Journal Entry, August 25, 1940:
Over the next two days, I try my best to avoid being alone with Mac. But on the night before Sister Ruth Paul and I are to return to the convent, as the conversation turns toward the topic of war, I slip out of the kitchen. I am halfway up the stairs when I hear Mac whisper my name. My given name.
I should keep going, pretend I don’t hear him, but something stops me. He meets me halfway up the stairs and, though he stands a respectable distance away, I can feel his breath on my face. I tremble, lightly at first, and before I know it I’m shaking so badly I am sure my knees will buckle.
I close my eyes and pray for strength. When I open them, his sky-blue eyes—now dark and intense—bore into mine. I think he might kiss me, and I’m not sure I have the strength to stop him if he does.
“You can’t...please don’t...I don’t want—”
“I know you’re leaving tomorrow,” he murmurs. “I wanted to say goodbye.”
His breath is a caress, warm and sweet.
Closing my eyes, I melt into the wall behind me. “Okay then,” I whisper. “Goodbye.” When I open them, he is smiling. And, oh my heaven, is he beautiful.
Lord, have mercy.
“Can I write to you?” he asks.
“Our mail is censored.” I am still pressed firmly against the wall, thankful that the hallway is dark so he can’t see that my cheeks are surely about to erupt into flames at any moment. “I mean...not that you...just so you know.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll have to mind my manners when I write.”
“Okay. Goodnight then.” I turn on my heels and dash up the stairs as fast as I can. I don’t dare glance back before closing the door behind me.
Once tucked into the safety of my room, I kneel and pray with more fervor than I ever have. This is surely a test of my vows, and I am failing miserably. I pray for strength. I pray for forgiveness. And I pray I will never lay eyes on Mac again.
After renewing my vows at the Motherhouse in Adrian, Michigan—I do this every August—I return to the safety and security of my tiny room at the convent in Joliet, Illinois where I’ve been living for three years now. Soon I will return to my teaching job at St. John’s.
As I kneel before my bed on my first night back, a sense of calm—missing since the moment I met my brother’s friend—returns to me, embraces me like a warm shawl. And I have no intention of ever removing it.
School’s been back in session for a month now. Seeing the children’s bright faces and hearing their sweet laughter reminds me of all that is important in my life. Of why I chose this life. But each night, when I turn out the light, I still see Mac’s face, feel his breath on my neck. My prayers—fervent though they’ve been—have not vanquished him from my mind.
My legs tremble as I shuffle down the long corridor to Mother’s office after being summoned. As I wait for the matronly nun to arrive, a cold, clammy sweat consumes me. Beads of perspiration dot my forehead and I dab at them with the back of my hand.
Mother Leonard bustles into the reverently furnished office. Her skirt billows out behind her as she greets me. Our eyes meet for a long moment. It is all I can do to not look away.
“Sister Marie Francis,” the old woman with the slightly weathered face says at last, “it has been brought to my attention that since you returned from Michigan, you’ve been distant and distracted. What’s bothering you, my dear? Is it something I can help with?”
I close my eyes and summon a deep breath. “No, it’s nothing,” I say. I want to believe it’s true. That one night very soon I’ll close my eyes and no longer see Mac’s face.
“I’ve known you for three years, Sister Marie Francis. You’ve always been focused—a little too much so, perhaps—but if you don’t wish to talk about it—”
“It’s my brother,” I say. “He’s going off to war soon. My parents—all of us—are worried for him.” I speak the truth, but not the complete truth, which means I have lied. I look at Mother, and hope I’ve given her enough so I can go and repent for this new sin in the privacy of my own room.
“I see,” Mother says. “Well, I can certainly understand that. We shall all keep young Francis in our prayers. You as well, my dear.” The woman whom I’ve grown very fond of studies me, as though she senses there’s more, but then she stands and dismisses me.
By Thanksgiving, I’ve received more than a dozen letters from Mac. I toss each unopened letter on top of the one before it in the bottom desk drawer. I know better than to read them. Know that with each word I’d hear his rich baritone voice, and I couldn’t bear it. I am only just beginning to get over him.
By Christmas, I’m back to my old self. I no longer see his face at night, and though his letters continue to arrive—at least once weekly—the spell has mercifully been broken. I have finally gotten Roger MacKenzie out of my system.
Journal Entry, March 9, 1941:
Spring arrived earlier than normal this year. By the first of March, the balmy weather has tricked the trees into early bloom. The soft petal-pink blossoms of the cherry trees that line the street behind the convent bring renewed faith in my vows.
Mac’s letters have stopped coming and I have chalked last summer’s visit up to a test of my faith, pleased that I have passed. When I think about Mac now, I think of him in a sisterly way. I hope he is well, and safe, and happy.
On the second Saturday in March, I am sitting on a bench under a sprawling oak tree grading papers when the wind picks up. A shadow is cast upon the lined, white papers and I smell rain in the air. I gather my things and hurry inside as the rain begins to fall, lightly at first, and then with more vigor.
As I reach for the door, it swings open. Attached to the other side of the door handle is Sister Marcie, a thin waif of a girl with a high-pitched voice and a delightful laugh.
“There you are,” Sister Marcie says. “There’s a phone call for you in the office. It’s your brother. He says it’s an emergency.”
I fly to Mother Leonard’s outer office and pick up the receiver, lying prone on the desk. “Francis?” I say, trying to catch my breath.
“Sis, it’s Dad. He’s had a heart attack. I’m coming to get you. Pack a bag,” he says and hangs up.
The room spins around me, and I crumple into the chair behind me. As the news my brother has delivered registers, I cry. My tears bring Mother Leonard from her office and before I know it, her comforting arms are around me.
“You must go,” she says softly, summoning Sister Marcie to help me to my room.
I sit on my bed crying, begging God to spare my father’s life, while Sister Marcie packs my bag. Although I know it will be hours before my brother arrives, I sit on a bench just inside the entrance of the convent and wait while the other sisters eat their evening meal.
After what feels like days, I hear footsteps up the stone walkway outside and reach to grab my bag. When I turn around, a rush of air fills my lungs as I take in the figure standing before me. It is not my brother.
It is Mac.