s words. Cleanse yourself and all your problems will be solved? Stuck in a black cavern, reduced to eating toast until she was released, then what? A life in the laundry until someone—anyone—came to her rescue. A knight riding a white horse seemed an unlikely scenario. She couldn’t trust men, she couldn’t trust women, whom could she trust?
As if reading Nora’s mind, Sister Mary-Elizabeth piped up in a joyful voice. “You have to come to terms with yourself. That’ll get you by. Don’t let anyone rule your life except God. He’ll talk to you.”
“Thanks for the advice, but right now I don’t have any friends, real or imaginary.”
“Oh, what’s the use talking to a girl like you? Use this time to think! Find yourself.” The nun moved the door a bit, about to plunge Nora into darkness, but stopped. “Truly. Find God and your life will change.”
Before the darkness overpowered the light, Nora saw the scratches on the walls she had noticed during her first time in the Penitent’s Room. She slumped on the stool and her head sank heavily on her chest. Her mind was as blank as the room. It felt good not to think of anything at all, to let the blackness encase her, seep into her soul. Maybe that’s how I should cope. By thinking of nothing at all. Even the room felt good. No dampness, no cold. She was sinking into emptiness and she liked it. Maybe Sister Mary-Elizabeth was right. If her parents wouldn’t save her, if Pearse and a man like Sean would have nothing to do with her, maybe she should turn to God. The thought gave her a temporary lift, before she closed her eyes. She was too tired to think. The dark swallowed her and, along with it, her thoughts of God.
* * *
She had never felt so alone since Nora had run away. Sister Anne had strictly reinforced the “no talking” rule and had chastised all the nuns, particularly Sister Ruth, for their lax behavior. Teagan couldn’t even speak to Lea—not that there was much to talk about—because she had been moved out of the old library and back to the laundry to take Nora’s place. They were both so tired, they said little before they crawled into bed. Before her reassignment, she had managed to smuggle her Christmas presents to the hiding place under Lea’s bed. Her friend was shocked that someone cared enough to give her gifts and offered to keep them safe.
For days, her job had been WLDS again. Whites. Lights. Darks. Special. It was grinding work, sorting, lifting, a few days at the washbasins, and then back to sorting with nothing to break the monotonous routine. The burn from her punishment the night Nora escaped had healed to fresh skin, but red splotches covered her hands from contact with bleach and detergent. Her shoulders ached each night as she crawled into bed. Even Betty, one of the older Magdalens at the convent, commiserated before lights-out about how “morose” the girls had become. “Christmas is coming,” she lamented. “Couldn’t we have a bit of joy in our lives?”
The Magdalens heard that the Mother Superior had punished Sister Ruth harshly for Nora’s escape. The athletic nun had accepted the blame for falling asleep. Rumors also circulated that Sister Ruth had spent time in the Penitent’s Room, but none of the gossipers could swear to it. However, shortly after her dressing-down by Sister Anne, Sister Ruth appeared to have given up her clandestine drinking on the job. Now the nun sat upright in her chair, never reading a magazine or book as she used to, rarely letting her posture slip. It was as if she had a board attached to her back that kept her stiff and out of sorts. She took her punishment out on the Magdalens by barking orders all day and running the laundry as if she was a warden. All the laundry packages entering or leaving through the delivery door were now inspected, without hesitation, by Sister Ruth.
One night, Teagan borrowed Lea’s penlight, and under cover of the blankets, wrote the letters she envisioned. She wrote longhand, painstakingly, on a plank taken from under Lea’s bed. Even the paper, pen, and two pilfered envelopes were “borrowed” from her friend’s desk in the old library. Lea never asked what the items were for. As always, she wanted to help Teagan.
She agonized over every word. After all, one of these was being addressed to the Pope, the other to Father Matthew. When it came down to it, her careful planning, her organized thoughts, were thrown out when the black ballpoint touched the paper.
Her tone was conciliatory, yet firm in her understanding of the situation. She had been wronged, and the Church should recognize her “parents’ misunderstanding” that sent her to The Sisters of the Holy Redemption. As she understood it, her “relationship” with Father Mark was “mistakenly” blown out of proportion by Father Matthew. The conditions at the laundry were deplorable and should be corrected. The answer to her problem was simple—an immediate release and an apology from the Church. In order not to cloud the issue, she never mentioned the supposed dead children. That would suffice. She wrote for two hours before signing them both.
She returned the light, the pen, and the board to Lea, who concealed them like a master thief. Her friend moved without making a sound, her stealth uncanny when called for.
Teagan didn’t sleep well that night, wondering how she would get the letters out. Sisters Anne, Ruth, and Rose were no good, for they couldn’t be trusted. Her only chance at getting them posted was through Sister Mary-Elizabeth, who had displayed goodwill toward the girls now and then.
Teagan found the nun the next morning after breakfast. The odd meal, creamed corn with sugar, toast, and watery tea, upset her stomach, which was already on edge from her decision to mail the letters.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth, carrying a serving tray with toast and tea, rushed down the hall with the Magdalens, who were headed to the laundry. Teagan caught up with her outside the Penitent’s Room. The nun placed the tray on a small table sitting between the chapel and the room, and then lifted the key chain that hung from her sash. She stopped when she saw her.
“Get along now, to work,” the Sister ordered. “I’ve got business here that’s none of yours.”
“I won’t be a minute,” Teagan said. She looked up the stairs and then down the hall as the girls filed past, making sure that no Sisters were watching. “Could you please post these letters for me? I’d be so grateful.” She pulled them from her apron pocket.
“Two letters. You have been busy. Pens, paper, and envelopes are scarce around here.” The nun eyed them suspiciously. “Who are you writing?”
Blood rose in her face. Of course, Sister Mary-Elizabeth would want to know. Did she really think that the nun would blindly post the letters without looking at them?
“To my parents,” Teagan said.
The nun frowned. “Contact outside the convent is forbidden, unless there’s an emergency. Is this an emergency?” She forced a smile. “You seem healthy enough to me.”
She returned the letters to her apron pocket. “I wanted to tell them how much I loved them and how well things are going here.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Sister Mary-Elizabeth said with a hint of sarcasm. “I don’t believe it for a minute.”
Teagan said bluntly, “One is to the Pope and the other to Father Matthew. That’s the truth.”
The nun stared at her in surprise. “Now, what would you be wanting with those two fine gentlemen? Best be rid of those. Now, get along, or they’ll be a boatload of trouble for both of us.”
She strode down the hall, wondering if the nun would tell the Mother Superior about her letters. Any path veering from “normal” was a risk at the convent. This was one she was willing to take.
As she turned to go down the stairs to the laundry, she saw Sister Mary-Elizabeth open the door
to the Penitent’s Room. Someone was sitting inside—a girl in a blue dress. Her face was covered in shadow. Was she a new Magdalen, already being punished for her transgressions?
* * *
The day dragged on for Teagan. Sister Ruth stationed her at a washbasin near the front. Her job was to work on the delicate fabrics, to make sure all the stains were treated and out before hand-washing. She made sure her letters weren’t ruined by detergent and water splashing onto her pocket.
Sister Ruth was her usual watchdog self and kept a close eye on the day’s work. Several times, vans rolled up to the delivery door. She was waiting for the right moment to hand over the letters. Some of the men looked familiar from her days in the laundry, but no opportunity presented itself.
After the noon meal, she resumed her station at the washbasin. Sister Ruth returned to her chair in the middle of the room and, with that, no chance of getting the letters out.
About three in the afternoon, a brown van pulled up to the door. Sister Ruth inspected the parcels as a middle-aged man and his young assistant shoved them inside. Near her chair, the nun exchanged greetings and papers with the older man, ignoring the dark-haired youth who couldn’t have been much more than eighteen.
While the two adults were distracted, Teagan decided to act. She sneaked away from her station, winked at the young man, and handed him the letters. “Please post these as soon as possible,” she whispered. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s important. I’ll pay you back for postage, and more, when you come back.” She winked again.
He broke into a wide smile. “More?” He looked at her from head to toe.
She raked her hand through her hair and swung her hip to the side. “More. As much as I can give.” It pained her to act like a tramp, but if it got the job done....
He winked back at her. “I’ve heard about you girls. Me boss told me. I’ll be looking for more.”
The Magdalen Girls Page 17