SEPTEMBER 2001
The Residence of the Beatitudes is in a squat, two-story apartment complex on a dead-end street in Cartierville. The facade is beige brick with white aluminum windows and railings, set back on a barren plot of interlocked pavement. “This is a far cry from her life at the convent,” Maggie says as they approach the building. “She probably thought she would live out the rest of her days at St. Nazarius.”
When St. Nazarius Hospital was torn down, the adjacent convent had to be vacated, and the few dozen elderly nuns who still lived there had to be moved to assisted-living residences. More nuns from other convents will surely follow. As the decline of the Catholic religious orders continues, the convents are becoming more and more anachronistic. The future is uncertain for the Motherhouse in Shaughnessy Village, the convent of the Miséricorde downtown, and the Ursuline Monastery in Quebec City; all of them will soon be obsolete. Aging nuns throughout the province will have to be relocated and decisions made about what to do with all the empty buildings that once housed a powerful community of religious orders. The nuns who once ran all the hospitals, schools, and orphanages are vanishing, and in that, Elodie takes small comfort.
She recently read an article in the Journal de Montreal that said there are only about five thousand Catholic nuns left in the province, compared to ten times that when Elodie was growing up in St. Nazarius. Most of them are in their seventies and eighties, with no new novices on the horizon. Sister Ignatia is probably in her eighties now. One of Elodie’s contacts from the Duplessis Orphans Committee, a friend of a friend of a friend, provided the address of the Residence of the Beatitudes, where Ignatia was sent to live out the rest of her miserable days.
“They used to run an empire in Quebec,” Maggie says, looking outside at the grim building that is now home to the few remaining of them. “They’ve certainly come down in status.”
The reception desk sits to the left of what appears to be a common room. There are a few elderly women watching TV, others staring at the walls. It reminds Elodie of the Big Room at St. Nazarius, which seems fitting.
“We’re here to see Sister Ignatia,” Elodie says to the woman at the front desk. She’s holding a copy of James’s book in her hands: Born in Sin: The True Life Story of a Duplessis Orphan, by J. G. Phénix. Her hands are shaking.
“Is she expecting you?”
“I was hoping to surprise her,” Elodie says. “I knew her at St. Nazarius.” She turns to Maggie and Nancy. “This is my mother and my daughter.”
“Sister Ignatia will be happy to have visitors,” the woman says, smiling warmly. “What’s your name, dear?”
She wonders if Sister Ignatia will remember her. And if she does, will she even let her in?
“We’d like to surprise her if that’s okay,” Nancy says.
The receptionist looks them over—three generations of good Catholic women here to see one of their former caregivers—and doesn’t even hesitate before calling up to Sister Ignatia.
“You have visitors, Sister. A friend from St. Nazarius. A friend, Sister. From St. Nazarius.”
Hanging up, she says, “Go on up. She’s on the second floor. Room 7B.”
They take the stairs up one flight. Elodie knocks on the door of 7B. Her heart is pushing against her chest, thumping wildly. The door opens, and she holds her breath, anticipating that monster from her past. But it’s just an old woman, short and thick, stooped heavily over a walker. Not exactly frail, but certainly not threatening. She still looks like a bat with those small black eyes, wide-set on her broad face. She has jowls now, a sunken mouth. Her hair is a cloud of white, and she’s wearing a navy blue knee-length skirt and white shirt instead of a habit. A heavy gold cross rests between her large sagging breasts.
Sister Ignatia appraises them, showing no trace of recognition.
“I was at St. Nazarius,” Elodie says, her voice a tremor.
“Come in,” Ignatia says, opening the door wider and stepping aside for them.
Elodie doesn’t move, so shocked is she to have been invited in without any qualm or apprehension. She thought Sister Ignatia would have slammed the door in her face the moment she realized Elodie was an orphan and not a former colleague. Why would she just let her in?
Nancy gives Elodie a gentle push, and they file into the room, which is cramped and sad. Pea soup green walls, dingy sheer curtains, and a single bed with a bedspread of brown and green circles. A needlepoint cushion in the center of the bed is embroidered with a psalm: THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE, LET US REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN IT. A large crucifix hangs above the bed, a bronze Jesus gazing down on her while she sleeps. There’s an old rocking chair, exactly like the ones at St. Nazarius—she probably stole it—and two brown vinyl armchairs squeezed into the corner, facing a small TV on the wall. The only other furniture in the room is a brown dresser adorned with an altar of candles, statuary, and framed pictures of Jesus.
Sister Ignatia painstakingly lowers herself into the rocking chair. Elodie and Maggie take the armchairs in the corner, with Nancy perched on one of the armrests.
“Do you remember me?” Elodie asks her.
“Were you a nurse, dear?”
“I was a patient from ’57 to ’67. My name is Elodie de Ste. Sulpice.”
“What a pretty name. Elodie. That’s a lily, isn’t it? I used to love to garden.”
Elodie doesn’t know what to say.
“Did you say you were a nurse?”
“I was a patient on the psychiatric ward at St. Nazarius. You were in charge of my ward. Don’t you remember me?”
“Yes, of course. You were a sweet girl. Very bright. You played the violin, didn’t you?”
Elodie looks over at her mother. It’s obvious to her now why Sister Ignatia agreed to see her. She has no recollection of the past.
“How are the others?” Sister Ignatia asks her. “I miss them. I wish they’d visit more often.”
Elodie is thrown off guard. She’s rehearsed her speech so many times in her mind, but never did she imagine giving it to a pathetic old woman with dementia. What a waste it is, after all the buildup. “You abused me and tortured me when I was there,” Elodie tells her, studying that craggy face for some sign of lucidity. Trying to jog her memory. “Don’t you remember?”
The old woman just stares at her with an empty, untroubled gaze. It’s like the devil’s been exorcized from her body by age and senility, and all that’s left is the shell.
“You chained me to a metal bed frame and left me there for days,” Elodie continues, needing to say it anyway. “You told me my mother was dead.”
“I cared for all my girls,” Ignatia says, sounding genuinely confused. “Why would you say such things to me?”
“I don’t believe you don’t remember anything.”
Sister Ignatia looks past her at Maggie and Nancy. “You two were there,” she says to them. “Tell her how I cared for you. I cared for all my girls. I was outnumbered, but it didn’t stop me from doing God’s work.” Her whole body is trembling as she defends herself, her eyes jumping from Maggie to Nancy to Elodie. An animal, cornered, with no idea why.
Everything Elodie had wanted to say now seems utterly futile. Sister Ignatia may as well be dead. There will be no contrition or acknowledgment from her, no apology or pleas for mercy. Her mind—that former crux of evil—is gone.
“We should go,” she says softly.
Maggie and Nancy stand up. Maggie is crying into one of her vintage floral hankies. Nancy puts her arm around her grandmother, and Maggie rests her head on Nancy’s shoulder. They lean on each other.
“I’m very happy for you,” Sister Ignatia says. “I only wanted the best for all of you. You were always a sweet girl, Lily. And very bright.”
When they get outside, the weather has turned muggy and the sun is bobbing between a smudge of clouds. The air feels heavy, like rain is coming.
They get inside the car. No one says anything. No postmortem is offered. Elodie fastens her seat belt and rolls down the window to let in the Indian summer air.
Finally, after starting the car and adjusting the air conditioner, Maggie breaks the silence. “Do you feel any sense of closure?” she asks Elodie.
Closure is a word that gets thrown around a lot these days, but she has no idea what it’s supposed to feel like. She’s had an apology from Dr. Duceppe, a financial settlement from the government, and a glimpse into Sister Ignatia’s pitiful life. All those things have been marvelously healing, moments of great vindication. But closure implies something far more permanent. Her past will not be shuttered in one final grand gesture just because the government compensated her or because Sister Ignatia is going to die alone with her delusions and her framed pictures of Jesus.
“I feel relief,” she says, glancing outside as a light rain begins to fall. “I feel like I’ve been chained to that bed my entire life, and now I’m suddenly free.”
Maggie reaches over and touches her knee, and Nancy puts her arms around her from the back seat. Elodie looks from one to the other, swelling with love for both of them. Love is her revenge, she realizes. And her life is filled with it today.
As Maggie pulls out onto the road, Elodie thinks about that slogan on Sister Ignatia’s needlepoint cushion. This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.