Contrition

  “Like Catherine’s.” I picked up the blue pot I’d admired on my previous visit. “In a way that’s a relief, but I don’t want to go in with the plan of getting out. I just wish I could be sure I’m doing the right thing before I even try. What if I turn out to be a terrible nun?”

  “Mother Teresa once said that God does not call us to be successful, only to be faithful.” Sister Barbara pressed her palms into the clay, turned the lump over, and rotated it clockwise on itself.

  “Speaking of being ‘called,’ I don’t know that I ever have been,” I said. “The nuns I’ve met said they experienced a direct invitation from God to serve the church. Did you?”

  “Not exactly. I was unhappy with my life and needed to make a spiritual change. ‘Call’ or no ‘call,’ you’ll never be sure about the decision. That’s where trust comes in. Do you meet all the requirements?”

  “Mother Benedicta said the sisters were seriously considering my vocation, so I must. I’m debt free thanks to the sale of the painting. I’m the right age and I’ve been celibate longer than I care to remember. How do you deal with the celibacy thing anyway?” I asked without thinking. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy.”

  “Everybody’s curious about that.” Sister Barbara laughed. “I don’t really miss sex so much as I miss closeness with another person. Now I strive to achieve closeness with God through prayer. And staying single gives me a lot of freedom, but I have to be careful not to become self-absorbed. Parenthood teaches a kind of selflessness that I’ll never achieve.”

  I felt a twinge in my gut at the thought of never having children. Then I recalled how my birth mother fared in childbirth. I put the blue pot back on the shelf.

  “Sister Cindy was a vocation director before she took over the soup kitchen. I think she has some materials in here somewhere.” Barbara wiped her hands off on her jeans and rummaged through a dusty cardboard box in the corner.

  “Here we are.” The sister pulled out a dog-eared directory of religious communities. “Let’s see—Monastery of the Blessed Mother. Okay.” She found the page. “Requirements include a high school diploma and some work experience preferred, which you’ve got. You should be healthy, which you are. You should love God, the church, and all people, and attend Mass regularly.”

  “I try, and I am.”

  “Finally, you’ll need the stamina for hard work and a strict schedule, not to mention a sense of humor in close quarters with all those people.”

  “It’s pretty cozy. But so far I’ve managed on my visits.”

  “Then it sounds like you’re a good candidate.” The potter put the book back into the box. A cloud of dust puffed into the air as she closed the lid.

  “I was afraid you would say that. I wish someone would tell me what to do so I don’t have to decide for myself.”

  “When I was discerning, my spiritual advisor had me write a letter to God listing all my concerns and then write God’s reply to me with my weak hand,” Sister Barbara said. “The reply business seemed silly until I did it. I received insights on my vocation that I hadn’t had before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it was okay if God’s will differed from my parents’ expectations.” The sister took the chunk of clay from her wedging table and sat down at the pottery wheel. “Before writing the letter I wasn’t even aware that was an issue for me, especially since I was almost forty when I became a sister.”

  “It’s definitely an issue for me, and my parents aren’t even alive anymore.”

  “Maybe writing a letter to God will give you some clarity on that.” Barbara spun the wheel and molded a chalice out of the clay.

  “I’ll try it.”

  I smiled, but Sister Barbara seemed to sense my skepticism. She stepped away from her work, pulled the small blue pot I liked back down from the shelf, and gave it to me.

  “For you. Put all your concerns into this pot and ask God to handle them.”

  “Thank you.” I touched the glaze’s satiny finish. “It’s lovely.”

  “God Bless you, Dorie. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

  “Thanks, Sister.” I exited the studio clutching my pot and went home to change for the Los Angeles Times interview I didn’t want to attend.

  • • •

  “Your work speaks for itself, Ms. McKenna.” The Times Associate Features Editor fanned through a pile of my clips and chewed on the end of his Cross pen with the ferocity of a former smoker.

  I reached to snap my rubber band in subconscious solidarity and then remembered I no longer wore one.

  “If you can raise the bar like this at a tabloid, imagine what you could accomplish here,” he said.

  I liked this editor. In his tiny office cluttered with books and a wrinkled blazer hanging on the door handle, he seemed like the kind of boss I would enjoy working for.

  “I had to pull some strings,” the editor said. “But I’m pleased to be able to extend to you the best package I’ve ever negotiated for a young journalist.”

  He handed me an offer letter and then leaned back in his creaky, antique desk chair and waited for my reaction.

  Just as I hesitated to try on Matt’s engagement ring for fear that I’d never take it off, I dreaded reading the details of a job offer I might not be able to refuse. I took a cursory look at more zeroes than had ever graced one of my tax forms and closed my eyes for a long blink before answering.

  “I’m flattered, but I can’t accept it.”

  I handed the paper back to him. The pen fell out of his mouth.

  “But you hardly read it.” He perused the letter himself as if reading it for the first time. “This offer is beyond generous–”

  “Yes, and I appreciate that, but I’m considering a career change.” I stood up on wobbly legs and offered my hand. It wasn’t every day that I turned down the job of a lifetime. “Thanks again, sir.” It took all my effort to exit as he watched, dumbfounded.

  I couldn’t believe it either.

  • • •

  That night, I sat in bed considering the pros and cons of entering the cloister. The cons: loneliness, loss of freedom, no journalism, no sex, no husband, no children, no junk food, risk of burnout, all seemed to outweigh the pros: a life spent serving God, time for contemplation in a beautiful landscape, a close-knit community. Yet I found myself unable to decide. To my frustration, the cloister managed to be both the most practical and impractical life I could imagine. It attracted me but had I been “called” to become a nun?

  I had no trouble writing a letter to God that included the list of pros and cons but couldn’t bring myself to write God’s reply. It felt too ridiculous. I tucked my letter into the pot Sister Barbara gave me, turned out the light, and tried to sleep.

  Three hours later, I was still tossing and turning.

  “All right, all right!” I flicked on the light sat up. “Pushy, aren’t You?”

  Pen poised, I stared at the blank page a moment before remembering to switch to my disabled hand. I secured the pen between my index and middle fingers, and with some leverage from my pinched right thumb, I managed to write “Dear Dorie” in a childlike scrawl. As I examined the jagged script, my mind wandered back through images of my biological family’s paintings and came to rest on the one I had inherited and subsequently sold—my father’s Shift.

  I pictured the black, white, and gray circles of paint that floated up from a murky swath of ebony on that work of art. Lamenting that I would never see the image in person again, I suddenly realized I had seen it years before I encountered it on canvas. Those circles of paint suggested drops of water caught in the sunlight—not just bubbles at a first swim lesson or splashes from a lawn sprinkler, but drops of water emanating from a church fountain the day I experienced real joy for the first time.

  I understood then that the rapture I’d experienced the morning after my eighteenth birthday came from a moment of true communion with God. I shivered. I may not have seen Him until I looked at
Catherine’s paintings that night in her studio, but I had heard God’s call to spend my life in prayer then and there at the church fountain. At eighteen, the invitation had seemed too overwhelming. Rather than heed the call, I blocked it out and used the excuse of my mother’s death to walk away from the church. At twenty-six, I didn’t want to lose that mental image or the serenity it engendered ever again.

  Stirring from my reverie, I looked down and saw that my disabled hand had written the perfectly legible words, “Say Yes.”

  I stopped, surprised and alarmed, but all the fear and anxiety I’d been carrying suddenly left me. Tired of fighting it, my whole body trembled with relief and I was filled with a sense of peace. Even my twisted hand relaxed a little. Tears ran down my face as I smiled and whispered, “Yes,” and then laughed when I realized I’d yelled at God a moment before.

  Sister Teresa would be so proud.

  • • •

  “Since when do people eat cactus?” My Aunt Martha eyed the menu at the Border Grill suspiciously.

  “Since forever, I imagine.” I placed my napkin on my lap and tried not to squirm. I’d had a few days to sit with my decision but was still nervous about telling my aunt.

  “It’s very good.” The server tapped her pencil on her pad.

  “Well, far be it from me to be left out. I’ll have to try it.” Martha handed the waitress the menu. “Course, I’ll probably take one bite and leave the rest,” she added the moment the waitress hustled off with our order.

  “Fine with me.” I grabbed a chip and dunked it into the tomatillo salsa. “I’m glad you came for a real visit so we don’t have to rush through another airport layover.”

  “Amen to that.” Martha eyed the arriving margaritas with anticipation.

  I was also happy to be in the socially trendy, visually funky, and acoustically challenged nouveau-Mexican restaurant. I’d chosen the place in hopes that the overall din would drown out the sound of Martha’s wailing and gnashing of teeth when she learned about my plans to become a nun. Even liberals had their limits.

  “Of course I’m here.” She squeezed the lime wedge into her drink. “I had to take my wildly successful niece out to celebrate her recent accomplishments! I’m very proud of you, Dorie.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” I clinked glassware with her.

  “I hear a confession coming on.” Martha set down her drink. “Spill it.”

  “For starters, I quit my job.”

  “Good for you.” She patted me on the back. “You said yourself that The Comet was a rag. Do you need some help until you find something else?”

  Martha rummaged through her rucksack and pulled out her checkbook.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I sold Shift.”

  “What? Why?” she asked, returning her checkbook to her pack. “You loved that painting!”

  “I still do,” I said. “But owning something that valuable doesn’t fit into my current plans.”

  “What plans are those? Will you look for another job right away or take it easy for a while?”

  “I’ve checked out some jobs. I got an offer from the Los Angeles Times.” I crunched a tortilla chip between my teeth. “And a couple of other nibbles.”

  “Have you accepted a position?”

  “Sort of.” I watched her stare at me with rapt anticipation. I took a long sip of my margarita for courage. “I’ve decided to enter the convent.”

  For once, Martha had nothing to say. She finished her drink in one gulp and hailed for another.

  “Would you please say something?” I pleaded.

  “I thought this might happen,” she said.

  Now I was speechless but only for a moment. “You did?”

  “I’ve watched you moving in this direction for years. In fact, your father and I were surprised you left the church in the first place.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Died on your birthday, yes. And it wasn’t fair. But she wouldn’t have wanted you to leave the church you love right when you needed it the most.” Martha took my weak hand from across the table and held it between hers. “Look here, Dorie. I don’t pretend to know if your parents are slaving away in hell, whistling Dixie in heaven, or simply fertilizing the cemetery grass. I do know they’d never want you to compromise your dreams in order to honor the dead. Do what you need to do. It’s your life, not theirs, not your biological parents’, not even your sister’s. And religion is part of your story. Always has been and always will be, whether you choose to recognize it or not.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “’Course I am. Connor and Hope may not have shared your beliefs, but they respected and admired your commitment to them and that they would support you now. And so do I.” Martha sighed. “I wish I had that kind of faith in something.”

  Relieved, I reached over and hugged her, taking care not to stick myself on the arriving cactus salad. “Thank you.”

  • • •

  Two hours later, I stood before my adoptive parents’ graves. I didn’t say anything, just dropped glassy tears onto their headstones and silently thanked them, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  As promised, Mother Benedicta and the rest of the nuns approved my application to join their community. I spent the next month in a flurry of phone calls, cloister visits, and paperwork for both my new life and the life I was about to leave behind.

  Catherine’s circumstances changed as well. The Cardinal approved her dispensation request and released her from her vows. After eight-and-a-half years in the cloister, she was free to go.

  Consequently, my visit to the monastery that rainy February afternoon had a dual purpose—to go over the final details of my approaching admission to the convent and to help Catherine move out.

  I arrived at the sawhorses blocking the base of the monastery driveway and rolled down my window. I was a recognizable regular to the new security staff.

  “Afternoon, Ms. McKenna.” The clean-shaven young guard stepped out of the makeshift plywood kiosk and leaned down to face me.

  “Hi, Michael. Looks like you’re busy despite the weather.”

  The advance booking policy for visitors had been in place for weeks, but people without appointments still waited in their cars on the side of the highway behind me, hoping for a cancellation. A few hardy souls with umbrellas hiked up the sharp incline on foot. Reservations weren’t required for pedestrians.

  “Always busy,” Michael said. Juicy raindrops spattered on the gate- keeper’s clipboard as he checked my name off the reservation list and moved the sawhorses aside. “Enjoy your visit.”

  I chugged up the driveway, careful to avoid the black, red, and blue umbrellas of the hikers bobbing up the side of the road. Yellow police tape marked the edge, reminding pedestrians to stay off the wild grass and chaparral. Clods of dirt dropped by a construction truck melted on the patched asphalt.

  I remembered the first time I’d arrived at the cloister in the rain a million years before, curious and terrified all at once. I wasn’t curious anymore, but I was still terrified—this time for a whole new set of reasons.

  I found Sister Teresa in the public courtyard taking advantage of a break between cloudbursts to repair a trampled flowerbed.

  “There she is,” the extern said when she saw me. “How’s my favorite future nun?”

  “Nervous. How’s our favorite artist?” I asked.

  “Sister Catherine’s all right, considering.” Sister Teresa wiped her hands on her garden smock and frowned. “We’ve got the tourist thing managed here, but I don’t know what she’ll do once she leaves. We can’t protect her privacy anymore.”

  “With luck, the tourists won’t know she’s gone until long after I’ve snuck her past them.” I’d brought a blanket in my car for just that purpose. “I made Trish promise to keep mum for at least a month so Catherine has time to adjust.”

  Another cloud crossed the sun and threatened more moisture. Teresa and I stepped under the cover
ed walkway for shelter.

  “We hate to see her go. She says she’s leaving because of the tourists, but that’s merely an excuse.” Keys jingled as the extern removed her smock and set it on the gardening bench. “Catherine’s hit a rough patch in her prayer life is all. Happens to everybody. I don’t think one bout of spiritual dryness is reason enough to rush back out into the world.”

  “I’m not sure she’s ready for the world,” I said.

  “Neither am I, but we can’t force her to stay. I suppose it’s in God’s hands now.” Teresa made the sign of the cross. “What about you? Ready for your interview?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  “Alrighty then.”

  A clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. The nun led me inside as the rain resumed.

  Soon I sat before Mother Benedicta and Sister Scholastica in the parlor, far more apprehensive than I’d been in my Los Angeles Times interview.

  “We know you so well that the personal interview is largely a formality,” Mother Benedicta said. “So just relax and be yourself.”

  I nodded, though relaxing was the last thing I was capable of at the moment.

  “Still, it’s a necessary evil before you begin your religious formation as a nun, so we might as well get it out of the way before you spend time and money taking all the tests,” the prioress added.

  “Tests?” I sat up straight.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to study.” Mother’s gray eyes crinkled. “We require candidates to undergo medical and dental exams as well as personality and intelligence tests. A psychologist will conduct a behavioral assessment and review your personal and educational background.”

  “Wow. I had no idea.”

  “Given that we live, pray, and work together, we have to be a little more thorough than your average potential employer,” Scholastica explained. “The tests also give you a chance to examine your vocation decision from a different perspective.”

  “That makes sense.”