Contrition

by Maura Weiler

  I walked out to the public courtyard and found Sister Teresa handing out water in paper cups to the people trampling her flowers. A line formed in the garden for the single accessible public bathroom. One teenager, unwilling to wait, relieved himself behind a tree.

  “Please stay off Sister Teresa’s flowers,” I called out to no one in particular. A few people chose their next steps more carefully, but most ignored me.

  “Not my flowers, never were.” The extern’s dismayed expression belied her cheerful tone. I saw her mouth droop when a middle-aged woman in neon pink shorts stepped on a hydrangea bush to peer through a first-floor window nearby. Teresa appeared to resign herself to the desecration and mustered a smile. “I’m just grateful I’ll be here in a few weeks to replant them. Meantime, I can’t keep up with the demand for water.”

  “Let me help you.” I set out more cups on the extern’s gardening bench.

  “People are asking where the vending machines are, as if we had those. What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them to go to hell,” I muttered under my breath, forgetting that nuns accustomed to silence had very keen hearing.

  “That’s not a destination we particularly endorse,” Teresa said.

  I broke out into a loud guffaw in spite of myself.

  • • •

  Just before 7:30 Compline, Sister Teresa, the local sheriff, and I managed to wrangle the last of the reporters and tourists out of the parking lot and lock the gate. I was glad it was too dark to see the damage the crowd had done to the grounds.

  I spent most of the night drafting a statement for Sister Catherine to read at the press conference the following day and then went to the studio at two a.m. to have my sister check it over. For the first time since I’d discovered her tiny workshop months before, Catherine wasn’t there.

  • • •

  The next day, I again looked around anxiously for my twin. Aside from fleeting glimpses of a black veil through the infirmary window during the Divine Offices, I hadn’t seen her since our return from the gallery opening and had no idea how she was handling the attention.

  I finally found Catherine in her studio around two thirty in the afternoon. She looked more calm and refreshed than I’d ever seen her. Unlike the dark under-eye circles and sallow skin I now wore, her blue eyes were clear and her cheeks a healthy pink. She didn’t stand at her easel painting as usual but sat in the broken office chair in apparent contemplation.

  “I wanted to show you the press release in advance in case you’d like to make any changes.” I handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s up to you whether you want to take questions or not.”

  Catherine read through the page and nodded.

  Within minutes, my sister, Mother Benedicta and I stood before a knot of microphones in the public courtyard. Catherine set my lengthy typed statement aside and spoke in her own words.

  “I am pleased that the gallery show has been such a success,” she said with the composure of a seasoned politico. “And thrilled that we sisters now have the financial means to stay in our home. I wish to take this opportunity to rededicate my paintings to God. I remain His humble servant. Thank you.”

  I stared at my sister, unable to fathom that this poised creature was the same woman who’d fled from the press like a spooked rabbit two days before.

  “What are you working on now?” a reporter shouted out.

  A flash of pain crossed Catherine’s face before she said, “I have nothing further to add.”

  As my twin turned and reentered the cloister, the journalists latched onto me.

  “What about you, Ms. McKenna?” someone asked. “Do you have anything to say?”

  “I um, er...” I tried to form words and failed. “No.”

  As Mother Benedicta stepped up to the microphones to answer questions, I ran inside and caught up to Catherine just outside her studio.

  “That was great!” I was breathless from effort. “You sounded like a—”

  “Fraud.” She stepped into her workshop and shut the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Monastery of the Blessed Mother had always hosted large crowds for midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but with the holiday arriving shortly after the gallery opening, attendance shattered all records. Nevertheless, the sisters managed to keep the focus on the birth of Christ with a beautifully unaffected service.

  The day after the holiday, the nuns returned to the recreation room for another business meeting and Mother gave me permission to attend.

  “It’s been almost two weeks since the gallery opening and the crowds are getting larger rather than smaller,” Mother said to the assembled community. Catherine stood near the ping pong table with her chin tucked into her chest.

  “Grateful as we are for the success of the show and for the increased interest in our monastery, we need to address the crowds,” the prioress said. “What’s the visitor situation, Sister Teresa?”

  “There aren’t many reporters coming anymore, but more and more tourists show up every day,” the extern answered. “We don’t have enough receptacles for all the trash piling up, and people are picking through the dumpsters we do have in search of paintings they think Sister Catherine might have thrown away. As for our lack of bathrooms, visitors with RVs are charging a fee for use of their on-board latrines. Those who don’t want to wait in line for our single public toilet or pay a fee are relieving themselves in our gardens.”

  “Sister Scholastica, have we received sufficient gallery revenue to provide more facilities?” Mother inquired.

  “More than enough. In addition to the paintings’ proceeds, donations are pouring in from everywhere. The problem is, while we have the means, we no longer have the access.” Scholastica pushed her round glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Our driveway was in poor condition before, but with all the recent traffic it’s become barely passable. Until we clear the road and fix it, the construction trucks can’t get up here to make urgent building repairs, much less construct extra bathrooms.”

  “What about the fire road?” Sister Carmella asked, her hands busy mending an altar cloth. “Didn’t the delivery trucks use that when Highway One was closed?”

  “Yes, but using the fire road adds four hours to the drive and the grades are too steep for the construction vehicles anyway,” Sister Scholastica said. “But if we don’t begin the building retrofits soon—”

  “We won’t be able to stay here during rainy season,” Mother concluded. “Money or no.”

  “That’s right.” Sister Scholastica nodded. “The only way we can accomplish the repairs in time is by drastically limiting the number of visitors per day.”

  “But how?” Sister Teresa asked. “These folks are determined.”

  “We’ll have to set up a reservation policy and hire a guard to enforce it,” Scholastica replied.

  I saw Catherine roll her eyes.

  “We’ll need two guards,” Mother said. “One to monitor the gate and one to make sure visitors stick to the parking lot, the public courtyard, and the chapel. All the foot traffic on the grounds has done irreversible damage to the wildlife. We don’t really have a choice, but I’ll conduct a vote anyway. All in favor of establishing a visitor reservation policy and hiring guards for crowd control please raise your hands,” Mother ordered.

  After a pause, most of the sisters raised their hands.

  “Good.” Mother touched her cross. “In other news, I’m happy to report that we’ve had a major increase in vocation inquiries since all this began.”

  “How many of them are for real?” Carmella asked, completing a stitch.

  “Probably about as many as usual—twenty percent or so. Which is fine, since we have room for only one or two more novices anyway. As you may have guessed, Dorie McKenna is among the interested candidates.” The prioress smiled at me. “She’s displayed both an aptitude and a desire for the life in these last months.”

  I blushed crimson as the sisters murmured their appr
oval.

  “That’s all the business we have to discuss,” the prioress concluded. “Enjoy the rest of recreation hour.”

  “So you’re going to be a nun?” Catherine approached me after Mother had finished.

  “I’m thinking about it. If I can pay off my debts, that is.” I didn’t tell her I planned to sell my Wagner. “I’m dreading going back to work at The Comet tomorrow, but I can’t put it off any longer.”

  “You’ll find your way back to the monastery. I’m just sorry I won’t be here.”

  “What are you talking about?” I looked at her, alarmed.

  “I have to go. The special treatment I get isn’t fair to the other sisters, and the cloister is designed to focus on prayer, not tourists.”

  “No one is losing their focus,” I argued.

  “I am.” Catherine looked at the floor. “Painting has always been my prayer. Ever since I agreed to do the show, I’ve lost my connection with God. Even the paintings reflect it.”

  “That’s not true,” I lied.

  “Did you hear me at the press conference? I took credit for the canvases, called them my paintings. And in that moment, I believed it. I don’t deserve to wear this habit or paint ever again.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “Not to me. I’d leave tonight if I could, but I have to get dispensation from my perpetual vows.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A few weeks. Mother has to write to the Cardinal.”

  “I don’t believe this.” My voice rose and a few sisters turned to look. I lowered it to a whisper. “This is your home.”

  “I never really belonged here.” Catherine watched the other sisters knitting, chatting, and playing cards. “It was just a break from not belonging anywhere. The only place I’ve ever been at home is on the canvas.”

  “And you don’t even let that be permanent.”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable of permanence.” Catherine shrugged. “I made my perpetual vows, but deep down I always knew I couldn’t stay.”

  “Why not? Who’s making you leave?”

  “You, actually.”

  “Me?”

  “Not you exactly, but the me I see reflected in your eyes.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not following.”

  “I can lie to myself, but not to my twin. I never looked for you because I knew you’d see who I really am and I wasn’t ready to be that person.”

  “How could I possibly know who you really are?” I asked. “I don’t even know who I am.”

  “You know enough. You know I’m a coward who broke a promise to our father by not looking you up and a fool who defies God by shunning the responsibilities of talent.”

  “I never said that!”

  “Not in so many words. But you recognized that the paintings should be seen and I knew you were right. I also know fame can destroy me like it ruined Dad.” Catherine sighed. “Even so, I have to go learn to face it.”

  “Why do you have to leave the cloister?” I asked. “You can be famous from here.”

  “I might if the old ways were still working, but they aren’t. In order to become comfortable with people knowing who I am, I need to get to know myself first in ways that I can’t from inside the cloister. Maybe being out among people will help diffuse the power the public has over me and help me reestablish my connection with God.”

  “But you’re such a good nun.”

  “Am I? My relationship with God is grounded in painting, not piety. I strive for holiness, but obedience is an easy price to pay to paint undisturbed.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the relationship is based on so long as it’s a strong one,” I argued. “I feel God’s presence in your studio.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s you bringing God into that studio these days.”

  As the bell rang for Compline and Catherine exited with the other nuns, I realized I’d avoided contacting my twin for the same reasons she’d avoided meeting me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  When I entered the newsroom the following afternoon for the first time in over five months, I was met with applause from my coworkers and a bear hug from my boss.

  “Surprise!” Phil yelled. “Congratulations on a great series, McKenna. And you didn’t think there was a story there.” He puffed up with pride.

  I smiled, bewildered by this show of affection, as Phil popped a bottle of bargain basement champagne. The pink suds ran down the bottle and soaked his arm to the elbow before splattering on the floor. The industrial gray carpet was too threadbare to soak up the moisture. I watched the sticky liquid pool atop older stains already ground into permanence in the fibers.

  “Here’s to the most popular series in Comet history,” he said.

  Phil raised the foamy bottle and poured it into Graciela’s waiting coffee cup. Nearby, Rod held out his mug with the kind of enthusiasm only a minor can summon for cheap alcohol.

  “As a little token of appreciation for the attention your articles have brought to the paper, here’s a bonus for your trouble.” Phil reached into his pocket and pulled out a check.

  I took it and raised my eyebrows at an amount that exceeded my annual salary. In the past I would have taken the money without a second’s hesitation, but now I paused.

  “What? Not enough?” Phil joked.

  “Too much.” I tried to hand it back. “Everybody else here works as hard or harder than I do and—”

  “And everybody else here can thank you for healthy raises this year due to the skyrocketing subscription rate your articles generated.” Phil pushed my hand back toward me.

  I kept the check. Then Phil opened his mouth again.

  “As the coup de grace to an outstanding, not to mention lucrative, series, let’s all look forward to Dorie’s article about her sister being banished in scandal.” Phil took a long pull directly from the champagne bottle and immediately spit it out. “This is crap.”

  “Scandal?” I asked. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Heard about what a zoo it’s become up there.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Rumor is it won’t be long before they’ll have to kick her out just to keep the peace. Right?”

  I glared at him. “If she leaves, that won’t be the reason.”

  “No? Then let’s make up a better one. Your twin can take a little good-natured ribbing at this point.” Phil scratched his chin and thought. “Maybe we could make her pregnant by that movie star who bought most of her stuff. What do you think?”

  “I think I quit.” I handed back the check. Phil took it this time.

  “That’s loyalty for you.” The editor tossed the half-full champagne bottle into a nearby wastebasket while Rod eyed it with underage longing. “Just because the Times and Chronicle are knocking your door down doesn’t mean you drop the paper that gave you your start to trade up.”

  “It’s not like that at all.” Among others, the Los Angeles Times had called a few days before, but at that point I would have left The Comet with no prospects.

  “It’s not?” Phil looked surprised. “Hell, that’s what I’d do.”

  I’d already removed most of my personal things from the newsroom when I took my leave of absence. Now I collected the remainder from my desk—a favorite pen that leaked, my thesaurus with the ripped cover, and a chipped tea mug. I saw Graciela’s chin tremble. I hugged her.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said.

  Graciela nodded. I hugged Rod next.

  “Thanks to you I start a job at Art World next week,” Rod said with a heartfelt squeeze.

  “Thank my sister.” I turned to go.

  The entire newsroom broke into applause again as I left. I picked up my pace. The combination of admiration and jealousy I read in my coworkers’ expressions made me uncomfortable, giving me some idea of how Catherine must have felt at the gallery opening and how Evan Cole must feel every day. I stifled the family urge to vomit.

  Once outsi
de, I wondered if I’d made a mistake in turning down the bonus money. If nothing else, I could’ve donated it to the convent. Just as I turned to go back inside and ask Phil for the check, my cell phone rang. It was Trish.

  “Hello?”

  “I just sold your Wagner to Evan Cole for two and a half million.”

  I didn’t bother going back into the newsroom. I was too busy throwing up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “So what now?” Sister Barbara kneaded air bubbles out of a lump of clay at the wedging table in her South Central pottery studio a couple of weeks later. A forgotten plastic holly wreath adorned the wall.

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “I’m not sure. Here I am right where I always thought I wanted to be. I’ve got financial security, the respect of my professional community and a job interview with the Los Angeles Times, not to mention a marriage proposal.”

  “But it’s not what you want any more, is it?”

  “You know, I don’t think it is. The more I get, the less I seem to need.”

  “Was it hard to part with your father’s painting?” she asked.

  “Yes and no. Shift introduced me to my birth family. But owning such a valuable thing always made me nervous. And now I’ve got all this money to deal with,” I said. “Don’t get me wrong, the money’s wonderful. I paid off my debts, made a big donation to the convent, and still have a ton left. But wealth is stressful in its own way. When I see those nuns so content with living simply, it makes me wonder if I’ve been going after the wrong things. God, I must sound so ungrateful.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got your head on straight,” Barbara said.

  “Oh, I’m all talk. Entering the convent was easy, even fun, to think about when it wasn’t a financial possibility, but now that I’m actually in a position to do it, it’s—”

  “Terrifying?”

  “Yes. This is my whole life we’re talking about.”

  “Not really.” Sister Barbara popped a bubble in the clay. “It’s a year. That’s when you take first temporary vows, and it goes in stages from there. You don’t make perpetual vows until you’ve been there three-and-a-half years, and even those you can get out of under certain circumstances.”