Sister Consolata was sleeping, her hands folded on top of the tight covers. Helen stood by the window, staring out over the harbour, lost in the sparkling strip of the moon’s light on the water.
She turned around and walked over to Sister Consolata’s bedside. She noticed that everything on the locker had been moved to the left; the statue of the Virgin Mary, the Bible, the prayer book, the rosary beads. In their place was a black, leather-bound book that she recognized, but knew didn’t belong there. There were two red rubber bands wrapped around it, barely containing what had been slid between the pages.
She picked it up. She realized then it was Father Owen’s diary. She glanced at the door, then rolled the rubber bands off. It sprung open on a page with two In Memoriam cards wedged in the gutter. She opened them and saw two familiar faces from town, and read the prayers. Then she flipped through the rest of the diary, letting it fall open wherever it was at its fullest, catching brief glimpses of raffle tickets, addresses written on scraps of paper, lists of Ministers of the Eucharist, a menu for a takeaway that was no longer open and, towards the back, in Father Owens’ flowing, slanted script, the beginnings of a eulogy. Then:
Sister Consolata’s kindness … insert examples …
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Good luck with that, Father,’ she whispered.
She closed the diary, wrapped the rubber bands around it, and put it back. She turned to Sister Consolata and watched her chest rise and fall as she slept, her face remarkably serene.
Helen shook her gently awake. Sister Consolata opened her eyes, and slowly focused on her. She frowned and turned to look at the clock.
Helen smiled and nodded. ‘I know, Sister. It’s late. Were you asleep? Did I disturb you?’
Sister Consolata tried to bat her away with her hand.
‘Do you know where I was today, Sister?’ said Helen, her eyes wide, arms spread. ‘I was in hospital myself! Getting great news! A diagnosis! Multiple Sclerosis! Thirty-five years of age! Can you believe that? M Fucking S! That I’ve seen so many patients with over the years! So I know it all!’
A frown flickered across Sister Consolata’s face. Helen leaned in and smoothed down the top sheet. She smiled. ‘Are you at peace, Sister?’
Sister Consolata closed her eyes, as if to answer yes.
‘Good for fucking you,’ said Helen.
Sister Consolata’s eyes snapped open.
Helen bent close to her ear: ‘Because how the fuck does the whole thing work? That a bitch like you gets to be in the whole of their health until this hour of their life, and still get to be at fucking peace? After all the shit you did. With everything you put Jessie through. Do you remember that, you auld bitch?’
Sister Consolata’s eyes were wider then, fearful.
‘Good enough for you!’ said Helen. She glanced towards the diary on the bedside table. ‘Did Father Owens hear your confession?’
Sister Consolata blinked.
‘Oh, you want me to know that, all right,’ said Helen. ‘Sure, no wonder you’re at peace. All your shite’s been taken care of – is that it? You’ve said your bit and off you go.’
Sister Consolata tried to swallow.
‘Did you lay it all out for him?’ said Helen. ‘For Father Owens? Did you say? “I confess to … tormenting a poor child right up until the last? Do you think Jessie’d have been as drunk that night if she wasn’t trying to block out the poisonous shite you kept coming out with? Did you tell Father Owens you blackened the name of a lovely man like Jerry Murphy? Did you tell him – Jesus! – I could go on and on! INSERT EXAMPLES! There’s enough of them! So, did you? Did you name your sins?’
Sister Consolata gave a few weak coughs and pointed towards her mouth. Helen paused, then reached for a foam swab from the bedside locker, dipped it in water, and ran it across her lips. Sister Consolata closed her eyes, and rested her head back down on the pillow.
Helen’s heart pounded. She put her hands down on either side of Sister Consolata’s shoulders, and used all her weight to tighten the covers across her chest. ‘Answer me, you bitch. Answer me! Did you name your sins?’ She pushed her hands down hard one more time, then took them away. Sister Consolata’s head lifted, then landed without a change crossing her face.
‘Nothing?’ said Helen. ‘Nothing? Not a word?’
She reached down and whipped the pillow out from under Sister Consolata’s head, holding it over her face in a white-knuckle grip, her biceps bulging against the short sleeves of her uniform. ‘I could do it,’ she said. ‘I swear to God. And no one would be any the wiser.’ She came closer with the pillow. ‘Answer me, you bitch. Answer me! Did you name your sins?’
Sister Consolata’s lips parted and with two gnarled fingers, she beckoned Helen down to her. Helen paused as she leaned in, momentarily trapped by the venomous black of her eyes. A shiver ran up her spine as she lowered her head.
Sister Consolata whispered: ‘Did you name yours?’