The Magdalen Girls

by V. S. Alexander

  “My sister was to have a baby. She died during childbirth. The blocks were in the baby’s crib.” She bowed her head briefly. “They were never used, so I took them to remind me what happened. I look at them every day, and sometimes I weep—mostly from anger and hate. I want the anger and hate to disappear, but it’s the most difficult task I’ve ever faced. Demons can be very insistent and tricky, prodding you with their fiery pitchforks.”

  Teagan didn’t know what to say and only nodded.

  “I’ve tried for years to rid myself of the hate I feel for the child who killed my sister. My sister was unmarried. The father of her child was just a boy, on the verge of being a man, who ran away from his responsibility. My mother and sister hid the pregnancy from everyone, even me, until it was obvious. What a great disappointment it was for my mother. It sent her on the road to destruction. She didn’t want my sister to end up here, or in a place like it. In hindsight, it would have been better for everyone if she had. At least here, the child would have been attended by doctors and the clergy. The birth wouldn’t have been left up to my sister and mother.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Teagan asked. “Have I done something wrong? Am I to be punished again?”

  Sister Anne picked up the L block and turned it in her hands. “The punishment was that you lived and my sister died.”

  Teagan flinched in her chair. Her eyes widened in slow recognition. What the Mother Superior was professing didn’t make sense. She’d misheard the nun. It was monstrous, horrid, to even consider such an idea. She smirked, thinking that the Mother Superior was attempting some kind of perverted joke to make her insane. Perhaps Sister Anne wanted to drive her crazy, like Nora, so she, too, could be shipped off to an asylum. She slumped in her chair, trembling.

  Sister Anne replaced the block, aligning it with her fingers, and returned to her chair. A dreary look spread across her face, one opposite of the day outside. “It’s true,” the nun said. “You’re my sister’s child—my niece.”

  “It can’t. . . .”

  “Let me assure you, it’s true.” Sister Anne lifted the folder on her desk. “I didn’t want to believe it either. You’re welcome to look at the papers if you’d like. It’s all spelled out here.”

  Teagan grabbed the file and opened it. Her reading confirmed what Sister Anne said. Her parents had never told her she was adopted. Her thoughts shifted to her father, whom she blamed for keeping the truth from her. It was one of many things unspoken, including his hard drinking, in a family filled with secrets. No wonder he was eager to get rid of her. She wasn’t even real flesh and blood.

  “When did you know?” Teagan asked, barely aware of the question. She looked through the windows to the green canopy outside. The scene came into focus like a painting. The leaves fluttered in the breeze, their color broken only by the rough gray bark of the trees. The room—the trees outside—nothing seemed real.

  “I knew from the beginning, but sometimes the mind doesn’t want to accept the truth.” The nun spoke slowly, forcing the words out. “There was a strange connection—something in you triggered it in me. Your face, the shape of your head, your walk—they have tortured me. I prayed at your bedside one night. I don’t know if you noticed.”

  Teagan nodded, remembering her memory and the smell of the candle in the hall.

  “I had to find out for certain, so I called for my sister’s file. Of course, everything I feared fell into place.” Sister Anne sighed. “I’ve hated you since you came here.” She clasped her hands and lowered her gaze. “There, I’ve admitted it. I’ve hated you and the sin you represented. And I tried to make you suffer, despite love, so you would pay for killing my sister. I hoped that through your suffering—a gift that our heavenly Father gave us—you would become a better woman. But try as I might, I cannot love you. I’m not even sure I can forgive you. It’s tragic for one in my position. I’m trying, but I’m not sure I’ll succeed.”

  “You could let me go, so we never have to see each other again.” Teagan placed the file on Sister Anne’s desk. She immediately regretted the words, as she thought of Nora, immobile, on her bed.

  “I wish I could, but I have no authority to do so. The Church would not allow it. You’re here until someone takes you away. No matter how many times you escape, you’ll be returned to spend your days with us.”

  Teagan shuddered. It could be years before Cullen could wrangle a way out for her. And what if he changed his mind, or found another girlfriend? How horrible it would be to grow old in the convent, like Betty, withering away until she was a dusty memory.

  Sister Anne opened the file and stared at the papers inside. She said nothing for a time and then put the folder down. “Times change. We all change eventually. If nothing else, we die. The fire yesterday taught me something about love. Lea demonstrated it with her willingness to give up her life to save a child. And, in her way, Monica showed me, too. The depth of her love has been demonstrated by her grief.”

  “Please don’t send her away,” Teagan said.

  “I hope, for her sake, she recovers, but if not . . .”

  The hard veil of obstinacy had fallen over the Mother Superior again.

  “I think you’ve said everything I need to hear,” Teagan said. “For once, I’m dismissing myself.”

  Sister Anne didn’t raise an objection. “Work will be good for you. It’s good for all of us—like love.”

  Teagan shook her head. “I think it’s better if we see each other as little as possible.” She walked to the door and opened it. Sister Anne nodded as she stepped into the hall. Sorrow engulfed her as she walked down the steps and into the humming throb of the laundry.

  * * *

  Teagan kept to herself the next week. Her emotions were raw; she had no desire to relive her pain. As she worked at the washbasins, she thought about how to legitimately leave the convent. Being only seventeen years old, every idea seemed unrealistic, unworkable; nothing she thought of, legal or otherwise, gave her any confidence that she would be freed. Her father wanted nothing to do with her. The Church, especially Father Matthew, would be opposed to her release.

  Nora was walking and eating now. The basic functions of life seemed to keep her alive. The modest recovery hardly cheered Teagan. Sister Mary-Elizabeth, knowing the alternative was an asylum, forced her friend back to the laundry. Nora worked at the sorting bins with Sarah, but said little, only giving Teagan and the other Magdalens a sad look.

  Nora lifted the clothes, tablecloths, and bedspreads with stiff arms, letting her body drop with the weight of the dirty wash until her limbs were purple with bruises. More than once Teagan thought an institution might be a better choice for Nora, rather than slowly killing herself in the laundry. No matter how hard she pleaded with her friend to “come back to us,” she couldn’t break through the wall in her mind.

  Lea’s body had been taken away by her stepfather for burial. Betty had taken Teagan’s place at the lace-mending table, relegating her to the laundry.

  A new Magdalen had taken Lea’s place, a pretty girl with dark brown hair who had run away from home to be with a boyfriend. Teagan was reluctant to get to know her because the fates of her friends still hung heavily upon her heart.

  Sister Anne avoided her, walking silently past as if she didn’t exist.

  During a stretch of warm days, she and the other girls struggled with the heat. The work exhausted her after a few hours. The smells of bleach and detergent turned her stomach. The work was dull, the daily routine duller; sleep blocked out the pain somewhat, but like Nora, she could feel herself slipping away. Another year and she would be gone—like Sarah, Betty, and many others. She knew it.

  She stuck her hands into the hot water. Her body temperature rose even higher. Sweat dripped from her brow. She lifted her soapy fingers from the water and swiped them across her forehead.

  Shouts and angry voices filtered down the stairs. The Magdalens stopped to listen to the commotion, which could be heard a
bove the hum of the machines. Sister Ruth gave the signal for the girls to shut off the laundry equipment. An eerie silence fell upon the room.

  The shouts continued in the hall above. She tensed when she heard Cullen’s voice call her name. The Mother Superior was shouting, too, shrill and biting, above his calls.

  “Don’t move,” Sister Ruth ordered. “I’ll see what’s going on.”

  If anyone could stop Cullen, it would be Sister Ruth. Teagan had no intention of obeying the nun’s command and she ran to the stairs, following the rustle of the habit.

  When she rounded the corner, she found that the Mother Superior and Sister Ruth had blocked the stairs. Mr. Roche held Cullen back. Her boyfriend was pushing toward the two nuns. When Cullen saw her, his face shifted from anger to desperation.

  “Me pal here climbed the gate and forced his way in,” Mr. Roche shouted at Teagan.

  “I knew you were keeping her in the laundry,” Cullen said. “Let go of me. I won’t cause trouble.”

  Sister Ruth, seething with rage, turned on Teagan. “I told you to stay put. Did you have anything to do with this?”

  The Mother Superior raised her hand. “It’s all right, Sister. Let’s hear what the boy has to say. Mr. Roche, release him.” She glared at Cullen. “What do you have to say that’s so important?”

  Cullen focused on Teagan. The color drained from his face as he walked toward her.

  “Your parents are dead.”

  Her body stiffened.

  Sister Ruth shook her fist at Cullen. “If you are making this up—I’ll—”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Cullen shouted. “Why would I make up such a terrible joke? Read the evening papers. Cormac Tiernan worked for the government.” He held out his hands to her.

  Sister Ruth stepped between them, but Sister Anne pulled her back. “Let him go,” she said.

  The convent was slipping away. It didn’t matter anymore. Words caught in her throat. Death had mocked her again with its brutal surprises; her body reeled in pain. “They’re . . .” was all she managed.

  “I’m sorry,” Cullen said and grasped her hands. “Both gone. The car went off the road into a canal. They drowned. Your da had been drinking.”

  She looked at him. His lips moved, but the words he spoke didn’t seem real. Memories of the house, her parents, flooded through her. She collapsed on the top step and covered her eyes with her hands.

  Cullen knelt beside her. “I’ll keep trying. For your sake, I’ll keep trying.”

  She couldn’t think about the future when the present seemed so dead.

  Someone touched her shoulder. She looked up to see Sister Anne standing over her. “Thank you, young man, but I think you’d better go now.”

  Cullen backed away. “Yes, I’ll go.” He stopped at the door. “But I’ll be back. I promise.” He pulled the door open and stepped outside. Mr. Roche followed him.

  Sister Anne pulled her up. “Sister Ruth, go ahead with the work. We can’t falter. . . .” The nun disappeared down the stairs to the laundry.

  The Mother Superior put her arm through Teagan’s and led her to the chapel. “We must pray. We receive our strength from God.”

  She sat in the front pew as Sister Anne gathered votives and lit them at the small altar dedicated to the Holy Mother.

  Time stopped as she sat looking at the chapel walls. The burning wicks reminded her of the orphanage fire. Death was too close, an entity who had grabbed her and wouldn’t let go. Perhaps the Reaper had even more surprises in store.

  She clasped her hands. The murmuring voice of Sister Anne, who prayed on the kneeler next to her, made no sense. How could she believe that the Mother Superior, her aunt, the woman who hated her, now shared her grief? She wondered whether her mother had read her note before she died. She hoped so. The tears came and she fought back sobs.

  She prayed in the chapel until there were no more tears left.

  CHAPTER 18

  Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of losing her parents.

  She was an orphan again on the cusp of adulthood, but not yet of legal age. Her parents were gone. She had no idea whether the house was hers or someone else’s, but it really didn’t matter since she couldn’t leave the convent. Every avenue had been closed. Such thoughts were numbing.

  The funerals were held at St. Eusebius three days after the accident. Father Matthew, the old priest, conducted the funeral Masses. Still harboring his prejudice, he never looked at Teagan. The Mother Superior and Sister Mary-Elizabeth accompanied her to the church.

  A large contingent of government workers turned out to pay their respects, in addition to all the current and former bridge club players in her mother’s circle of friends. Mrs. Bryde, the woman who had discovered her in the house a few weeks ago, spurned her. Teagan assumed the woman now knew the “truth” about the Magdalens and wanted nothing to do with her.

  Cullen attended with his mother and sat a few rows behind her. They only gave their condolences. They had no chance to talk privately with the nuns hovering nearby.

  The funerals brought up painful memories of her parents and of the many days she had spent at the church, including her introduction to Father Mark at the parish house. She couldn’t help but fixate on the Sunday the old priest had called her father aside to chastise him about her meeting with the handsome priest. Getting her jumper back was a simple and innocent act; yet so much had happened because of it. After she had been sent away, her father’s depression and drinking had deepened, leading to the deaths of her parents. As she sat wedged between the Mother Superior and Sister Mary-Elizabeth, she wanted to get out of the church as quickly as possible, even if it meant returning to her life at the convent. Too many hurtful memories stung her.

  When the Mass ended, she noticed a man sitting at the back of the church near a holy water font. He turned away from her, but there was something familiar about the face, shadowed in a full black beard.

  She turned her head for a moment to acknowledge sympathy from a neighbor. When she looked back at the man, he had disappeared. She walked to the car with the nuns. Mr. Roche drove them back to the convent.

  * * *

  Sister Anne was standing in the hall the next morning. Teagan was on her way from breakfast to the laundry. She tried to judge the Mother Superior’s mood. The nun stood stiffly upright, her lips pursed to a narrow slit. Her eyes seemed black, like the dark orbs of crows. She motioned for Teagan to step inside her office and closed the door behind them.

  A man was sitting in front of the Mother Superior’s desk. As Teagan drew near, he turned. She recognized him as the man with the beard who had been sitting at the back of the church.

  He got up from the chair. “Hello.”

  Teagan knew Father Mark’s voice. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him at the funeral Mass. The full black beard grew high upon his cheeks, hiding his handsome features. He wore a white button-down shirt—one any working-class Irishman would wear—and dark pants. His shoes were scuffed, his pants and shirt somewhat wrinkled. The crisp style he had once displayed was gone.

  An awkward silence grew between Sister Anne and Father Mark. Teagan refused to sit next to him.

  Finally, Sister Anne spoke. “Father Mark wants to talk to you. He has already told me what he intends to say, so there are no secrets between us.”

  He faced her, his eyes sullen and heavy. “I’ve come to ask for your release from The Sisters of the Holy Redemption.”

  She understood what Father Mark had said, but, oddly, the words rang hollow, without substance, in her head. How could he rescue her? He had come to release her when she had no home to go to? Her face reddened in anger.

  She looked at his sad face. Maybe he was suffering, but his penance was nothing compared to what she had been through. She had lost her parents because of him. How could she trust him after what he had done? How would she make her way in the world with no parents, no money, and little chance of employment? Nothing like joy or
elation filled her. She stiffened as these questions occupied her thoughts.

  “I know how hard this has been for you,” Mark continued. “I want to make it up to you. I’m no longer a priest.”

  She stared at him, hardly able to believe her ears.

  He didn’t take his gaze off her, despite the tears brimming in his eyes.

  “I’ve come to ask for your forgiveness, because for more than a year, I’ve lived with a lie.” He brushed away a tear. “Let me tell you what happened from the beginning. After much soul-searching, I told Father Matthew I’d developed feelings—sexual fantasies—after our meeting. It wasn’t a confession, just a conversation with my superior. In the Church, a priest can do no wrong and his mentor stands up for him. Father Matthew took our talk and made it his own. My admission grew like a hideous beast; you became the sinner who could cause me to fall into the devil’s hands. Once our talk was over, it took on a life of its own. Father Matthew was intent on saving me from my own ‘destruction.’”

  Sister Anne frowned and looked down at her desk. Her mouth worked silently as if muttering a silent prayer.

  “I’ve been weak, a disciple of the devil, living a lie,” Father Mark continued. “I knew what Father Matthew had done—telling your father—but I didn’t have the strength to confront him. Later I told him what he had done was wrong, but I didn’t fight for you. He told me everything would be better this way; that life would be easier. It was better to get sin out of the way, he said.

  “After seeing you at Christmas, knowing the horrible rumors that had been spread, even by people in our own parish, I suddenly realized I couldn’t go on as a priest. It took time for me to act upon this decision. All the while the lie was eating me up inside. I had to leave the Church because I’m not a worthy person. I have failed myself, my priesthood, my parish, and most of all, you.”

  Something deep inside begged her to forgive, but a stronger feeling told her to remain calm, consider what Mark was saying and disregard his plea for absolution.