by Anbara Salam
“I regret it,” Sister Teresa said.
Isabella grinned. “She didn’t want to say, but I got it out of her. I just knew she wasn’t a Teresa. Are you, Rosie?”
“‘Rosie’ is awful,” she said, wrinkling her forehead. The expression was so un-nunlike, so like a normal girl, it transformed her. She could have been one of our classmates.
“No, it’s not! What does old William say? Rose by any other name smelling sweet?” Isabella pouted.
“But that means despite my name I would be the same person.”
“Oh yeah?” Isabella bit her nail. I thought of the earth on her fingers and suppressed a shiver. “You think that can really be true?” She licked the corner of her thumb where she had chewed the nail away. “I think I’d be totally different with a different name. If I was, I don’t know, Cookie instead of Isabella.”
Sister Teresa frowned. “Cookie? That’s not a real name.”
“It is too,” said Isabella. “In my middle school class there was a girl called Cookie. And another called Muffin.”
“Those were their actual names?” Sister Teresa said.
“Well, no, nicknames.”
“Like Rosie?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I think Teresa suits me much better than my birth name.”
I winced. The phrase “birth name” was horrible.
“Don’t you mean your christened name?” I said. I knew I was being a know-it-all but, spitefully, I wanted to puncture their little moment of banter.
“No.” Sister Teresa held my gaze. “That’s very astute of you.”
I glanced at Isabella, expecting her to catch my eye. Astute. What a word. I waited for the spell of our joke about Sister Vocabulary to be cast, to link us back together. But she was watching Sister Teresa.
“Actually, my birth name is different from my christened name. The politics are complicated. In Ethiopia.”
“Don’t you miss Africa?” I said, not knowing I would ask that until I heard myself voice the question.
She stretched her neck. “Sometimes I miss my family, that’s true.”
“You have a family?” My mouth fell open.
She laughed at my incredulity. “My mother and my siblings are all living in my hometown,” she said. “And my brothers and sister are all married now. With their own families.”
“And your father?” I said.
“My father moved back to Italy.”
I stared at her, astounded. I looked at Isabella, who was wriggling her eyebrow at me meaningfully.
“Your father’s here?” My voice was stringy.
“In the south.” She pushed the rake over to the fence. I thought for a moment I had offended her and she was walking away to end the conversation. But instead she turned and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her tunic. She took off her gloves with her teeth, pinned them under her elbow, and shook the packet, offering it to Isabella and to me. We all shared a match. She blew it out and threw it carelessly toward the fence. It fell only a yard away and I watched the stalk still smoking in the earth.
Sister Teresa leaned back on the railing, hooking her elbows over with un-nunlike casualness. Isabella and I stood on either side of her against the fence.
“Do you see him?” I said. “Your father, I mean.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have contact. My mother did for a while.”
“But—” My mouth wouldn’t shut.
Isabella leaned forward and caught my eye. “Leave it, Briddie. She doesn’t want to talk about it.”
Sister Teresa shook her head. “Really, it’s fine.”
My mind was crowded with questions. I took another two drags before speaking, trying to measure my words. “He’s here, in Italy?”
She nodded.
“You could find him.”
“That assumes I want to find him,” she said. A wry smile appeared on her face. Again, I was unsettled by the transformation from nun to girl. I thought suddenly how Isabella had been right to uncover her other name. And how in disclosing her name, her other identity, Isabella had allowed me to trace how she shifted from Sister Teresa to Rosaria and back again.
“But—” I cleared my throat. “You only have two years, don’t you? Until another sister has her turn speaking.”
“She only has one year of speaking left, actually,” Isabella said.
“Is that true?”
“Yes. Ten months have already elapsed.”
“But then, time is running out!” It sounded terribly overdramatic, but my heart began to beat quicker, for it was quite romantic. A young, beautiful nun, cloistered away, with only months to find her long-lost father. What if he was dying? I saw Sister Teresa approaching the deathbed of her father. The sheet was tucked over his belly, his face gleaming with sweat in the murky light of a single candle. “My daughter,” he would say, “forgive me.” The scene had raced in front of me so vividly my expression must have been hectic.
Sister Teresa sighed and rubbed her neck. “I think there has been plenty of time,” she said, “and if God means it to be, then it will.” She stabbed her cigarette on the post with unnecessary force.
“How wild,” I said, breathing out. “I never would have guessed.”
“You know what’s really wild?” Isabella said, her eyes shining. I recognized the expression. She was desperate to tell me something. I looked between the two of them.
“What?”
Isabella glanced around us, but there was no one in sight. The day was overcast and breezy; a paper bag had become snared in one of the apple trees and was crackling in the air. “She’s mixed, just like you,” she whispered.
I didn’t understand her meaning at first. “Mixed?” I pictured blue and white paint, swirling together. Isabella’s brows were raised. She was breathing shallowly. Then I understood.
“Oh,” I said.
The ground slanted. I swallowed.
“Isn’t that a kick?” she said.
I caught Sister Teresa’s eye, and I must have blinked or twitched, because she said softly, looking to Isabella, “Maybe you should talk about this privately.”
“You told her?” My palms began to sweat.
Isabella’s eyelids fluttered. “I wasn’t going to lie to Rosie.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Sister Teresa said.
Isabella frowned. “No. Why—what’s the big deal?”
“I can’t believe you told her,” I said. Something inside my chest was wobbling.
“I thought it was neat.” Isabella shrugged defensively. “You’re both mixed African and European. It’s neat.”
I pressed my fingernails into my palms. I could feel Sister Teresa watching me. “It’s not the same at all,” I said.
“But don’t you get it? Isn’t that a kick?” Isabella said again, louder. “That you should both be here at the same time?”
My lips were numb.
“It’s cool, right?” Isabella prompted. “For there to be two of you here at the same time—”
“Two of us?” I repeated woodenly. Me and Sister Teresa weren’t “two of us.” The shells of my ears tingled. “What did you say to her?”
“I just . . . just about your family and stuff—” Isabella frowned at me as if I were an imbecile. “You know—how your mom . . . and your sister . . .” She trailed off.
The loose, cracked thing in my chest swerved to and fro. “Who else have you told?” I said.
“Nobody. Just Rosie here.” Isabella tried to smile, but I stared at her until the corners of her mouth dropped.
Icy tingles of shame thrummed over my skin. After how nice it had been, how easy. Now everything was ruined. Why would she do this to me? For what? For the sake of idle gossip with a nun? And how long before everyone in
the academy knew? Before all the girls were asking me dumb questions about pharaohs and snake charming. Trying to draw me into dinner-table debates about Suez. Interrogations about the Labor Day parties and Christmas parties and skiing holidays. My palms were slick, my scalp buzzing. After everything I’d said. About Connecticut. About why I’d gone home. About being an only child.
I walked off toward the gate.
“Bridget!” Isabella called.
I didn’t turn around.
I let the gate slam behind me and strode through the bare orchard. As I stamped through the fallen leaves and the wet grass, I realized what I should have said. I should have said that just because Mama is from Egypt, it’s not the same kind of Africa. That it doesn’t make me and Sister Teresa part of the same club. I should have said how I didn’t even look mixed. Not like Sister Teresa—no one would have guessed she was mixed. We used to call her the African nun. That’s what we called her, and Sister Benedict. The African nuns. Because they were obviously from Africa. Mama wasn’t even obvious, hardly even that different at all. I kicked a tiny apple lying in the grass until it spun over the hill. Isabella was sneaky and selfish and stupid. She was so stupid she didn’t even understand how basic geography worked. My throat tightened. Isabella was supposed to look out for me. She was supposed to help me. And instead she’d broken everything.
21.
November
That evening I didn’t go down to dinner. I paced my room, shaking out the bedspread, lining up my grammar books. My anger at Isabella had brewed into resentment and a slimy, creeping fear. She said she hadn’t told anyone. But surely it was only a matter of time. Who would she tell first—Sylvia? I pulled open my drawers and individually rolled each stocking. I wiped my earrings with a damp cloth. Difference was borderline forgivable. But phonies stood no chance. How could I begin to explain myself? Joan’s face when she thought I couldn’t be trusted. Greta, closing her door quietly as I approached. My chest was tight with a sickening, shimmying heartbeat. I smoothed the bedspread again. Would I have to wait for the whispers and the looks? Or perhaps someone would come to me first—Nancy, probably. She’d knock at my door, tentative, concerned. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” she’d say.
There was a knock at the door. A bird flapped in my stomach.
Greta peered around the door. “You weren’t at dinner.” She tossed me a bread roll.
“No.” I squeezed the roll so hard I punctured the crust.
“What’s going on?” Greta frowned. I evaluated her expression. Had she heard? Had it begun already?
“I’m not speaking to Isabella,” I said tersely.
“Oh no! But you and Izzy are so close.” Greta bounced on the other bed.
I watched her, the back of my neck brisk with frosty shivers. Was she trying to trap me? Did she already know? After a moment, I said, “She spread a rumor.”
Greta’s eyes flew open. “No way.”
Her expression was so stricken, it was clear she had no idea. “You didn’t hear anything?”
“Of course not, my goodness.” She shook her head. “Izzy? Really? How horrible!”
“She can be horrible, you know,” I said, the vindication growing. “But no one ever seems to see it.” My voice cracked and I gulped back the wobble in my throat.
“Well.” Greta crossed her arms. “You should just stay away from her.” Her eyes flashed. “Keep your distance from her and I’ll make sure no one listens to any vile rumors.”
Her defiance tickled me. She looked like a little frog that had puffed up its mouth with air. “Thank you.” I squeezed her hand.
The next morning, I sat with Greta and Sally and drank my coffee quickly, hoping to finish breakfast before she came down. When Isabella appeared in the refectory, her face was puffy and red—she’d clearly been crying. She conspicuously looked away from me.
“Bella, what is it?” asked Sylvia with horror, holding out her arms.
“Nothing,” Isabella muttered, sitting on the bench. Sylvia hugged her. Katherine stroked her hair. Over Isabella’s shoulder, Sylvia gazed at me in disbelief. They began to whisper and Katherine glared at me contemptuously. I think Isabella was crying, because Sylvia took a napkin off the table and dabbed Isabella’s face, then embraced her again.
“Just ignore them,” Sally said. “And the second they start spreading stories, me and Gigi will give them a piece of our minds.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. My guts were swarming. I stared around the refectory, interrogating every glance. Once I had been found out, Katherine and Sylvia were sure to take Isabella’s side. Mealtimes would be insufferable. The whispering. Sitting by myself at the end of the table. Sideways looks, graceful disdain. I’d have to sit alone in my room after dinner instead of going to the common room. I drank the rest of my coffee so quickly it scalded my tongue. As I stood up to leave the refectory, I gripped Greta by the arm.
“Tell Elena I’m sick,” I whispered. “I’m not in the mood for Italian today,” I said.
“Of course.” She patted my shoulder.
* * *
Iwaited until ten minutes after the start of class and slipped out across the courtyard, through the gate, and toward the allotment. As I approached the yard, I could see Sister Teresa was working in the garden alone. She was wearing men’s black gloves and it made her costume look unwieldy and comical.
I walked toward her, wrapping my coat about myself.
“Hello,” she said.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“I’m checking on the vegetables,” she said.
“Sure.” My jaw was tight.
“Isabella’s not here,” she said.
I let myself in through the gate. The ground was glittering with crystals of ice. What was she even doing out there? Maybe she was just wasting time, knowing that none of the other nuns could admonish her. “Do you even have work to do?” I said, sniffing. “Since it’s actually winter?”
“Some vegetables—carrots, leeks—they taste sweeter after the first frost,” she said.
“Oh. Right.”
“You don’t have lessons now?” She leaned on the rake, her weight probing divots in the earth. “Or have you caught up with your studies?”
My cheeks flared. Isabella wasn’t content gossiping with her about my family; they’d been talking about my schoolwork too? “My studies are great, actually,” I said. “But anyway—I need to speak to you about something else.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about what Isabella said yesterday—about my family.”
Sister Teresa nodded. “I’m sorry for your unhappiness. I’ve felt very contrite.”
A flutter of the old quip about her vocabulary bubbled up, then subsided. For a reason I couldn’t place, I knew Isabella and I would never be able to summon that joke again. Sister Teresa had sailed past it. I felt foolish and ashamed we had ever employed it in the first place. The shame bundled up with my resentment and lay heavy in my stomach. I concentrated on my mission—there was no point in feeling sorry. Sister Teresa could spoil everything for me now. I needed to focus on securing her silence.
I pushed my hands into the pockets of my coat. In the bottom of my right pocket was the hard nugget of an old register receipt and I dug my fingernail into it. “I just—”
She watched me, pushing the handle of the rake out to the side and balancing it in the center of her palm. How could I justify the lies about my family? It probably seemed as if I was an untrustworthy sneak, when really, Isabella was the untrustworthy one. I bet she was whispering to Sister Teresa minutes after I left for the States. I bet she was gossiping about me even while I was on the plane. For all she knew, Rhona could have been on her deathbed even while she blabbed.
“Please don’t say anything to the other girls about my family.”
Sister Teresa looked into t
he dirt, where the tines of her rake were tapping crumbs of soil. “I’m sure Isabella didn’t mean to break your confidence. She has a very big heart,” she said.
“Hmm,” I said, just to say something. Now that I considered the idea, it didn’t sound right. Rather, I thought of Isabella’s heart as a puckered little pouch, one that swells when love is tucked into it and shrivels without nourishment.
Then a strange moment of understanding crossed over me, and I looked at Sister Teresa there scraping the earth with her rake. Not only did Sister Teresa know the truth about my family, but Isabella had chosen her as a confidante. Deliberately. It was one thing to be friendly with a nun, but I was Isabella’s closest friend. Her best friend. The most important one. The unfairness of it singed my lungs.
“I need you to keep it a secret, what she told you—about everything. My mom or my sister or—” I pulled the sleeves of my sweater into my fists. My eyes stung. Sister Teresa was hardly even a real girl. She wouldn’t understand what it would mean for me. The prickly kind of embarrassment, the genteel, self-righteous snubbing I would have to live with for the rest of the year.
Sister Teresa licked her lips. “Of course. And I don’t carry any judgment—” She paused.
“But?”
“But you might find that if you give them a chance, people are more accommodating than you expect.” She smiled a soft sort of smile, assuming the dreamy eyes of a kitten crawling into a warm blanket.
Her expression rankled me. Was it Isabella who she considered so “accommodating”? A pang of anger flickered under my rib cage. I chewed the inside of my cheek.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “It’s hard not fitting in.”
Sister Teresa’s eyebrows twitched. “I have some experience,” she said mildly.
“It’s different for me.” I swallowed. “You and me have really different backgrounds.”
She laughed, but it was hollow. “Yes, Bridget, that’s quite true.”
I yanked the sleeves of my sweater tighter in my fists. “You’re wrong, about the girls being accommodating. Isabella doesn’t know what it’s like.” It was oddly exhilarating, talking back to a nun like that.