The Good Sister

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Driven by nothing more than idle curiosity, she’s searched for him a few times on the Internet. But he has a huge extended family that, in Italian tradition, names their sons after fathers and grandfathers. There are a number of Mike Morinos in the area. If she searched harder, she could probably figure out which one he is, but why bother?

  “Mrs. Archer?”

  Jen looks up to see a black-habited woman coming toward her.

  “I’m Sister Linda. I wasn’t expecting you—”

  “I know, I’m sorry, but I’m here to pick up Carley and I was running early, so I thought I could stop in and see you if you have time.”

  “I do. Come on into my office.” The social worker turns to the secretary. “Hold my calls, please, Lenore.”

  Appearing as pleased by that request as she is by anything else, Lenore gives a hard-faced nod.

  Sister Linda leads Jen down the hall and through a maze of file cabinets and cubicle partitions.

  This isn’t the first time she’s ventured into the guidance counseling department since her own days at Sacred Sisters. She was here for an evening academic orientation meeting last fall when Carley enrolled.

  But she’s never had any reason to visit the social worker. For all she knows, there wasn’t even one on staff when she was a student here.

  Sister Linda came on board last September to replace the school’s previous part-time social worker, Sister Helen, who had passed away during the previous school year.

  Jen recalls hearing about it at the family Memorial Day picnic last year, courtesy of her mother’s grand plan to have all her daughters living close to home again. That might actually happen with recently divorced Maddie, an attorney who’s in the process of trying to sell her Cleveland townhouse and return to the area. Mom is always sending her job leads for local law practices.

  Unlike Maddie, Jen’s sister Frankie has no intention of moving back. She has an MSW and works for the state Department of Social Services in Albany, making decent money with good benefits. But that didn’t stop Mom from showing her the listing for the opening at Sacred Sisters.

  “Did you see the starting salary, Ma?” Frankie shook her head. “There’s no way I can afford to do that. Catholic schools pay peanuts—especially Sisters. That’s why only nuns are on staff there. They’ve taken a vow of poverty.”

  “But you can at least apply and see what happens. Wouldn’t it be nice to work at your old school?” Mom coaxed. “And the cost of living here is lower . . .”

  “Not low enough. I’d have to live in a cardboard box if I took that job. It’s only part-time.”

  “You could move back home with Daddy and me. We’ve got plenty of space even with Maddie coming back, and your roommate could visit whenever she wanted.”

  Jen’s sister, looking sufficiently horrified, quickly changed the subject.

  Though Frankie came out to their parents years ago, Mom persists in referring to Patty as Frankie’s “roommate”—her way of reconciling her daughter’s lifestyle with her own staunch Catholicism. And as thrilled as she is that her firstborn is thinking of moving home again, Theresa can’t even begin to discuss the topic of Maddie’s divorce.

  “This is my office.” As Sister Linda steps across the threshold of a tiny windowed room, Jen sizes her up.

  She has a full, almost homely face, thick torso, and bulky limbs beneath her habit, worn with lug-soled black shoes and outdated granny glasses. Formidably old school, but of course that doesn’t mean she isn’t kindhearted, or that the girls can’t relate to her.

  Jen can’t help but remember Sister Patricia, one of the few nuns who did wear a habit back in the old days, but used to throw on a pair of Nikes with sparkly pink laces to lead the girls in after-school aerobics classes. She was only a couple of years older than they were at the time.

  I wonder whatever happened to her?

  Sister Patricia, Mrs. Esposito, Mike Morino . . .

  All part of another era, permanently erased from her life like resolved equations on a chalkboard. Now there’s just Sister Linda, closing the office door and moving a stack of papers off the lone chair opposite a cluttered desk. “Here, have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jen watches her look around for a surface where she can put the displaced papers. With a shrug, she plops them on the floor.

  “Sorry,” she says as she pushes aside a couple of books with the toe of her sensible shoe. “I’m still trying to dig my way to the bottom of this mess I inherited. Sister Helen was a wonderful person, I’m sure, but she really was disorganized. Did you know her?”

  “Me? No. Carley is just a freshman,” Jen reminds her.

  “I realize that, but you were a student here, too, weren’t you?”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that was what you—yes. I did go here, back in the eighties. Did Carley tell you?”

  The woman nods.

  “We didn’t have social workers back then. Just guidance counselors.”

  “I see.” Sister Linda settles into her desk chair, pressing her palms together and propping the steepled fingers under her double chin as if in prayer. “You said you’re picking up Carley. Does she have an early appointment, or . . . ?”

  So she doesn’t know.

  That makes sense. Nicki Olivera wasn’t a student here. If she had been, the social worker would be busily consoling students. The administrators would probably bring in grief counselors, too. For all the talk of teaching the girls to be independent and handle problems on their own, there are certain situations in which any modern school would step in with a support system.

  It wasn’t like that back in the old days. When Ruthie Bell was killed in that car accident, Jen is pretty sure that life marched on as usual here at Sacred Sisters, aside from a special prayer for her soul at daily Mass and the plaque that went up on the wall over the summer.

  Things would be different now. Or maybe things would have been different back then if poor Ruthie herself had been different; if she’d been the kind of girl whose loss had had great impact on the student body . . .

  Uncomfortable with the path her thoughts have taken, Jen pushes Ruthie from her mind yet again and addresses Sister Linda’s question.

  “I’m picking up Carley early because we’re going to a wake.”

  A shadow crosses the woman’s eyes. “Oh . . . I’m sorry. Was it a family member, or . . . ?”

  Jen finds herself irrationally annoyed with Sister Linda’s stilted conversational habit of trailing off with questions half unspoken.

  “It was a friend.” She shifts her weight on the hard wooden chair. “Carley’s best friend, actually, from the time they were two or three. She’s not a student here, she goes to Woodsbridge High—went to Woodsbridge High,” she amends, and drops her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap, feeling the familiar lump start to work its way into her throat.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “She—died. Suddenly. I . . . I’d rather not get into the details. But between this and all that’s been going on here at school, I’m worried about Carley.”

  “Has she mentioned any more trouble to you?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. She doesn’t like to talk about it with me.”

  “Why not?”

  The question catches her off guard. It’s probably meant in a benign way—of course it is—but to Jen, it feels almost as though the woman is accusing her of being an inadequate mother.

  Come on, that’s ridiculous. It’s just a question, and a logical one, really.

  She just wishes she knew the damned answer.

  “Carley’s always been a quiet kid. She keeps things to herself.”

  “Most teenagers do, Mrs. Archer.” The social worker offers a faint smile and shakes her head. “You’re not the first mother who’s sat in that chair
and told me that her daughter doesn’t confide in her. I’m sure you won’t be the last.”

  The words are meant to reassure her, but somehow, Jen only feels worse. She doesn’t want her relationship with Carley to be just like everyone else’s.

  Why not? Because you’re special? Because you’re the perfect mother and she’s the perfect daughter?

  Carley’s not perfect any more than Jen is perfect. But she’s always been the good kid, the easy one, the one who doesn’t make waves. The one who comes up to pat Jen’s arm when she’s upset over a brash comment from Emma or an argument with Thad or—

  A shrill blast jars her: the tone announcing the end of sixth period. Already, she can feel the tide of movement as the students head to their next destination. Chairs scrape on wooden classroom floors above and below; voices and footsteps fill the hallways and stairwells.

  Jen has run out of time to pump the social worker for the details of what happened to her daughter. Today isn’t the day to dwell on that, anyway.

  Opting to focus on the more immediate hurdle—Nicki’s wake—she stands abruptly. “I have to go find Carley.”

  “All right. Keep me posted and let me know how she is.”

  Jen assures Sister Linda that she will. But as she makes her way out of the office, past an unsmiling Lenore, she can’t help but think it should be the other way around.

  In the hallway, there are slamming lockers and chattering girls. Their faces are unfamiliar, as are those of the habit-clad nuns who linger in classroom doorways talking to students.

  Jen’s journey into the school might have been a pleasant trip down memory lane, but it’s as though she took a wrong turn into unfamiliar territory on the way back. Now everyone—everything—seems foreign.

  She quickens her pace, eager to find Carley and get out of here.

  Entry from the marble notebook

  Wednesday, December 25, 1985

  Christmas Day is the same as any other day of the year in our house (in other words, miserable), aside from being a weekday that feels like a Sunday because we have to go to church and then come home and pretend to listen while Mother reads Scripture out loud to us, same as she does on Sunday mornings.

  We don’t get presents. Naturally, Mother doesn’t believe in the commercialism of Christmas. I feel bad for Adrian because he wonders why Santa skips our house, just like I used to wonder when I was little. So last night I snuck into his room with one of my old red knee socks and I filled it with stuff and left it on his bed.

  It wasn’t anything much—just little things I’ve been collecting, like packages of oyster crackers they have in the school cafeteria sometimes, a candy bar and some Matchbox cars I got at the dollar store, a couple of books from the library sale that look brand-new, plus a charcoal sketch of the two of us that I drew in art class. It’s not perfect, but it’s pretty good and I got an A on it. I put it into a wooden frame I found in the Dumpster behind the crafts store. Sometimes they throw away perfectly good stuff.

  Adrian came running into my room with the stocking when he woke up, and I pretended I didn’t know anything about it. I told him he must have been a really good boy because Santa had found him and filled a stocking for him. I told him not to tell Mother and Father, because they don’t even believe in Santa anyway, and I made him promise to hide the stuff, especially the books. Mother only lets him read Bible tales.

  I’ve already read the new stories to him over and over again and he’s so smart he practically has them memorized. One is about dinosaurs and the other is about trucks. He loves them both.

  It was a pretty good Christmas for a change. I don’t know what I’d do without my baby brother.

  Chapter 7

  “Hello?” Emma calls cautiously as she steps into the front hall, even though Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway.

  She listens for a minute, hearing nothing but the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

  “Mom?” she calls, just in case. “Carley? Dad?”

  No reply.

  Satisfied the house is empty, she turns to the others. “Okay”—she opens the door wider—“come on in.”

  They file past her: Bridget, also in eighth grade at Saint Paul’s; Brian, who lives next door, and his girlfriend, Miranda, both of whom are sophomores at Woodsbridge High; plus Gabe, the new kid who just moved in down the street with his dad.

  Emma’s had a major crush on him since she spotted him at the high school bus stop a few weeks ago. She promptly made it her business to meet him.

  “Hi,” she said, marching right over to him. “I’m Emma.”

  He unplugged one earbud. “Huh?”

  “I’m Emma.” She could hear loud music blasting from the tiny dangling speaker. Guitars and drums—rock, as opposed to hip-hop.

  “Gabe. What’s up?”

  “I just thought someone should welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  “This is New York.”

  He just looked at her from beneath those thick, manly eyebrows.

  “Oh. You mean New York City?”

  His expression suggested that he thought she was hopelessly unsophisticated.

  To show that she wasn’t, Emma managed to work into that first awkward, brief conversation that she’s almost sixteen and that she goes to private school. Naturally, she didn’t mention that it’s a parochial elementary school.

  “Not to be mean or anything, but if he’s a senior and he’s from New York City and so hot and so cool, then how come he wants to hang out with you?” Bridget asked when she first told her about Gabe.

  “Gee, thanks a lot,” said Emma, secretly pretty sure that if he weren’t the new kid, Gabe wouldn’t give her the time of day, even if she really was sixteen.

  “So what does he look like?” Bridget wanted to know. “What makes him so cool?”

  “He’s like . . . he’s not a boy. He’s a man.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s really tall, and he’s always dressed in flannel shirts and jeans and work boots.”

  Bridget made a face. “Ew.”

  “What? Why ‘ew’?”

  “I like it when guys dress up.”

  “I like it when guys look rugged, not prissy.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  Emma went on, talking over her, “And he has shaggy dark hair and a little bit of a beard and dangerous eyes . . .”

  “What do you mean dangerous eyes?”

  “You know . . . really dark and kind of . . . just dangerous.” Sometimes Bridget can be super clueless.

  Plus, Emma can’t help but notice that she looks like such a baby today. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks aren’t usually so noticeable at this time of year, but she got sunburned when her family went to Florida a few weeks ago. Her gingery hair is pulled back in a ponytail with a dorky blue satin ribbon tied around it, and of course she’s wearing her school uniform.

  Emma is wearing her navy Saint Paul’s jumper, too, but she went into the girls’ room before they left school and safety-pinned the shoulder straps to make it shorter. She wanted to do the same to Bridget’s, but Bridget refused, saying her thighs are too chubby.

  She’s right about that, in Emma’s opinion. But once when she advised Bridget that she really needs to lay off the bread and butter, Bridget got all pissy.

  As she ushers the others toward the kitchen, Emma kicks a pair of Carley’s sneakers out of the way. The sole of one hits the white baseboard and leaves a faint smudge.

  Not my fault, Emma thinks. It’s Carley’s, for leaving them there. And Mom’s, for being so wrapped up in what happened to Nicki that the house has been taken over by clutter. There are stacks of newspapers, magazines, and mail on every surface; a basket of fo
lded laundry sitting at the foot of the stairs; coats draped over the backs of chairs.

  “How long do we have?” Brian asks Emma, his fingers intertwined with Miranda’s.

  “My mother said the wake goes till four, and then she and my sister have to drive back down here, which takes, like, a half hour. So . . .”

  “Are you sure? I mean, we don’t want to take any chances,” Bridget points out. “Your parents would kill you if they found out you skipped school plus had all these people over.”

  Emma rolls her eyes, wondering why she even bothered to include her today in the first place.

  Actually, she knows why. It was because she herself was feeling a little shy about hanging out alone with the older kids.

  Plus, Bridget is usually game for pretty much anything, which is why she’s at the top of Emma’s BFF list. Like, it was Bridget’s idea to lie about hanging out at each other’s houses one Saturday night so that they could go to a high school party. And it was Bridget’s idea to help themselves at the mall to expensive eye makeup they couldn’t afford and their mothers would never let them buy.

  Today was Emma’s idea. She thought of it the moment her mother mentioned that Woodsbridge was excusing kids early today to go to Nicki’s wake. She made a beeline down to the Woodsbridge bus stop while her mother was in the shower.

  Brian and Gabe were there, both plugged into their iPods. When Emma suggested that they sign out under the pretext of going to the funeral home, they were wary, but interested. Brian only vaguely knew who Nicki was, and Gabe didn’t know her at all.

  “Can Miranda come, too?” asked Brian, who’s been dating her since freshman year.

  “Sure.”

  “And you’re positive no one will be home?”

  “Positive. My dad will be working and my mom and sister will be at the wake.”

  “Don’t you have school?” Brian asked, and Emma shot him a warning look. She’d already begged him not to tell Gabe how old she really was, and he agreed on the condition that she owed him a big favor.

  “I’m faking a note from my mom,” she said, “saying I have to leave early for the wake.”