Contrition

  I took some of the flowers decorating our father’s memorial, placed them before our mother’s unadorned one, and hoped Catherine was right.

  “What was he like?” I asked, picking up a paintbrush and brushing the grass with it. “I always wished for a birthday card from him even though I knew I would never get one.”

  “He was the classic, tortured artist, but he did his best,” Catherine said as she licked frosting off of her plastic fork. “For the first few years we lived in his studio and ate a lot of beans.”

  “Wow,” I said. “The estate lawyer mentioned that he was struggling back then, but I always tend to think of him as rich and famous.”

  “Not at first, but we managed. He was doing what he loved and we were happy. There wasn’t money for extras so, on special occasions, Dad would draw chalk art advertisements for shops in exchange for a birthday cake or a Christmas dress for me. Then when I was about six, his career started taking off. We were still happy and he was still doing his thing, only now we had more than enough. Somewhere in there he started relying on the money and acclaim to make him happy. That worked fine until some of his new paintings were poorly received, and then he… Well, you know the rest.”

  She set down her fork, wrapped her arms around her knees, and looked away. Unsure of what to say or do, I put a tentative hand on her shoulder and looked at the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed.

  “It’s okay. I got through it. He talked about you constantly at the end.”

  My head snapped up. “He did?”

  Catherine nodded. “He didn’t tell me about you until a week before he died, but he told me everything he knew, and he knew a lot.”

  I was shocked.

  “Like what?” I asked as every neuron in my body shorted out. Tendrils of nervous energy emanated from my fingertips. What did he know? How did he learn it?

  “He knew you were an honor student at Calabasas High and wrote for the school newspaper. He told me all about your hand. He said that despite the doctor’s prognosis when you were a baby, it had never gotten better.”

  “So he must’ve seen me at some point.” I flushed, feeling exhilarated and exposed at the same time.

  “We both did.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh huh,” Catherine said. “But I didn’t know who you were. Every spring, we had lunch on Saturdays at the park across the street from your house. Once in a while, you and your parents would be outside doing yard work.”

  “Man, I hated gardening.” I laughed, marveling as the memories of those dreaded Saturdays rewrote themselves with the knowledge that my birth family sat just a few yards away. “That was my least favorite chore.”

  “It looked pretty good to me. The part about you having two parents, not the yard work,” Catherine said. “Anyway, Dad would just sit and stare. Sometimes he’d mutter, ‘She’s better off without me.’ I figured your mom was a long-lost girlfriend or something. I didn’t know he was referring to you until he told me when he was dying that I had a twin with a disfigured hand. Then all those Saturdays when we drove miles to picnic at your park made sense.”

  “I had no idea. And he never introduced himself, which I gotta say is kinda creepy.” Anger pursed my lips. “He could have saved me a lot of wondering if he had.”

  “I think he was afraid.” Catherine plucked three blades of grass and braided them together. “Afraid of how all of us would react, including your parents.”

  “I would have been scared, too, considering,” I admitted. “Technically, he wasn’t supposed to contact me. My parents said I could look for him if I wanted to, but I thought it would hurt their feelings if I actually did.”

  “He was worried about that also, especially since he didn’t know if they’d told you that you were adopted. Not all parents told their kids back then and he said he didn’t want to flip anybody out.”

  “Oh my God.” I dropped the paintbrush as my hand went to my mouth. “That never occurred to me. My parents told me I was adopted as soon as I was old enough to understand, but how could he have known that? No wonder he stayed away.”

  In that instant, all my anger and confusion about my adoption disappeared. I inhaled an expanse of air and let it out slowly through my mouth, breathing deeply for what felt like the first time. As my lungs relaxed, I felt a clean, open space under my rib cage that had never been there before. The mythic figure I had made my birth father out to be was replaced by a fallible human being worthy of compassion. He had loved me when I was born and continued to love me after he’d let me go—that was clear now. Because he loved me, he did what he thought was best for me regardless of his own feelings. Because he loved me, I could, in that moment, finally love myself.

  The open space under my ribs extended to the rest of my body and into the air beyond. I chuckled, reveling in my new freedom to think, do, and feel without this central question informing my every thought and action without me even being aware of it. Until that moment, I had achieved an approximation of living, but now I could quit faking it and simply exist. My chuckle morphed into a full-blown laugh that left me shaking with relief.

  Catherine tipped her head and looked at me. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m just glad to be here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  For the next few days, my sister and I prepared to switch places. I took personality tests and got measured for my postulant uniform; Catherine studied for her driver’s license exam and tried on new clothes at the mall. I closed my checking account as she opened one.

  “What do you eat?” Catherine asked one night as she rooted around in my nearly empty refrigerator and bare freezer. “I’d like to cook something for us, but there’s nothing in here.”

  “I live on take-out. I’d buy frozen entrees, but my freezer doesn’t work.” I waved a pile of delivery menus from the table where I sat at my laptop transferring my utility and phone bills into Catherine’s name. “It’s so weird writing your name as Candace instead of Sister Catherine.”

  “You can still call me Catherine if it’s easier.”

  “Definitely easier,” I said as I deleted another spot on the transfer form where I’d typed “Catherine” and then replaced it with her given name. “Are you okay taking over these bills? I don’t mind helping you out with them while you’re first starting out.”

  “No, thanks.” Turning her attention to the cabinets, Catherine located a dusty box of cereal and pitched it into the trashcan. “I need to learn how to take care of myself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Are you? You’re walking away from a lot of menus here.”

  “No, I’m not sure. But I’m going to do it anyway.” I signed my name on another form. “Because knowing what I know now, I can’t go on living the way I used to, even if I don’t have a true calling.”

  “Trust me, you do,” Catherine said. “If it weren’t real, you wouldn’t have been fighting it for so long.”

  “Who says I’ve been fighting it?” I asked.

  “Your apartment, for starters.” Catherine gestured toward my food- free kitchen and my simple living space. “You’re already living like a nun. It’s not lack of decorating savvy that keeps this place so plain, or that guy Matt’s workaholism that’s kept you from a romantic relationship, or even a tough economy that’s kept your career stalled until now.”

  “Oh, no?” I was both annoyed and intrigued by her pat assessment.

  “No. It’s you and your epic struggle with the Man Upstairs.” Catherine looked around. “You must be exhausted. Good thing you finally answered the call so you can get some rest.”

  “Amen, Sister,” I said.

  • • •

  Two weeks later, Matt heaved my duffel bag into his Jeep.

  “The nuns claim I won’t need most of this stuff, but I don’t buy it.” I pointed to my bag.

  “You won’t be buying much of anything on your new salary,” Matt joked.


  “Am I an idiot?” I wondered aloud.

  “Some would say yes.” Matt wedged my duffel among the basketball, hockey sticks, and other sports equipment crowding his car. “Given that you’ve chosen poverty at a cloister over six figures from the Los Angeles Times.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think you’re crazy.” He slammed the back door shut. “In an inspiring sort of way.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I rolled my eyes and grinned.

  “You’re welcome.” Matt looked away. “Not sure how I’m going to live without you, Dorie.”

  “Same here.” I hugged him. “You’d better come to visit.”

  “Absolutely.” He seemed to have trouble letting go of me. “And don’t worry about my new neighbor. I’ll watch out for her.”

  “Would you?” I was relieved. The easy rapport Matt and Catherine had enjoyed since they’d met two weeks before made them fast friends, and Catherine needed friends. “She left on a walk about an hour ago without saying goodbye. I wish she’d come back to the cloister with me, but I can’t tell her what to do.”

  “She’ll be fine as soon as she learns how to parallel park. Is anybody coming to see you off?”

  I shook my head. “I told them to come visit me in a couple of months instead. Seeing everyone would be too hard right now.”

  “Then do you want to get going?”

  “I guess so.” I climbed into the car and took a good long look at my crumbling building.

  As Matt turned to back out of the driveway, Trish drove up and blocked him in with her Range Rover. Trish, Rod, Graciela, and her daughter, Sophie, piled out of the vehicle while Catherine emerged from Matt’s apartment with a lopsided cake.

  “You didn’t think you were going to get away clean, did you?” Matt asked.

  “Drink up.” Rod, who had recently turned twenty-one, proudly wielded tequila and limes. “After this it’s just communion wine for you, Missy.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Trish downed a shot. “I really thought you’d change your mind at the last minute.”

  “It’s still not too late!” Matt looked wistful, but resigned, as he winked at me.

  “We put together a little collection at the paper and came up with this donation for the cloister.” Graciela handed me a check. “Make sure we get some quality prayers for our money.”

  “Phil needs all the help he can get,” Rod said.

  “So do my dessert skills.” Catherine presented me with the tilting cake. “We didn’t bake many sweets at the cloister.”

  “Stick to painting, honey,” Trish said. “We’ll both be happier.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Graciela sampled the icing and gave a taste to her daughter.

  I didn’t say anything. I stood crying and smiling at the same time.

  • • •

  Temples aching from the tears, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat for the drive up to Big Sur. After what seemed like only a blink, Matt gently shook me awake.

  “Is that it?” Matt glanced between his directions and a spot up the hill from the highway.

  I roused myself, looked, and nodded.

  “Oh, man.” Matt stared as much as the winding road would allow. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Wearing its garland of flowers, the cloister rested on the rugged cliff overlooking a sparkling blue-green Pacific bejeweled by the midday sun. In that one glance, all of my doubts disappeared and I knew I was home.

  The sawhorses and the guard were gone from the monastery driveway. The news of Catherine’s departure wasn’t public knowledge yet, but the crowds had thinned to a manageable level on their own. A few tourists wandered around as Matt parked at the top of the hill. I was barely out of the Jeep before Sister Teresa was there to hug and greet me.

  “Welcome, Dorie! Welcome Home!” The extern watched Matt get my bag out of the back. “And who’s this strapping, young candidate for the priesthood?”

  “Hardly.” Matt grinned. “I’m just the chauffeur.”

  “Sister Teresa, this is my friend, Matt.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.” Matt offered his hand to Teresa. “Take good care of my girl, here.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Teresa said. “The Lord takes care of all of us, including you.”

  Matt blushed. I jumped when something warm and furry wound around my legs. I looked down to find Penguin the cat oozing affection for me.

  “And here’s our president of the Welcome Wagon.” The nun tipped her head toward the feline.

  “I didn’t think she liked me.” I picked up Penguin and scratched her behind the ears. “She usually glares and switches her tail at me.”

  “Oh, she was just hazing you,” Teresa said. “She does that to all the new recruits.”

  Given the way the cat purred in my arms, I believed it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  My first six months in the cloister passed in a blur. Other than visits from friends and my Aunt Martha, I don’t remember words or events, just feelings. Good, strong, happy ones. God lived here, that I knew, whether I was watching the sunset over the ocean or appreciating the beautiful spareness of my postulant’s cell.

  I found the theological coursework challenging, the disciplined work routine invigorating, the call to constant prayer inspiring. There were periods of intense doubt and extreme loneliness, but then I remembered that I had experienced those same feelings in the outside world as well. There were times when it seemed too easy and times when it was impossibly hard. I wondered if I was running away from life or simply taking a new approach as I learned to live for myself and my God rather than constantly striving for affection or achievements.

  I fell in love. Not with a man but with God and prayer. My prayers felt trivial some days, leading to fear that they would always seem that way, only to have the same words be rapturous and fulfilling the next day.

  As I swabbed the hallway tiles one morning, my shoulders aching from the weight of the industrial-sized mop and my hands chapped from the harsh detergents, I realized that I was happier than I’d ever been.

  • • •

  September’s Visiting Sunday fell a week before I was scheduled to receive my new name and the habit of a novice. Trish and Graciela met me in the parlor with decadent care packages I had to refuse.

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Trish tucked the bottle of Grey Goose vodka back into her bag.

  “I guess I won’t bother to offer you these then.” Graciela displayed a stack of gossip magazines, cigarettes, and Twinkies.

  “I’m sorry.” I laughed from the cloistered side of the parlor grille. “I appreciate the thought, but vodka and cigarettes don’t have a place in here, and they’re not exactly appropriate resale items for the gift shop.”

  “No problema,” Graciela assured me. “We made a point to bring stuff we liked in case we were forced to keep it ourselves.”

  “Funny, Matt and my aunt did the same thing with the gifts they brought last month. Oh hey, did you know that Matt’s short got into Sundance?”

  “I heard it’s pretty good.” Trish nodded.

  “You heard right,” Graciela confirmed. “It’s fabuloso.”

  “I’m glad. He deserves it.” I turned to Trish. “What about you? Are you still looking for a gallery to buy?”

  “I closed on a space at Bergamot Station last month,” she said.

  “That’s great!” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Trish replied. “It sat empty for so long that they finally came down to a price I could afford. You’ve seen it—it’s the one I rented for Catherine’s show. I’ll have to renovate it, but the location is perfect.”

  “How is Catherine?” I asked. “I’ve been writing to her but haven’t heard back and she hasn’t come to visit.”

  “She’s okay,” Trish said.

  Trish, who now served as Catherine’s manager, had told me on prior visits that when the pres
s found out Catherine had left the cloister, she was big news again. At first it had been so disruptive to the neighbors that Trish thought Catherine might have to move somewhere less accessible. But the hoopla had died down fairly quickly when Catherine figured out how to elude the news vans and continued to decline interview requests.

  “I got PBS interested in giving her an art show of her own a few weeks ago,” Trish continued.

  “Really? That’s amazing!” I said, continually impressed by Trish’s powers of persuasion.

  “Yeah, it would have been. But she bombed the screen test, so we can forget about tie-ins,” Trish concluded.

  “But how is she doing?” I wanted to know.

  Graciela and Trish looked at each other.

  “Not very well, I think,” Graciela admitted. “Matt and I check on her as often as we can, but we’re both so busy that—”

  “She’s your typical, reclusive artist,” Trish interrupted. “Which would be fine if she were a productive one. Then the work could speak for her. But right now she’s not producing much, and the fact that she’s no longer a nun means that she’s no different from the dozens of other non-productive, reclusive artists in town. I’ve been letting her use the gallery as a studio until I get the money together to renovate the space, but she’s rarely there.”

  “So she’s not painting?” I asked.

  “Nothing she’s willing to finish or let me sell. The gallery is full of half-done canvasses.” Trish took off her glasses and ran a hand through her red curls. “She says she tries and it’s no good. Not that it has to be. I could sell her stuff on name alone, but she won’t have it. I’ve had to turn down clients who want to commission work because I can’t guarantee Catherine will produce any.”

  “I tried to convince her to come here with us today, but she declined.” Graciela ignored Trish. “I’m worried about her, Dorie.”

  I was worried too.

  • • •

  That evening, I took a long walk on the property. The fog rolled in, largely obscuring the ocean views, but leaving what water was still visible a bright aquamarine close to shore and dark navy farther out. I could no longer see the waves crash against the rocks, but I could hear them from my spot 1300 feet above the shoreline. A bluebird danced across my path and I spied one of my favorite hummingbirds busy among the tea roses. I wished Catherine were there to enjoy it with me, wished I could see her and judge for myself how she was coping.