Contrition

by Maura Weiler

  I yanked the lint off of the sweater, suddenly anxious. I knew my biological mother had passed away giving birth to us, but somehow I hadn’t connected that Catherine and I were probably still in the room when it happened until this conversation with Sister Barbara. My hand injury was the result of trauma in an emergency delivery. I doubted there had been time to whisk us away while they were trying to save her.

  I paused and put the sweater down. I didn’t know why it had never occurred to me before or why I found the realization so upsetting now. Maybe because it made me feel even more responsible than I already did—not only had I killed her, but I had also failed to console her in the process. I knew this was completely irrational, but I couldn’t shake it. I realized, too, that I unconsciously felt responsible for my adoptive mom’s cancer, which made even less sense. I picked up the sweater and started tearing at it again.

  Sister Barbara looked up, saw my manic movements, and placed a hand on the sweater to slow my busy fingers.

  “Children are apt to take the blame,” she said. “But I hope you know that neither of your mothers’ deaths was your fault.”

  “I know,” I managed to mumble. But my lower lip quivered.

  “For whatever reason, God put you right where you needed to be,” she said, weaving her head to keep eye contact with me when I tried to look away. “I bet your presence in the delivery room and your prayers during Mass eased each woman’s passing.”

  “I hope so,” I said, my quiver turning into bone-deep shudders that rolled through my body in waves. Awash in survivor’s guilt, I missed both of my mothers with a primal fierceness that exhausted me. Tears fell down my cheeks and dropped onto the sweater.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said again, holding me by the shoulders to calm my trembling.

  Her touch made the trembling worse, yet suddenly it was okay to tremble, okay to feel everything that I kept hidden even from myself most of the time. I started sobbing—my nose running, my jaw taut in an anguished grimace, my voice keening. So much time had passed before I was old enough to understand how my birth mother died that no one had ever thought to tell me it wasn’t my fault. The guilt was such a part of me that I assumed everyone else blamed me too.

  When my sobs turned into quick, shallow breaths, Sister Barbara pulled me in for a hug and began taking in long, deliberate lungfuls of air.

  “Slow down,” she said. “Deep breaths.”

  Fighting off panic and dizziness, I made myself match her breathing.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said. “You can let the guilt go.”

  I stood there embracing her, somehow lost in grief with this woman I hardly knew—a woman about the age both my mothers would have been had they lived. I imagined I was hugging them, hearing them say through her that they didn’t blame me, that they knew I loved them whether I was able to tell them at the end or not. That they were still here with me—always. Had Sister Barbara said that?

  I hugged her tighter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I took Graciela and Sister Barbara’s advice and went back to the cloister for a visit, eerily aware that, as Comet subscribers read about my first two weeks there, the story continued to unfold. I wondered how it would end.

  More cars than usual occupied the parking lot during the 9:00 a.m. Sunday Mass. I hoped their owners were there to pray rather than pry. The crowd of Mass attendees turned out to be well behaved, except for the boy who made crayon drawings on the pew instead of in his coloring book while his parents’ heads were turned.

  After the service, I found Sister Teresa running herself ragged in the gift shop.

  “Our gift shop volunteer moved to Utah.” Teresa sold a Mass card to a well-dressed woman. “Wanna job? The pay stinks.”

  “I’ll take it. When do I start?”

  “Five minutes ago. I’ve got to visit the little girl’s room something fierce,” Sister Teresa whispered. “Back in a jiffy.”

  The extern was gone before I could ask her how to operate the cash register. I turned to the next customer in line, a fortyish man with a bald spot, too-tight jeans, and a professional camera, and instantly recognized him as Pete Billings, a pushy photographer from The Comet’s rival, The Blaze.

  “I don’t suppose you sell cigarettes?” The photographer eyed the shop’s meager offerings with obvious contempt.

  “Um, no, we don’t,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

  “Dorie?” He squinted at me.

  “Hi, Pete.” I declined to offer my hand. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Haven’t got enough of this place yet, eh?”

  “I’m just helping out.”

  “Helping out? Looks like you’re moving in for the kill,” he said from behind his knuckles. “Exploit your relationship with your sister to get her to confide in you and then really stick it to her, eh?”

  “Not exactly. What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you.” He picked up a rosary and swung it around his finger. “Following up on your story. Gotta milk this puppy for all it’s worth. So you gonna help me get some access here or what?”

  “Why would I help someone from a rival paper?” I caught the rosary as it spun, pulled it away, and returned it to the display.

  “Because I’m such a nice guy.”

  My flesh crawled. I was amazed he could say the words with a straight face. But was I any better? It hadn’t occurred to Pete to exploit a nun until I set the precedent.

  “Sorry. Can’t do it,” I refused. “These women already have more press than they can stand.”

  “So that’s how it is. You bleed them dry yourself and then get all high and mighty about their privacy.”

  “What can I say?” I threw up my hands and forced a smile.

  “I’ll get what I came for with or without you.” He slung his camera over his shoulder and turned to leave. “And I’ll remember this the next time you need help with a piece.”

  I dreaded the day I’d again have to write the kind of story that required favors from people like Pete. The photographer nearly knocked over Sister Teresa as they passed each other in the doorway. He left without apologizing to her.

  “I can’t believe that character is back again,” Teresa said as she shook off the encounter and looked at me.

  “He’s been here before?” I asked.

  “Caught him scaling the cloister wall earlier this week trying to get pictures. He won’t get far today. I called the police when I saw him arrive.” The extern rang the next customer’s Bible purchase. “Thank you and God Bless.”

  “Have you been getting a lot of extra visitors since the articles began?”

  “A few looky-loos at Mass and reporters here and there, but nothing we can’t handle. The, er, fortress-like nature of a cloister has inaccessibility in its design, don’t forget.”

  I smiled in spite of myself, secure in the knowledge that the sisters could take care of themselves.

  “It’s good to be back here,” I said. The cloister itself now gave me the same good feelings that the paintings did. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome after the mess I made last time.”

  “So you shook things up a bit.” Sister Teresa rattled her keys and smiled. “I happen to think we needed it. We definitely need your help now. Way things are going, every little sale we make in this shop matters.”

  “Your finances are still bad, huh?”

  “Worse than they’ve ever been.” Teresa frowned and then brightened. “Mind you, the Lord has helped us out of tough spots before. No reason why this one should be any different.”

  Sister Teresa’s tone may have been optimistic, but I could see in her worried expression that the situation wasn’t good.

  • • •

  In order to volunteer at the cloister gift shop during my leave of absence, I had to shorten the commute. I hired the same neighbor kid who worked for Matt to pick up my mail and water the plants, and then packed for Big Sur. Since the inn was t
oo expensive and the weather was mild, I bought a tent on sale and moved into a campsite in nearby Big Sur National Park.

  Once I’d parked my car at the campsite, I didn’t move it. The two-mile hike up the cloister driveway every morning was my favorite part of the day. A tangle of scrub oak, chaparral, and a riot of wildflowers decorated the roadside as the now-familiar red fox, numerous rabbits, geckos, and various birds greeted me along the way. The walk back down the hill in the evening was equally stunning. Mist often shrouded the dusky cliffs, as if the mountains conceded the spotlight to sunset’s blazing spectacle over the Pacific.

  Between the campsite pay phone’s intermittent service and the cloister’s emphasis on quiet, I checked my voicemail once a week rather than once an hour and turned off my cell phone since there was no reception, anyway. Most of the messages were from members of the media looking to capitalize on the success of one of their own either through a favor, an interview, or both. Happy to observe the cloister rule about limited phone use, I didn’t return those. The other calls were from Graciela, Trish, my Aunt Martha, and worried friends who thought I’d lost my marbles. Mutual friends assured me that Matt was well, but I missed him anyway.

  I didn’t have any direct contact with Catherine or the other cloistered nuns, but I helped Sister Teresa weed the public side of the garden, sold books and religious knickknacks in the gift shop, set up the altar for Mass, and had long talks with Mother Benedicta in the visitors’ parlor.

  “Contemplation is beyond our knowledge, beyond explanation, beyond our own self,” Mother explained as we sat in the parlor one afternoon. “It’s a largely solitary endeavor, yet we’re all connected by the power of prayer. You surrender yourself to the working of God in your life and see what happens.”

  “But how do you surrender?” I tried not to think about how much my questions had changed since my first visit to the monastery. “Where do you begin?”

  “All aspirants ask the same things,” Mother said with the voice of long experience. “I’d write out the answers, but they’re different for everyone. And the moment you work them out for yourself, they change. At least they have for me.”

  “Great.” I folded my arms.

  “Just embrace the mystery and stumble through as best you can.” Mother chuckled. “That’s what I do.”

  “Kind of like I stumbled through kitchen duty?”

  “Exactly like that. Contemplative prayer is about taking risks, being willing to move beyond your comfort zone. It can be both exhilarating and terrifying, and, when nothing seems to be happening, it’s downright dull. That’s usually because you’re trying too hard.”

  I nodded. “It’s the same with writing. You can surrender to the flow, or you can push-pull yourself to death and get nowhere. The moment you let your mind overrule your heart, your work suffers.”

  “As does your prayer.”

  “I imagine it’s true for painting, too.” My thoughts were never far from my sister. “How is Catherine doing? I haven’t seen her since the day I—”

  “She’s fine.” Mother clasped her hands in her lap. “Just worried about our financial situation like the rest of us.”

  “I understand things are getting worse.”

  Mother touched her stomach and closed her eyes for a long blink. “We didn’t get the loan.”

  “But I thought you were approved last week?”

  “For the two smaller ones. The big one didn’t come through, and that’s the one we can’t do without. All the banks are playing it safe and loaning almost two million dollars to a bunch of women who’d need a hundred and ninety-five years to pay it back based on current earning capacity just wasn’t a good bet.”

  I unconsciously glanced at Sister Catherine’s latest painting on the wall behind the prioress, a luminous portrait of Mary being assumed into Heaven.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Mother tipped her head back to indicate the artwork. “I’ve thought about it, too. But Sister Catherine has always been adamant about not showing her work. It wouldn’t be fair to make her life with us conditional upon her ability to support the community with her art when no other sister is required to do anything of that sort.”

  “I understand.” Wary of the idea of a gallery show even when I endorsed it myself, I was definitely against it now that I knew Catherine’s artistic temperament. “What are you going to do?”

  “Abandon the monastery.”

  “But...” My heart sank.

  “We’ve found an old parish house outside Carmel. It’ll be cramped, but we’ll manage. We’ve signed a lease to move in four months from tomorrow.” The prioress pulled a bottle of Mylanta out of her drawer, cracked the seal, and took a tablespoonful. “It’ll take that long to put the house in order and close this place up.”

  “Will you be able to return here?” I asked.

  “No.” A tear glistened in her eye. “The wilderness reclaims land like this quickly. By the time we raise the money we need for repairs, there will be new damage as a result of our not being here to maintain things. I’ve lived on this hill for forty-five years. But achieving detachment from places and things is part of our vow, so I suppose I’ll go quietly.” Mother’s tear grew heavy. She wiped it away before it could slide down her cheek. “At any rate, it’s something you should know if you’re still contemplating joining us. Are you still considering a vocation?”

  “I have been thinking about it,” I admitted both aloud and to myself for the first time, gaining some small relief from the burden of the internal struggle I’d been having over the subject. Lately I’d let myself entertain the idea of becoming a nun since the financial impossibility of it made it safe to consider. “But it isn’t feasible until I pay off my school loans, and since that’s not going to be for another five years, I’ve pretty much given up on the idea.”

  “Unfortunately, we can’t take on anyone with outstanding debts.” Mother sighed. “Time was, we could find the money to pay for the education of any sister who pursued one. Those days are long gone. Still, if you’re meant to be with us, it will happen. These things have a way of working out.”

  “I hope so.” Then I qualified. “I mean, I’m not sure I want to join, but it would be nice to have the option.”

  “As far as we’re concerned, you have it. We reviewed your candidacy and have decided to extend an invitation to you to join us if and when you are ready.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” I flushed, grinned and panicked all at once. “It’s an honor.”

  “You can thank me by making the decision that’s right for you, not the one you think we expect.”

  “I have to admit I still find the whole idea pretty disturbing.” I squirmed and snapped the rubber band on my wrist so hard that it broke and flew through the air. Mother ignored it and I decided not to replace it.

  “So did Mary when she was told she’d bear the Son of God. If you didn’t feel some resistance, I’d question your calling. Just keep thinking about it. The answer will come.”

  “Odd that a lack of money is one of the barriers keeping me from entering into a life of poverty,” I said.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” The prioress looked heavenward and frowned. “Some of which frustrate the daylights out of me.”

  As I descended the cloister driveway en route to my campsite that night, I suddenly realized that I did have the financial means to get out of debt and enter the convent, probably with enough money left over to take a chunk out of the nuns’ debt as well. I just wasn’t sure I had the willingness to part with the one possession that had ever mattered to me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As my leave wound down, I tried and failed to think of ways to postpone going back to work at The Comet. Ultimately, I resigned myself to leaving the place I’d rather stay to return to a place I’d rather not go.

  I would especially miss the sisters, many of whom I’d gotten to know as I worked in the gift shop and attended the Daily Offices from the publ
ic side of the chapel. Even if it was just a smile or a nod through the cloister grille, I was happy to realize that most of the nuns seemed to have come to accept and respect me as I did them.

  I gained no further insight into Catherine, who withdrew into silence after my apology and kept her eyes down whenever I saw her. I was glad to hear from Sister Dominica that my twin was painting more than ever. Whatever injury the article inflicted on Catherine’s creative process seemed to have healed.

  Just when I’d given up on ever speaking to my sister again, I heard my name called as I set up the altar for morning Mass. I turned from marking pages in the lectionary and saw Catherine beckon to me through the grate that divided the altar from the cloistered section of the chapel. I closed the book and walked over to the grille.

  “Do you really think the paintings could make the kind of money we need for the cloister repairs?” Catherine’s voice sounded reedier than I remembered as she stood grasping the metal bars that separated us.

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m ready to sell them. I want to do that gallery show you mentioned.”

  I stood there for a moment in silent awe; well aware of the fear and personal conviction Catherine had overcome for this change of heart.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “You hated the attention you got from my articles. If you do a show, it’ll be ten times worse.”

  “I know. But we need the money. I thought I could make my contribution in other ways, but no matter how many extra meals I cook or floors I scrub, chores won’t pay for repairs. The paintings can.”

  “Okay.” Despite my stomach twisting at the prospect, I knew she was right. “I’ll handle the logistics so you can focus on your painting.”