Dora wakes to the sound of bells and sunlight flooding through the white curtains. She feels groggy and bloated—she’s overslept. It must be late. She’s embarrassed, even though at first she can’t remember where she is. But soon images take shape, arrange themselves into a memory: last night, one of the sisters making up a bed for her, though Dora can’t recall any arrangements being made, any discussions had about where she would stay or for how long. She doesn’t even know when she left that perfect garden. She does remember being desperate to stop thinking, stop feeling, and then quickly swallowing a sleeping pill from the bottle in her purse while Sister Medeiros pulled back the blanket and sheets at a perfect angle and laid out a clean, white nightgown for her. Dora had to resist the impulse to ask her to stay and tuck her in. She thought then of her years at Catholic school, how comforting the routine had been, bells ringing out, rationing the day. It startled her how grateful she was, almost thirty years later, to again feel voided of autonomy, guided by a reassuring pattern of actions and rituals.
‘There is always a sister available for counsel if you should need it,’ the sister said, taking her hand. ‘Day or night.’ Her palm was dry and warm, and Dora held it up to her cheek for a moment while the woman kindly said nothing.
‘Luiza.’ It comes out of her mouth before she’s even formed the thought in her head, before she has time to remember that she didn’t find her. Then something cold floods her spine, her stomach. Now, she tells herself, let go. Collect the girls, discharge Hugo, embrace the maids, Bechelli, even Georges. Say goodbye. But how will she get back home? She sits immobilized on the bed and waits for someone to come and show her where to go next.
And soon someone does come. There is a gentle knock at the door and Sister Medeiros pokes her head in, speaking softly. ‘Senhora? Could you please come with me?’
‘Sim, sim. I’m coming.’
The sister waits outside as Dora rises and dresses quickly, too relieved to have something to do to ask why.
Fifteen minutes later, Dora sits on a lacquered pew, alone now, late-morning light spilling in through the chapel’s stained glass windows. Despite the bright rays of light, she feels herself slipping away again. The sleeping pills have made her fuzzy, unable to keep her eyes open. There is something damp around her mouth. Drool. Wipe it away. Then a shape. Female. Blood orange sun behind her, multicoloured spots going by like tiny comets. They shrink as Dora’s eyes adjust to the brightness, but the shape is still there, faceless, the filtered light a corona behind it. She will be our angel.
The last one had the right hair but the wrong face. This one has the wrong hair but the right face.
This one says, ‘Hello, Mother.’
Dora doesn’t shout or cry. She just reaches out to touch Luiza’s face, to make sure it’s real. But the touch doesn’t reassure her, because her hand doesn’t feel like it belongs to her body. They sit like this in the chapel for several minutes, her daughter’s hand lying over her own, still cupping her cheek, until Luiza begins to shift uncomfortably.
‘I don’t think I can explain it all now, but I promise I will.’ Luiza gently slides a thumb under her mother’s eye, wiping away tears Dora hadn’t known she was crying. ‘Will you come with me to Midday Prayers?’
Now Dora is in another room, full of people. She is shivering, being touched, Luiza’s warm hands on her upper arms, guiding her. Now she is being manoeuvred into another hard, shiny pew, as Luiza takes her place at the front of the room with the other sisters, facing Dora. Now they are singing, Luiza’s mouth a perfect, untrembling O.
I will praise you Lord… I will wake the dawn.
Psalms fill the chapel and Dora feels something knotted inside her loosen. Watching Luiza sing, standing perfectly still, not even looking at her, Dora has trouble breathing and has to close her eyes and focus on the singing until she can hear her own thoughts again. She has everything she wanted now, she tells herself, everything she needs. She has her daughter back.