Contrition

  I didn’t have to wait long. As I walked back to the convent, my Jetta struggled up the driveway with my sister behind the wheel.

  Since meeting visitors on the grounds was against cloister rules, I rushed into the parlor and waited. Catherine soon entered on the public side wearing a backwards baseball cap.

  “Nice hat.” I hugged her through the grille.

  “It’s yours.” Catherine turned it around to reveal the LA Dodgers logo on the front. “I’m not about to start doing my hair now.”

  “I definitely don’t miss that.” My own hair was tucked under my postulant’s veil. I felt the fabric of my blue jumper. “Though I’m finding that polyester doesn’t breathe very well.”

  “The novice habits are cotton,” she said.

  “Good.” I fanned myself with my strong hand. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t visit sooner,” Catherine said. “This has all been a lot to get used to.”

  “No problem. I’m just glad to see you now.”

  “I’ve never been on the visitor side of this room before.” She took a seat and looked around. “Weird.”

  “For me, also. If anyone had told me two years ago that I’d be joining a convent, I would have laughed.”

  “How’s it going?” Catherine asked.

  “Great,” I said, sitting down myself. “Everything about it feels right. I went to confession for the first time since college, and even that went okay. Father Flash went easy on me.”

  “He’s a softy.” My sister smiled.

  “I’m writing more than ever. Nothing for publication, just personal stuff. When I shut up and listen, God tells me what to put down on the page.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “And with all this manual labor my arthritis is getting better rather than worse.” I wiggled the functioning fingers on my weak hand. “Go figure.”

  “Oh, I figured,” Catherine said. “You look radiant.”

  “Isn’t it wacky?” I touched my flushed cheek. “How is it that a former tabloid writer like me can feel so comfortable in a convent?”

  “That’s easy. You belong here.”

  I nodded as Catherine’s words settled into the core of my being and made themselves at home.

  “How’s it going for you?” I was almost afraid to ask.

  “All right. I’d forgotten how many people there are in the world.” Catherine kicked off her sandals and touched the hardwood with her bare feet. “It’s all so noisy and strange. No offense, but I wish the media didn’t exist.”

  “None taken. After seeing how the press treated you, I don’t like them much anymore either. A couple of journalists showed up here when they found out I’d entered the convent, but Mother turned them away.”

  “I can’t believe how nosy they get in interviews. They act like they know me. Someone actually asked me if I was a virgin.”

  “I’m sure they did.” I folded my arms, annoyed with my former profession.

  “Or they’ll want my opinion on political issues I know nothing about. Shouldn’t they go to experts for that?”

  “Unfortunately, a lot of people would rather know what celebrities think than what the experts say.”

  “Even when they ask questions about the paintings, which I should know the answers to, I’m tongue-tied.” Catherine pulled off her cap and fiddled with the brim. “I hold the brush, God paints, what else is there to say?”

  I bristled on my sister’s behalf. “You can turn them down.”

  “I tried that,” she said. “They just made up stuff about me.”

  “I guess not talking only works as a survival tactic in here, where a vow of silence makes you sympathetic. Out there, it makes you a target.”

  “I wouldn’t mind interviews if I were better at them. I have the time to give them now that I’m not painting.”

  “So you’re not painting at all?” My eyes widened. “Trish said you weren’t doing much, but I hoped maybe you were painting without telling her.”

  “There’s nothing to tell since I started speaking again. The more I say out loud, the less I have to say on the canvas.” Catherine paused and looked out the window. “Not that I haven’t tried. I’ve got a pile of lousy, unfinished paintings to prove it. I did my best to make the process a silent conversation between God and me the way I used to, but there are too many other voices now. I end up not being able to paint—which means I’m not able to pray.”

  “Your whole life is a prayer. You’re an inspiration to the other sisters.”

  “Maybe the paintings were.” Catherine chewed on her lip. “I’ve lost my connection with God.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My twin’s art had saved the cloister, but if that was God’s will, why did He turn His back on the artist once she’d done her duty?

  We sat in silence for several minutes.

  “Are you doing okay with your finances?” I finally asked.

  “Sort of.” She looked down at the cap in her hands. “Not really. I got a job as a prep cook at a diner, but I couldn’t handle all the swearing on the line.”

  “I wish you would let me help you,” I said. “I need to give away my money before I take the vow of poverty. I’d love to set up an account for you.”

  “No, thanks,” Catherine said. “I want to make it on my own.”

  “I know a sister who might be able to find you a suitable job.” I thought of Sister Barbara in South Central. “I’ll give you her number. Better yet, have you considered coming back here now that the excitement has died down? We’ve kept your studio intact and all the sisters miss you.”

  “I miss them too, but I can’t come back.” Catherine put the ball cap back on. “I was never much of a nun. I was just a painter who found a good setup.”

  “Oh, please.” My voice rose. “You have the strongest spiritual connection I’ve ever witnessed. Sitting in your studio while you worked was a transforming experience for me. I wish I could express myself in images.”

  “And I wish I could express myself in words. It would give me a new way to pray now that I can’t paint.” Catherine paused before she spoke again. “I feel as if painting has taken me as far as it can for now, but you sound like your best writing is just beginning.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. Was what I’d gained worth what Catherine had lost?

  “It’s not a trade-off,” I insisted. “God doesn’t work that way.”

  “It’s as it should be.” The artist put the ball cap back on. “I’m full of desires now. That’s why I had to go.”

  “You’re being too critical of yourself.”

  “I don’t know how to be any other way.” Catherine nudged her sandal around on the floor with her bare foot. “It’s time to lose my ego and open myself up to God again.”

  “How will you do that?” I asked.

  “I’m going to quit trying so hard. I left the cloister intending to get to know the audience for the artwork, but instead I hid out and attempted to create my own little cloisters inside your apartment and Trish’s gallery. The more I sought inspiration in solitude, the more elusive it became.”

  “There’s grace in the struggle too, you know,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m not ashamed of my efforts. I did my best, but it’s time for a different approach. Every minute of my life was preplanned inside the cloister, but now that I’m out, I have to embrace the unknown, scary as that may be. I need to offer up those uninspired paintings to God as a symbol of my struggles and my willingness to put Him first again. Then I can move on without any expectations of myself or my Creator and see what happens. If moving on means giving up painting for a while as I learn to interact with people and see how I can be of service in the world, then I’ll give up painting for a while.”

  As I heard the unmistakable ring of hope, not to mention the relief of surrender, in my sister’s voice, I realized that God had never left Catherine. He’d just changed course, opening up new paths for her to choose fr
om. I wondered what road a mystic would take.

  “My clothing ceremony is next week,” I said. “Will you come?” I wanted reassurance that I’d see Catherine again soon.

  “Yeah, sure.” Catherine blinked and looked away. Her twitchy body language belied her casual response. I knew she wouldn’t attend the ceremony but decided not to push it.

  “I’m supposed to make a private retreat of silent prayer and meditation this week in preparation for it,” I said.

  “Do me a favor?” Catherine slipped her sandals back on. “Pray for me?”

  “I always do.”

  “Thanks. With you here, part of me still feels a connection with this place whether I’m inside the walls or not. Goodbye, Dorie.”

  There was a ring of finality to her voice that scared me. I grabbed the bars of the enclosure.

  “Why don’t you stay overnight in the priest’s quarters?” My voice was high and shrill. “You don’t want to turn around and drive all the way back to Venice. I’m sure everyone would love to see you in chapel for prayers.”

  “Prayer isn’t my strong suit these days.” She hugged me through the grille. “I’ll be fine.”

  I was afraid to let go of her. “Mother and the sisters will be upset when they find out they’ve missed you.”

  “They’ll forgive me. That’s what nuns do.” My twin pulled away and walked out.

  “I’ll see you soon.” I called after her.

  I sincerely hoped that I would.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The sunset sent colorful stained-glass shadows splashing across the walls as I entered the chapel for my clothing ceremony. I stood beside the altar in my postulant’s navy blue jumper while the sisters nodded to me from behind the grille. Aunt Martha, Matt, Trish, Graciela, Sophie, Rod, Phil, and Sister Barbara waved from the public area. A couple of reporters were also in attendance. A careful scan of the public pews confirmed what my gut already knew: Catherine wasn’t there.

  A bell rang. Everyone stood as Father Charles entered. The priest spoke a few words, but I didn’t hear them above the clamor of the blood pumping between my ears. Halfway through the ceremony I was too distracted to absorb, Mother handed me the gray habit and white veil of a novice and I mechanically left the chapel to change.

  Sister Teresa helped me dress in the vestry just off the chapel.

  “Was Catherine out there?” I whispered as I pulled the coarse, cotton habit over my head. “I didn’t see her.”

  “I’m sure she’s on her way,” the extern murmured through gritted teeth to keep the straight pins in her mouth from falling out. She secured my new wimple around my head, neck, and ears and then fastened the white novice veil to it.

  I hoped Catherine was all right. Excited as I was to take the next step in my religious training, uneasiness washed over me whenever I thought about my sister. I cinched the knotted linen cord around my waist, hooked a set of rosary beads to it, and tried to ignore the nausea roiling my belly.

  I told myself that my twin was simply running late, yet I couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong.

  My temples ached as I reentered the chapel. I wished Catherine were there, though in my heart I felt her spiritual presence despite her physical absence. It was as if she were trying to tell me something. But what?

  I roused from my reverie when the nuns and members of the congregation each lifted a hand toward me in blessing. I kneeled while Father Charles read from a leather-bound book that lay open on the lectern before him.

  “Dorie Elizabeth McKenna, do you seek admittance to the cloister as a novice?”

  “I do, Father.”

  “And do you invite the Lord Our God into your heart?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Do you promise to honor the principles of monastic life and obey the holy rule for the next six months as you continue to discern your religious vocation?”

  “To the very best of my ability.”

  “And do you accept the name of Sister Clare?”

  “With gratitude.”

  “May the Lord who has thus called you bless you and keep you as you grow in faithfulness.” Father Charles made the sign of the cross over me. “We pray this in the name of the Father, the Son, and The Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen,” the congregation replied.

  “You may rise and join your sisters in community.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  As I stood up, I felt a sharp pain and tasted the stinging, metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I touched my lips with my hand. There was no gore, no injury, just a phantom ache. I tried to ignore it as I walked over to the sisters behind the grille.

  The short walk was difficult. I paused, suddenly feeling dizzy and hot. I wondered if I had inhaled too much incense smoke and continued walking.

  As I approached, Mother Benedicta unfastened an interior latch and a door-sized portion of the grille swung open to allow me to enter. I took a deep breath and stepped through on shaky legs. I’d been inside the cloister before, but this time was different. This time it was for good.

  The prioress closed the grille and offered me an unlit candle. As I held out my right hand to receive it, I noticed that all the sisters were staring at the candle. I wondered why, then realized that they weren’t staring at the candle at all—but at my right hand—a hand whose fingers were fully extended. I wiggled my fingers in astonishment. The muscles were withered and the joints knobby, but I could bend and stretch all my digits for the first time in my life.

  I stood there, so happy and stunned that Mother had to nudge me to continue the ceremony. I struck a match to light my candle, marveling at my newfound dexterity. The sulfur oxidized in a dazzling, blue flame that startled me before it dulled to a steady orange glow. It reminded me of the flames that leapt from Catherine’s Jesus and Judas painting the day she set it on fire to make her point. In that moment, another realization dawned.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I went straight to the cloistered side of the parlor after the ceremony and found Matt among the visitors on the public side.

  “Well, if it isn’t Sister Clare.” He smiled and offered me a bouquet of sunflowers through the bars that now divided us. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  When I held out my open palms to receive the blooms, Matt dropped the flowers and took my right hand into his, where he turned it over and back again, looking at it from all angles.

  “Oh, my God.” He pulled me in for a hug through the bars.

  “That’s the only explanation I can think of.” I looked over his shoulder for Catherine.

  “This proves it,” Matt said. “You’re exactly where you belong, Dorie.”

  “It feels right.” Grateful as I was, I scanned the room anxiously. “But something else feels wrong. Is Catherine here?”

  “She should be by now. She wasn’t going to come, but then she changed her mind at the last minute.” Matt’s expression darkened when he saw my concern. “When I offered to drive her, she said she had some work to finish first and would catch up later. Why?”

  “Call the Santa Monica Fire Department.”

  • • •

  According to the report, fire trucks screamed toward the orange glow on Olympic Boulevard in time to save the gallery structure, but not the art or Sister Catherine. No bodily remains survived except her dental bridge and a scrap of paint-splattered habit among the charred canvasses, malfunctioning fire extinguisher, and shards of broken glass from the shattered skylight.

  I remembered the skylight from the gallery opening and its resemblance to a sunlit portal to heaven. Now the vision of the gray ashes from Catherine’s unfinished paintings rising up through the opening against a square of night consumed my mind. I imagined these attempted paintings returning to their Creator as Catherine’s artistic sacrifice—one that I hoped wasn’t intentional.

  At first I worried that Catherine might have burned another painting only to have the flames get out
of control. When investigators found the fire’s point of origin at a scorched electrical outlet, I heaved a sigh of relief. Trish got enough insurance money to replace the faulty wiring, repair the gallery damage, and do the renovations she’d been saving up for anyway.

  Mother Benedicta requested special permission from the diocese to bury Catherine’s scant remains among the departed nuns in the cloister cemetery. Remembering the connection my sister said she still felt with the place when I last saw her, I knew that being buried where she’d found so much divine grace in life would make her happy in death.

  Something in me didn’t think she was dead. With the kind of biological conviction felt only by those who have shared a womb, I believed a burnt scrap of habit and a well-placed piece of dental work enabled my twin to walk away and fade back into the obscurity she craved.

  After the fire, Sister Catherine’s cloister studio was returned to its original use as a broom closet. Mops and sweepers resumed their places against the walls; bleaches and solvents reestablished residency on the shelves. As time went on, many sisters forgot the space had ever been otherwise. But for me, it would always be the place where I first saw God.

  EPILOGUE

  Seven months have passed since the fire, and Catherine hasn’t resurfaced. I still believe she’s alive, but I now accept that the world may never hear from her again.

  I stopped talking the day we buried those negligible remains, but my penance brings me no peace. Now I am trying another—the one my sister would choose.

  I’ve written this manuscript by hand, pen on paper, feeling closer to brush on canvas than typing ever could. The book I once dreamed of writing has now written itself, the story not one I could have imagined. It may be my best prayer, this Act of Contrition, now that I’ve learned to hear the words that God whispers in the silence.