With the passing of summer to autumn, Pip’s postulant year was nearly half over. She and the other postulants had been pulled from their prior work and assigned to do a top to bottom cleaning of the abbey.
“I had no idea this place was so big,” Clara grumbled after their third day of scrubbing, today the floors of the corridors in the wing where the nuns’ cells were located.
“We’ll be assigned to one of these in the spring,” Maria said, peering into the open door of an empty cell.
Furnished only with an iron-framed bed, a wardrobe, and a desk, the cells could hardly be called luxurious, but Pip was looking forward very much to being assigned to one and leaving the dormitory for good.
After another day spent cleaning the four bathrooms added after the First World War for the nuns’ use, the postulants were more than ready to move on to scrubbing the stairs.
“These get much use,” said Sister Roberta, a gnome-like nun whose bad knees creaked as she walked, forcing her to waddle with each step.
“Like the bathrooms don’t?” Maria whispered.
That caused a ripple of snorts among the postulants that had Sister Roberta frowning at them. She pointed to the first set of stairs.
“Two of you take these. They’ll need a good bit of elbow grease, so—”
“Not so fast.”
They all turned around to see another nun bearing down upon them.
“What do you mean, Sister Beatrice?” asked Sister Roberta.
“Did you inspect the bathrooms?” Sister Beatrice glowered at the postulants. “They’re not nearly up to our standards.”
Sister Roberta’s face reddened, as she herself had lowered onto her achy knees to check everything. “But, I—”
“You.” Sister Beatrice pointed at Pip. “Come with me.”
Pip opened her mouth to argue, but Clara gave her a little nudge and a shake of her head. Feeling apprehensive, Pip followed Sister Beatrice back to one of the bathrooms.
“These tubs are not nearly clean enough.”
“But Sister, we scrubbed each tub three times!”
Sister Beatrice merely glared at her. “When you are done cleaning them properly, you can do the toilets. They’re disgusting.”
Incensed, Pip clamped her jaw shut to hold back all the curse words that leapt to her tongue.
“I’ll be back in two hours to see what you’ve accomplished.”
Pip waited until the click of Sister Beatrice’s footsteps faded away before she began muttering under her breath non-stop as she filled yet another bucket of soapy water and got back down on her sore knees.
“At this rate, my knees will end up as bad as Sister Roberta’s,” she grumbled.
Other than the rough patches in the tubs’ worn porcelain, the bathtubs were as clean as they could be. She doubled down on her pressure, determined that Sister Beatrice would find nothing to complain about when she returned. The toilets, likewise, were spotless. Even the grout around the bases gleamed white. Except for a few places where the grout had chipped away, she could see nothing more that needed to be cleaned.
She was in the last bathroom when Sister Beatrice banged open the door to inspect her work. Jumping to her feet, Pip suppressed a groan as she stood.
Rather than inspecting the bathroom, Sister Beatrice glared at Pip, who realized with some dismay that her veil had slipped almost off the back of her head, leaving her hair falling in untidy tendrils around her face. Hurriedly, she straightened her veil, trying to tuck her hair under it.
Sister Beatrice ran a finger along the tub and then stepped into one of the toilet stalls—“She was looking so hard for something to complain about, I thought she was going to put her nose on the toilet seat,” Pip told the others later—before nodding.
“Very well,” Sister Beatrice said. “This is satisfactory.”
Pip bent down to pick up her bucket and scrub brush.
“But,” Sister Beatrice added, “let this be a lesson in humility.”
Pip lowered her eyes, but not before she saw the challenge in Sister Beatrice’s. “Yes, Sister.”
She felt Sister Beatrice’s gaze following her over the next few weeks, as she and the other postulants moved from the stairs to the main floor entry and corridors to the infirmary to the library, where Sister Ruth’s cousin, Sister Xavier, had them dusting all the books and shelves. Even there, Sister Beatrice seemed to pop up.
The only place they weren’t allowed to clean was the vestment room.
“What’s so special about that place?” Maria wondered during Recreation one afternoon.
The postulants huddled together at the far end of the enclosure, as far away from the nuns as they could get.
“I heard they have all kinds of delicate fabrics—silks and linens and things—that we might damage,” Clara said. “Sister Alban said she was allowed in there only once. It’s huge, with looms and things everywhere. Only specially trained nuns work there, she said.”
With the cleaning of the Chapel, which necessitated a few of the more intrepid ones climbing tall ladders to dust sconces and clean the stained-glass windows, their scouring of the abbey was complete.
As soon as they were done, Sister Veronica gathered them. “Advent is coming in just a few weeks. You, along with the novices, will be presenting a Yuletide play for the community.”
While most of the juniors were excited about this project, Pip cringed. She and Josie had loved putting on little plays for the family, but that was different. Pip dreaded being in front of the community, calling more attention to herself. She kept volunteering for all of the off-stage jobs—“I’ll move the scenery and operate the curtain.”
What she was excited about was the pending invitation to their families to visit for Christmas. She’d never been apart from her family for more than a weekend, and she missed everyone more than she would have believed. She kept all their letters, rereading them at every opportunity. Even Maggie and Felicia wrote to her. The only one who didn’t was Garrett. Trying to read between the lines of what the rest of her family wrote, Pip figured he was not happy about becoming the de facto head of the company. Her father, it seemed, was still not back to full health. She prayed daily for all of them, but no matter what she thought she’d gleaned from their letters, she was not prepared for the sight of her father’s wasted, gray face through the bars of the grille on Christmas morning.
As soon as the Mass was completed, the families were shown to the visitors’ parlours. With ten postulants and only four parlours, they had to share space. Maria and Sophia, of course, had their large Italian family crowded into one of the parlours, jabbering in an excited mix of Italian and English. Pip shared a parlour with Clara, who only had her parents and one brother, and another of the postulants, Daphne, who only had her parents.
“Dieu,” Marie said, looking at the plain furnishings in the room. “Could they not afford better furniture?”
“They’re vowed to poverty, Mom.” Pip glanced over, embarrassed, but the others were busy talking to their families. “Fashionable furniture is not a priority.”
“Fashionable?” Marie scoffed. “What about comfortable, uh?”
Before her mother could go on, Pip took Patrick’s hand. “Dad, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Pip.” He placed his other hand over top of hers. “How about you? Are you happy here?”
His worried eyes searched hers as she pasted on a big smile. “I’m good. Tell me what’s happening with the mill and the bakery.”
He waved a hand. “It’s taking off. Just as you said it would.”
“Almost every market in New York carries our bread now,” Josie said, squirming closer.
“And Garrett? How’s he doing?”
Pip couldn’t help but notice how her father glanced away.
“Your brother is doing ’is duty,” Marie put in. As you should be, went unspoken, but Pip heard the accusation nonetheless.
“Tell me about school,” Pip said to Josie, eager for any conversation that didn’t provoke an argument.
When she had to say good-bye to them an hour later, she fought back tears. Hugging her father, she realized how much his suit hid. He was skin and bones. He held her tightly.
“Love you, Pip.”
“I love you all.” She embraced her mother and Josie and walked them to the door.
She wasn’t the only one on the verge of tears. All of the other postulants were wiping their eyes as they waved good-bye to their families. Maria and Sophia’s boisterous family were the last to leave.
“They drive me nuts,” said Maria with a sniff, “but I miss them like crazy.”
“They’ll be back in the spring for our Clothing.” Sophia slung her arm around her cousin. “This was the last time we’ll see them as us. Next time, we’ll be in habits with new names.”
If the postulants thought that nearing the end of their postulant year would bring a respite, they were wrong.
“Before you move to the Novitiate,” said Sister Veronica on the day they were to move out of the dormitory, “you will all do a seven-day silent retreat.” The novices had told them about the retreat, so this wasn’t a surprise. “You’ll move to your cells today, so that you will have more privacy and quiet for your prayer. You’ll meet with your spiritual advisor each day. At the end of your retreat, you will decide whether you wish to continue, and we will decide whether you are worthy.”
At their alarmed expressions, she added, “The community will vote on accepting you into the Novitiate. If you receive more than ten percent negative votes, you will be asked to leave. You’ll go through the voting process again at the end of the Novitiate, before you take your simple vows.”
Her gaze moved from one to another, and Pip had the feeling she already knew who wouldn’t pass muster.
“There is no shame in choosing to leave or being asked to leave. Contemplative life is not for everyone. There may be other orders, active orders, for which some of you might be better suited. Others of you may be called to be wives and mothers. All of these are worthy ways to serve Our Lord.”
Pip’s heart sank. She’s talking to me. I know she is.
When it was time to pack up their bags or trunks to move them to cells, Pip almost asked Clara to help her carry hers to the foyer.
“Well, that was cheerful,” Sophia chirped when Sister Veronica left them.
“I was talking to the novices about this,” Clara said. “They said there’s always a few who decide to leave, but they said the community hardly ever votes someone out.”
Pip felt only slightly better as she hung her few articles of clothing in the wardrobe in her cell and tucked her letters in her desk drawer. But the reprieve lasted all of a few hours. When Sister Veronica met with all of them during Lectio Divina that evening, rather than helping them mark their books as she normally did, she had a list in her hands.
“From tomorrow, for the next week, you will not participate in the Office. You may listen to it, but you are to be silent at all times other than your daily meeting with your advisor.”
She read out the name of each postulant and paired her with a spiritual advisor. “Patricia, you will be with Sister Beatrice.”
For a moment, Pip was certain she hadn’t heard correctly. “I’m sorry, Sister,” she interrupted as Sister Veronica moved on to the others, “did you say Sister Beatrice?”
“I did.”
“But…”
Sister Veronica huffed impatiently. “Yes, Patricia?”
“Are you sure? I mean…” Pip’s heart was in the vicinity of her stomach. “Who decides who gets which advisor?”
Sister Veronica folded her hands. “Is there a problem?”
Yes, there’s a bloody problem! She hates me! Only Pip couldn’t say that aloud. She shook her head. “No, Sister.”
It’s only seven days. You can survive anything for seven days.
Instead of praying most days, those words had become Pip’s mantra, the thing she clung to, like a life preserver in a storm.
But maybe retreats are all supposed to be like this, she thought, watching Clara storm through the garden in tears one morning.
They saw one another at meals, taking theirs in a small room off the refectory, avoiding eye contact for the most part. Each had a designated place and time to meet with her spiritual advisor. Pip’s with Sister Beatrice was every morning at nine, normally the start of the morning work period, in an empty office off the main corridor that ran along the abbey’s length. The round office at the end of the corridor was the abbess’s, directly underneath the dormitory Pip and the other postulants had just vacated. She’d rarely spent any time in this part of the abbey, except when she was helping to clean it.
On the fourth morning of her retreat, she arrived first, carrying the notebook where she’d been jotting the Scripture readings she’d been given to pray with, along with her thoughts, her insights.
Glancing through the things she’d written, she felt like a fraud. They were full of bland, meaningless drivel that Sister Beatrice, nevertheless, seemed to approve. Pip couldn’t help feeling she was being cheated out of a more meaningful experience, if only she’d been assigned someone she could be honest with. No matter that Sister Beatrice had assured her that anything they discussed was confidential, Pip couldn’t bring herself to trust her.
She stood when Sister Beatrice arrived carrying a small book rather than her Bible.
They spent a few minutes discussing the readings from the day before—“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why the prodigal son deserved everything the father wanted to give him after the dutiful son had stayed and done what he was supposed to”—but even as she said it, Pip wondered if that was how Garrett felt about her.
“Patricia,” Sister Beatrice said, “have you ever prayed with The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius?”
Pip shook her head. “I know he founded the Jesuits, but I’ve never heard of these.”
Sister Beatrice thumbed through the pages of the booklet. “I thought not. This is an old copy I found in the library. I want you to use it. I’ve marked several passages with numbered bits of paper. You will use these to pray with for the remainder of your retreat.”
Pip accepted the small book from her. “Yes, Sister.”
It was a warm if blustery day outside, and most of the other postulants were pacing the garden enclosure and praying. Pip let herself through the enclosure gate and made her way up the hill to the abbey’s cemetery. There, she sat on a bench under the speckled shade of an oak tree not yet in leaf. The pages of the little book were yellowed and so well-worn they were almost cloth-like. Scribbled in pencil inside the front cover was a faded inscription, To our dearest Evelyn, love Mama & Papa.
She wondered which sister here now had been Evelyn. A playful gust fluttered the pages as she flipped to her first assigned reading, a meditation on sin. As were all the other marked pages. It seemed there was a lot of sin to meditate on. An hour later, thoroughly depressed, she made her way down the hill, seriously doubting her worthiness to be part of this community.
So great was her distress that she nearly pulled Clara aside to talk to her—great, then I’ll add to my sins and drag her along with me, she thought morosely.
From the Chapel, she heard the nuns singing the hour of Sext, the final hour of the morning before they gathered for lunch and then Recreation.
She briefly considered joining the others to eat, but she was certain they’d all see how unfit she was to stay among them, to move on to the Novitiate. Instead, she went to her cell and lay down upon her bed, wishing there were someone she could talk to. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright.
“I’m such an idiot.” She made a mental note to add whispering to her ever-growing list of sins to contemplate and hurried to the Chapel, to her stall. If I can’t talk to God, here of all places, then what in the world am I doing here? But praying had never felt like a conversation. Could it be that simple?
Closing her eyes, she listened to the hush, noticing the lingering scents of incense and lemon wax used to polish the wooden stalls. Dear God, can you hear me? Of course you can hear me. Sorry. I’ve never…
She dropped her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking with her sobs. Am I just fooling myself? Is this really where you want me?
She lost track of time as she knelt, her mind wandering aimlessly. Vaguely aware of the soft rustle of fabric, her nostrils twitched at a different scent. Her eyes fluttered open and she turned to see a small nosegay of white snowdrops on the seat behind her. She hurriedly glanced around, but saw only a black skirt disappearing around the corner. Under the flowers was a small slip of paper.
We’re praying for you.
Her eyes filled again, but she pressed the snowdrops to her heart.
Fortified by that small act of kindness, Pip felt stronger, better prepared to meet with Sister Beatrice the next day, though she remained vague as they discussed her meditations on sin. Any confessing she did would be done to Father William, not to Sister Beatrice. She knew she was being… “uncharitable,” the nuns would have said, but “honest,” Pip would have said.
If Sister Beatrice suspected Pip was holding back, she didn’t say so. Instead, she held out her hand. “May I have your copy of The Spiritual Exercises?”
Pip handed it over, and Sister Beatrice flipped through the pages, slipping a new scrap of paper into position.
“I want you to pray with this meditation now.” She handed the book back, an almost challenging expression on her face.
“It pains me to say it, but it seems to me, Patricia, that you are entirely too willful, too prideful, lacking in humility.” Sister Beatrice folded her hands. “When you can offer this prayer in all sincerity, then you will be worthy.”
Stung, Pip bit back the retort that immediately jumped to her tongue—“does that not prove my point?” she knew Sister Beatrice would say. She simply took the book from her and left.
A chill rain pattered against the windows in a steady rhythm. She chose to return to her cell to see what the new passage was.
Slipping her shoes off, she propped the pillow against the headboard and sat back, staring at the book as if it might bite. At last, she opened the book to the marked page but paused, laying her hand over the page.
“Please,” she whispered, “open me to whatever it is you want me to know.”
She took a deep breath and read,
Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will—all that I have and possess. Thou gavest it to me, to Thee, Lord, I return it! All is Thine, dispose of it according to all Thy will. Give me Thy love and grace, for this is enough for me.
Her eyes read the words over and over, and she knew the truth, felt the truth, deep in her heart. “She’s right.” Her throat tightened. “I’ll never be able to say this prayer and mean it. I’ll never be worthy.”