The Chapel echoed with late footsteps hurrying in with little whispers of apology. Mother sat with her eyes closed in silent prayer, listening to all these signs of new life. With the Clothing of their five postulants just the week before, the newest class of three was still learning the abbey schedule, still learning how to mark their places for the various hours in their books, how to read the music. And apparently, she thought with a tiny smile, how to tell time. The organ sounded its single, lingering note, and voices rose.
“Dominus, regnavit, decorem induit, alleluia, alleluia.”
From Terce, the community went directly to the morning Mass. The new chaplain, Father Andrew, had arrived at St. Bridget’s just a few months earlier. The abbot of St. Dominic’s had called Mother personally.
“I know Father Tobias hasn’t been with you all that long,” Abbot Daniel had said. “I don’t normally like to change assignments this quickly, but I’m asking, as a favor, if you will be willing to accept Father Andrew.”
“Of course,” Mother Theodora had said, “but may I ask why the switch? Father Tobias seems to be a good fit. He has established an easy camaraderie with the community, especially the older ones.”
“It’s not him.” Abbot Daniel’s voice had taken on a cautious tone. “I need to place Andrew somewhere with fewer… temptations.”
Mother had nodded, believing she understood. “Of course.”
When she’d met him, still harboring some misgivings, his cordial demeanor set her at ease. “I hope you don’t mind being the only man among all these women.”
He’d laughed, and she liked the way his eyes crinkled, as if laughter came often and easily to him. “I grew up with five sisters. This will feel like home.”
When he celebrated his first Mass for them, the nuns had been entranced by his beautiful voice, a robust baritone, most welcome after Father Tobias’s wheezy tenor.
His voice rose and fell on key as he celebrated Mass on this morning. The Gospel reading was from John, “No one can come to me unless he is drawn by the Father who sent me, and I will raise him up on the last day. I am the bread of life…”
Bread. Even now, it could bring an unexpected pang to her heart—memories of sleepy mornings spent in the kitchen with Maggie, watching her knead the day’s dough and telling stories—she blinked when the nuns stood, chastising herself for daydreaming.
Four years as abbess, and I’m worse than the postulants.
She went straight to her office after Mass, determined to make a sizeable dent in the pile of letters awaiting her attention. So many from aspirants. Those she could, she passed to Sister Rosaria, the current postulant mistress, but there were some she felt she needed to reply to personally. Other letters from correspondents she’d collected—“it makes them sound like trophies,” she might have said—but she understood better now all the disparate people who had written to Mother Benedicta. Some of these letter writers wanted her counsel, some of them asked for her prayers, and yet others simply enjoyed bantering and exchanging ideas on politics and the news.
But as she bent to her work, the pang from earlier remained, the yearning for some connection with her past. Only they were all gone now: her father, her mother, her brother, Mr. Wasserman. Only Josie, maybe, was still out there somewhere.
Please, she prayed, let her be happy and loved.
Shadows fell across the infirmary as the early spring dusk fell. Mother Theodora scooted a lamp closer and leaned a bit to shine more light on the page she read from. Sister Veronica, her old postulant mistress, was now bedbound, too frail to remain in her cell. Four other old nuns also were here, needing full-time care now.
Sister Veronica’s watery eyes remained fixed on her face as she read aloud. When she got to the end of the chapter, Mother glanced over to find Sister Veronica’s eyes drifting closed.
“Sleep now. We’ll continue the story tomorrow.” She placed her hand on the older nun’s head.
“She so looks forward to your visits,” Sister Mary David said when Mother stood and stretched.
“As do I.” Mother smiled.
“What were you reading?”
“Dean Koontz. He’s her favorite.”
Sister Mary David chuckled. “And here I thought it was something religious.”
“Don’t give us away.”
The old nun in the farthest bed began thrashing around. Sister Mary David’s assistant, Sister Jean, tried to calm her, but the old nun seemed only to grow more agitated.
“Oh, dear.” Sister Mary David hurried over, Mother close on her heels.
“There, there,” Sister Mary David crooned, leaning over the bed. “What is it? What do you need?”
Mother was startled to recognize Sister Beatrice who kept insisting she had to get home. “My mother will be so worried,” she repeated. “I must go home.”
Mother bent down. “You are home, Sister.”
Sister Beatrice’s eyes fixed on her face for a moment, and then her lips curled back as she bared her teeth. “You! You’re the one put me in here. You’re the one who did this to me!”
Quick as a snake, she lashed out, raking her nails over the back of Mother’s hand. Sister Jean lunged to catch her arm and restrain her while Sister Mary David led Mother away.
“Let me disinfect that.” She sat Mother down with her hand resting on the desk. “This will sting.”
She sponged the bloody scratches clean with a gauze pad soaked with hydrogen peroxide. Tears filled Mother Theodora’s eyes, and her hand trembled.
“I’m sorry,” Sister Mary David said. “I know it hurts.”
“No, it’s…” Mother’s eyes fixed on the bed where Sister Jean still murmured to an agitated Sister Beatrice.
“Please don’t mind her,” Sister Mary David said. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
Mother lowered her eyes. “I think she knew exactly what she was saying. To me.”
Sister Mary David slipped a hand underneath Mother’s and cradled it. “Most of them get sweeter as the dementia progresses, but… You can’t fix what’s broken inside her.”
Mother nodded. “You’re right.”
“Pray for her.” Sister Mary David began wrapping Mother’s hand with gauze. “From a distance.”
Cool air combined with a brilliantly blue sky made for an irresistible day for the nuns to get outside. The prior two weeks had seen relentless rain, and the community was feeling the strain, getting snappish with one another.
“Get everybody outside,” Mother Theodora had muttered to the juniors’ mistresses. “Run them to the orchard and back if you have to. Just scrub some energy off.”
She herself felt antsy. Rather than pace the garden sedately, she let herself out through the gate and strode in the direction of the farm. Hearing the gate open and close again behind her, she turned to see Sister Isadore walking in her wake.
“What a beautiful day.”
“It is,” Mother agreed. “I’m sure the flowers and hay love the rain we’ve had, but I’m glad to see some sun.”
They walked to the pastures, where new calves were dropping daily. They bleated, standing on wobbly legs, staying close to their mothers. The nuns leaned on the fence and laughed.
Without realizing it, Mother’s fingers traced the faint pink scars on the back of her hand. Sister Isadore noticed, taking Mother’s hand to inspect it.
“These are healing well.” She met Mother Theodora’s eyes. “They shouldn’t leave a mark.”
“And yet, they will.” Mother pulled her hand away and gazed at it, the shiny pink lines running among the age spots sprinkled liberally across her skin. When did those happen?
“You know,” said Sister Isadore, “whatever poisoned her, did so long ago. Maybe before we entered. But it was already there that day she made you scrub the bathrooms again by yourself. Something about you unleashed it and you became her target. Almost her raison d’être.”
Mother chuckled, but there was no mirth behind it. “What a sad state of affairs, if you’re right.”
“I am, and it is.” Sister Isadore shrugged. “But we’re human. Most of us manage to come to grips with our demons, but this is her cross to bear.” She gave Mother a knowing look. “Not yours.”
From the abbey, the bell rang. Mother tipped her head to the sky with a deep sigh, and they made their way back.
In the Chapel, as the nuns gathered for the short hour of None, the outside door at the far end of the public chapel opened and someone entered. The porter unlocked the door each morning, so that any who might wish to attend Mass could, and they often had one or two people during the week, but rarely anyone for the lesser hours. When None ended and the community left the Chapel to begin the afternoon work period, Mother saw that someone was still sitting in the pews.
She went to the grille, pulling out her keys, and unlocked it to let herself through. The person stood nervously, and Mother saw that it was a woman wearing… are those fishing waders?
She introduced herself, and the woman stammered, “I’m Mickey Stewart.” She took Mother’s hand to shake it. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Not at all,” Mother said, inviting her to sit. “We get many visitors, but I think I can honestly say no one has come to us in fishing waders before.”
When Mother saw her out a short while later, it was with the firm conviction that she would be seeing Mickey Stewart again.