More snow fell from a dull, gray sky that blended with the clouds covering the tops of the distant hills, so that everything looked flat, two-dimensional. Mother Theodora finished an overdue letter to the superior of another convent in Cleveland who was inquiring about booking the retreat house for some members of her community.
She took her glasses off and pushed up from the desk with a slight hitch in her low back. Carrying the letter to the office next door, she said, “Sister Anastasia, would you please check our available dates for—you know, we really need a name for the retreat house. We can’t just keep calling it the retreat house. Anyhow, I’ve written a reply to an inquiry, but she needs a list of open dates.”
“Of course, Mother.” Sister Anastasia held out her hand. “I’ll take care of it today.”
“Thank you. I need to move these old bones. I’m going for a little walk.”
But as she turned, she asked, “Sister, who is celebrating a Jubilee this year?”
Sister Anastasia gawked at her. “Mother?”
“Which sisters are celebrating their Silver and Golden Jubilees this year? I’ve lost track.”
“You are.” Sister Anastasia still looked as if she thought this was perhaps some kind of joke.
“I’m sorry?”
“Let me double-check.” Sister Anastasia rifled through the calendar on her desk. “Yes. Your class is celebrating fifty years this spring. And Sister Gertrude’s class is silver.”
“Thank you.”
Mother Theodora was in somewhat of a daze as she wandered down the corridor. She stepped out the front door to breathe in the cold air. Fifty years? How is that possible? How many of us are there?
She had to stop and think. Eight of us entered the Novitiate and took our simple vows, but, she paused, only five of us stayed to take final vows after the turmoil of Vatican II.
And of those, one had passed away from complications from her diabetes a few years ago. That left her and just three others—Sister Nicola, who had been Sophia; her cousin Maria was now Sister Fabian; and Clara, who had been named Sister Isadore.
“Are you all right, Mother Theodora?” Their caretaker paused his shoveling of the walks.
“I’m fine, Mr. Henderson. Just taking a break. Good day.” She nodded and went back inside.
Everywhere she went, people were busy. The library as she walked by held a handful of nuns who were working on scholarly projects, mostly articles for possible publication in religious or social justice periodicals. She knew the kitchen workers were busy this time of the afternoon. In season, the nuns also made peach and apple butter, put up peach preserves, sold the abbey’s apples. Another craft room, not nearly as elite as the vestment room, created hand-lettered prayer cards, mostly to include in the numerous letters they wrote to those requesting prayers, some to send to aspirants, some to sell. Quietly industrious. Every little bit of income helped. Mother and the Council had been adamant that Lauren’s gift not be used for day-to-day expenses—“we must continue to live within our means or do without,” Sister Scholastica had insisted. “Otherwise, why take a vow of poverty?”
Echoing from an upstairs corridor, Mother recognized Sister Fiona’s Irish lilt as she supervised the juniors, probably cleaning something. She smiled at the continuity, these juniors doing what hundreds had done before them. But her smile faded.
She went to the Chapel, intending to go to her old stall, but small noises caught her attention. She found Sister Isadore in the sacristy, wearing a work apron and gloves, cleaning the silver chalices and plates and candlesticks. She nearly dropped one of the heavy candlesticks when Mother stepped inside.
“You startled me.” Sister Isadore collapsed onto a chair, clutching her heart.
“Sorry.”
When Sister Isadore recovered from her fright and stood again, Mother waved her back down and pulled out another chair at the table.
“Is everything all right, Mother?”
“Do you ever think about our days as juniors?” Mother Theodora searched her old friend’s face and, yes, I can still see Clara there.
Sister Isadore pushed the silver aside and tugged off her gloves. “What’s wrong, Patricia?”
Mother Theodora closed her eyes for a moment. “Patricia. Sometimes I long to just be Pip again.”
“Even if it means having Sister Beatrice breathing down your neck?”
A snort burst from Mother Theodora, just as quickly followed by a catch as she tried to pull back the tears that threatened. Sister Isadore reached for her hand.
“What is it?”
Mother shook her head, but clung to her friend’s hand. “Nothing. And everything. Fifty years. How can it be fifty years?”
Sister Isadore smiled. “I know. I was thinking about it at Christmas, what it’ll be like this Easter, when the new ones are Clothed or take their vows, when everything is so shiny and new, when for us, it’s…”
“Rusty and dented?”
“I was going to say worn and broken-in and comfortable.” Sister Isadore gazed at her in a way that made Mother blush in shame. “It’s not only the fifty years, is it?”
Mother didn’t answer, but lowered her eyes to stare at their hands.
“Have you ever—” Sister Isadore hesitated. “Have any of them ever contacted you since?”
Mother gave a tight shake of her head.
“What about…” In that slight pause, Mother felt the delicacy of the question. “Have you ever heard from Jacqueline?”
There was no need to reply. Whatever was reflected on Mother’s face was all the answer Sister Isadore needed.
“I’m so sorry, Patricia.”
“Duty. Sometimes I hate that word.”
“And yet, it demands something of us. Sometimes, it demands all. And you have answered that call.”
“Have I? Does it count if it wasn’t always done cheerfully or willingly?”
An awkward silence filled the space between them.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.”
Sister Isadore stood, pulling Mother up with her. “Mother Theodora, you are my abbess and my friend. You know you can come to me any time.”
Squaring her shoulders, Mother forced a smile. “Thank you, Sister.”
Gazing out at the six inches of fresh snow between the kitchen and the workshop, Lauren debated how badly she wanted to wade through it. Sometimes, she wished the garage had been attached to the house.
“And how spoiled am I?” she asked, sliding out of her slippers and shoving her feet into her boots.
Kyrie gave her a small meow.
“Thank you for agreeing. You coming?” She tugged a knitted hat over her hair and zipped her jacket.
Kyrie turned her back to sit and clean her whiskers.
“Fine. You’re no help anyway.”
She used the shovel leaning against the wall outside the kitchen door to clear a path for herself. She debated cleaning off the SUV, wondering if an extra bay on the garage to actually put the car in wouldn’t be a bad idea. Might be something to talk to Jamie about, since he’d hired the contractor who’d remodeled this house for Mickey.
She spent the next few hours working on her current project while it continued to snow. When she broke for lunch, she had to shovel again on her way back to the house. Toeing off her boots, she found herself listening for a moment before remembering there was no one else in the house to listen for.
“Don’t be foolish.”
It was alarming how easily she’d come to anticipate Gail’s presence over those few weeks. In the months following Mickey’s death, the quiet had been difficult. That was when she’d started listening to music through much of the day. Even in the abbey, a place mostly dedicated to silence and prayer, there was nearly always a hum of activity underneath everything else—quiet footsteps, the swish of fabric as people moved about, low voices, doors opening or closing—she likened it to the hum of a beehive, the heartbeat of a building housing eighty-odd women. But here, unless she was making noise, it was absolutely quiet. She’d learned to be perfectly fine on her own, seeing Jennifer and Jamie and the children often, but always able to come back here, to her quiet place.
“And then I had to go and invite someone else in.”
She stood at the kitchen counter, where Gail’s number was written on a pad beside the telephone. Though they’d discussed the possibility of continuing to talk distantly, Gail hadn’t been certain what the demands on her schedule would be when she got back.
Just as she turned toward the refrigerator to get a glass of water, the phone rang, startling her. She picked up.
“Hello?”
“Lauren? Are you okay?”
“Jennifer, hi. Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“You just don’t usually answer so quickly. In fact, I expected to have to leave a message.”
“No, I just happened to be near the phone.” Lauren frowned. “Are you all right?”
Jennifer didn’t answer immediately.
“Jenn? Is it the kids?”
“No. The kids are fine. We’re all—”
Lauren sat down, listening hard as Jennifer’s voice hitched. “What’s wrong?”
“Jamie. Has he… has he talked to you?”
“Not since I did the weaving class for his high school students a couple of weeks ago. What is it?”
“I’m probably just being hormonal, but… the last few weeks, he’s been going out to the barn on the weekends. I hardly see him during the week. I’m kind of a single parent when he’s at work, and now, he spends hours out there…”
“Oh.”
“You know something.”
“No.” Lauren went to the cupboard to get a glass and reached for the pitcher in the refrigerator. “It’s just something he said made me wonder if he wasn’t feeling…”
“What? Feeling what?”
Lauren stalled by taking a drink. “Jennifer, I am not taking sides here at all. I just know, if I couldn’t create, I would go crazy. It’s as essential to me as breathing. Jamie wants to take care of you, all of you, but I think he needs time to sculpt, too. I don’t know how you find a compromise there.”
Jennifer was quiet for a long time. “He gave up a lot to take this job.”
“He loves his family.” Hoping she wasn’t overstepping her boundaries, Lauren said, “You two need to talk.”
“I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. How’s Gail?”
Lauren hesitated at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m not sure. We haven’t spoken since she went back to Binghamton.”
“It was nice of you to invite her to stay with you.”
“She was easy to have around.”
“Will you be spending more time with her?”
Lauren was glad Jennifer couldn’t see the blush she felt warming her cheeks. “Very subtle. I don’t know. I’m sure she’ll be swamped now that she’s back at work.”
“Maybe being swamped was what led her to you in the first place.”
Gail looked over the list of parishioners who were in the hospital. “Habte, I’ll do these visits if you can go see the Hamiltons. Hospice has been called, and Scott administered Last Rites when he went out a few days ago. I don’t think he has long.”
“Oh, but—” Their deacon looked up from her desk. “I thought maybe… never mind.”
“What?” Gail paused with her hand halfway through her coat sleeve. She withdrew it and tossed the jacket over the back of her chair. Perching on the edge of the desk, she waited.
“It’s just that… the Hamiltons have never really taken to me.”
“That is ridiculous. Sorry,” Gail added immediately when she saw the expression on Habte’s face. “Not ridiculous that you said it. Ridiculous that they feel that way. Why?”
Habte rolled her eyes. “Why do you think?”
“You were born in Elmira. You’re as American as they are.”
“I’m also browner than they are. Them and you and just about everyone in Binghamton. I may be Egyptian, but to some of them, I look like those terrorists so I might be one. And they don’t want me in their homes.”
“It pisses me off to let them get away with it. Maybe on his deathbed, he’d feel differently.”
Habte gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Or maybe the sight of my face would finish the job.”
Gail laughed and choked it back, but she handed the list to Habte. “Okay. You do the hospital visits. I’ll go see if I can change Mr. Hamilton’s mind before he meets his maker.”
“Good luck with that.”
Gail shrugged into her jacket while Habte laced up her boots. “Thanks again for covering for me. You and Scott carried all the load over the holidays. I’m glad he got away for a few days. Your turn next. I owe you both big-time.”
“You know that’s not how this works.” Habte glanced at her. “You seem… better than you were.”
“I am, I guess.” Gail tossed a scarf around her neck, tucking it inside the collar of her jacket.
“Tell me more about this retreat center.” Habte tugged on a wool hat and heavy ski gloves.
Gail held the door for her. “It’s beautiful. Belongs to a cloistered monastery, so they don’t direct the retreats. I didn’t realize that, but lucked out with someone they knew. Most people who use it guide their own.”
“Is this something we want to think about for the youth group?”
“Maybe.” Gail’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of having an excuse to go back. “We’ll talk to Scott when he gets back.”
Habte shivered.
Gail noticed. “You’re dressed up for an Arctic expedition. How can you be cold?”
“I might have been born in Elmira, but my people were desert-dwellers. My blood runs thin.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. I noticed you were wearing sweaters in September. Do we need to get you on iron pills?”
“That’ll just cause other problems. This I can solve with extra clothes. And heated seats in my car.” Habte ran her hand lovingly over her car’s roof. “I will never, ever again have a car that doesn’t have heated seats.”
Gail laughed. “Start your car and your heated seats. See you later.”
Habte waved as she pulled away. Gail took her time driving to the Hamilton house, feeling less than charitable toward them after what she’d just learned. “Please help me to see the good.”
She’d been asking for a lot of this kind of help since her return. Dealing with people constantly needing something from her used to be her favorite part of this job—she nearly drove off the road as that thought struck her.
“When did this become a job?” she asked, staring into her own eyes in the rearview mirror.
It used to be so much more. A calling, a true vocation she’d dedicated her life to. And now… it wasn’t.
“What does that mean?”
But there were no answers.
She drove on, visited with Mr. Hamilton and his distraught wife, tried to console them, prayed with them, and left when the hospice nurse arrived to check on him, feeling she was a complete fraud.
At a red light, she debated returning to the church office—there was always more there that needed doing—but she opted to head home.
Home.
Funny how, ever since she got back, this house didn’t really feel like home. There was no warmth. No pets. No love.
That’s the difference, Gail thought as she parked the car in the garage and let herself in. Lauren’s house had been built—or at least remodeled—with love. As simple and unadorned as Lauren’s lifestyle was, the love that she and Mickey had shared filled it. The same love of family that Lauren now enjoyed with Jamie and Jennifer and their children.
Gail stood in her kitchen. Her spotless, efficient, cold kitchen.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, Gail had shared a home—a loving home—with a woman. But when she and Terrilynn had separated after eighteen years together, she’d accepted this position with St. Philip’s and bought this house simply because she needed a place that was close to work. It was comfortable. A nice study for an office, plenty of space for a single woman. Except, as she looked around now, there was nothing of her. Nothing that made it feel like a home. Nothing that reflected anything of her. And maybe, she realized, that had all been by unintentional design.
Six years without a partner, without sex. As a priest, she couldn’t condone casual sex. That intimacy meant too much to her. At least, that had been her excuse for not dating all those years. The strangest part was that she hadn’t missed it, but hot flashes and turning fifty might have something to do with that, added a cynical voice.
She went to her room to change out of her clerical clothes, and caught her reflection in the mirror. She’d never been svelte, always more solid, kind of a fireplug. What would Lauren see in this?
Tugging on the same jeans and sweater she’d worn yesterday, she pondered what would make this place feel homier. “Maybe I should get a cat. Or a dog.”
She put the kettle on to heat some water, but that little ritual only made her think about Lauren again. While she waited, she retrieved her phone from where it sat on the table in the foyer. Flipping though her contacts, she brought up Lauren’s number. Three times, she started to press the number, only to set the phone down and pace around the kitchen. When the kettle started to whistle, she busied herself making a large mug of chai tea, the same kind they’d shared during her retreat.
Settling into a comfy armchair in her family room, she ran out of excuses. She pushed the button and waited. Three rings, four… just as she was getting ready to hang up, Lauren answered a little breathlessly.
“Hello?”
“Is this a bad time?”
Lauren hesitated. “Gail? No, this is fine. I was just coming in from the grocery store. How are you?”
“I’m okay. You?”
Gail heard the thump of something falling and then, “Kyrie, get out of that bag.”
“Sorry. She knocked one of the bags over so she could crawl inside.”
“Of course she did. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call.”
“No need to apologize. I figured you’d be busy.”
More sounds came through the phone—rustling and the refrigerator opening and closing. “You’re busy,” Gail said. “We can talk later.”
“No. I’ve got the eggs and milk put away. All the rest can wait.” There was a pause and the scrape of a chair being pulled out. “So how are you really?”
Gail smiled, picturing Lauren sitting at the kitchen table, because that’s as far as the cord on her phone would reach. “Back at it. I’d forgotten. Forgotten that there’s rarely a minute that someone doesn’t need something. Just today, sick visits to a hospital, and likely a last visit to someone in hospice. Luckily, our deacon helped out with those, but there will be a funeral soon. Next month, a charity event they need help with, and then the parish’s annual chili cook-off that I either have to make a vatful of chili for or judge.”
“Hard to make time for yourself in the midst of all that.”
“It’s a life of service. Probably not all that different from the demands you had when you were at St. Bridget’s.”
“I suppose. But you’re not going to be of much service to anyone if you burn yourself out.”
Gail stalled by sipping her tea, though it was hard to swallow past the tightness in her throat. “I think,” she said at last, “I might already be nothing but ashes.”
“Or maybe embers,” Lauren offered. “Burned low, but still glowing. Ready to burn again with enough fuel and oxygen.”
Wishing more than anything that she was with Lauren, watching the thoughts flitting behind her eyes as they spoke, her beautiful hands as she gestured, Gail was suddenly grateful there was more than two hours between them, or she’d have been tempted to jump back in the car. “You’re really good at the glass-half-full thing.”
“Gail…”
Gail closed her eyes and knew. Knew more than anything else in this world, she wanted to hear Lauren’s voice saying her name every day for the rest of her life. “I have to go.”
“But—”
“I’ll call you soon.”
Before she could say something she’d regret, Gail hung up. Staring at the phone in her hand, she cursed herself for calling. For ever going to St. Bridget’s in the first place.