Waiting to Believe (12 page)

“Start over?” Kacey was incredulous.

“Start over and continue through the day. You may break for lunch.”

“Mother Mary—” Kacey began but quickly caught herself. She would not allow this superior to make her beg for mercy. She would not be broken.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see sisters sitting at tables and on couches throughout the room. All watching the exchange. “Yes, Mother Mary,” she said in her most compliant voice. A long, humiliating day stretched before her. She was resigned to her punishment. She was unyielding in her rebellious spirit.

20

The summer of '63 was hot and dry. Stifled by the routine of her life, Kacey found little pleasure in it. Most of all, she missed the stimulation of literature classes, the excitement of drama class. Now she was steeped in the search for deeper knowledge of the Fathers of the Church, the seven sacraments of the Church, the corporal and the spiritual works of mercy. The novices were plunged into the canonical year of preparation toward final vows.

It was true. The canonical year was a year of testing. Testing the resolve. Testing the endurance of the novice. It was not surprising that she felt more comfortable, more at home, in her understanding of the corporal works of mercy than the spiritual: Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned. These made up the framework of her value system.

It was the spiritual works of mercy that continued to plague her: Counsel the doubtful, instruct the ignorant, admonish sinners. That she should assume such a lofty posture seemed arrogant to her. Who was she to attempt to counsel the doubtful when she, herself, was so often doubtful? Admonish the sinners? In spite of all the instruction she was receiving, it was still not clear to her what actually constituted sin. Or who would be considered a sinner.

As she immersed herself in this year of intense religious study, she felt no closer to understanding sins and sinners than she had as a high school girl considering the religious life.

Now she undertook her own storming against the gates of heaven.
With an urgent heart, each night after lights out, she prayed the Memorare
.

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly to you, O virgin of virgins, my Mother. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in your mercy, hear and answer me . . .

At these last words, Kacey added her question:
What is sin?

21

The drone of Sister Mary Veronica's voice was putting Kacey to sleep. It was that after-lunch hour when the rich split pea soup and the heavy rye bread settled in her stomach and triggered a nodding off. On this day, the subject of Sister Veronica's lecture was the second-century martyr Cecilia. She was the patron saint of music, and this day, November 22, was her saint day. Veronica paused. “The gift of music should never be overlooked. Each day we should sing to God in our hearts!”

She was raising her arms in exuberance when the door flew open and Mother Mary Bernard burst in, her face white and pained. The students sat up in alarm, straining to catch a word of her whispered message. Sister Veronica's hands flew to her mouth, in disbelief and horror. The mistress of novices whispered another word, then turned and left the room without a glance at the students.

A pale Mary Veronica reached down to steady herself against her desk before clearing her throat. “President Kennedy has just been shot.” A gasp rippled throughout the room. “It's not known if he has survived.” Now a moan. The nun dropped her head. She murmured softly, “All classes are dismissed. The bus will take you back to the convent.” The class sat motionless. Mary Veronica took a step closer to her students. “Pray for him. For us all. Now, go. Go!”

Winter attacked with fury after the president's assassination, as if the heavens themselves railed. The convent felt colder, damper. Kacey could not get warm. Her hands ached with the chill.

And now, it was Christmas. Preparations began early in the morning for their Christmas dinner. Kacey and Lisa were assigned the chicken detail: a surprise because she always feared their friendship would become visible, which would mean immediate separation.

Pulling feathers from the rubbery dead bird lying on the table before her, she whispered, “I look for small blessings where I can find them. At least I didn't have to wring his poor little neck!” The task was repulsive. Her upper lip curled in disgust.

Lisa smiled at her friend. “That's what they're put on earth for, Kace. To feed our hunger! This'll be the best meal we've had in months.” She pushed aside the plucked chicken she had finished and reached for another. It would take many chickens to feed all the sisters.

Kacey moved on to her next chicken, involuntarily shuddering as she touched it. “I wish we could wear rubber gloves.”

“It's not like you have to concentrate on it. Think about something else!”

And so Kacey allowed herself to be swept back to Christmas dinner at home. It was an easy journey. Her father presided over every aspect of the meal, preparing it lovingly as a tribute to his Irish heritage. Kacey served as his sous chef.

The dinner festivities would begin with a glass of mead, the traditional Irish drink of celebration, made with honey, lemon, pale ale, yeast, sugar, and water. It was a week in the making. Kacey saw them all gathered around the kitchen counter as Kenneth poured out the small glasses for everyone, with more water than wine for the younger children.

Kacey remembered the laughter as she followed her father from glass to glass, dropping two raisins in every serving, the final step in the elaborate ceremony. “
Sl
á
inte agus saol agat
—health and long life to you!” he would declare, holding his own glass high in salute. In that moment, his eyes always went to his wild Irish Rose, standing by his side, and she raised her glass to him, a faint smile on her lips, a filmy look of love in her eyes. “
Sl
á
inte
.”

And then the meal began as they took their places at the table. First, nettle broth from a County Tipperary recipe of his mother's. Then colcannon made of red potatoes and cabbage, both harvested from their own garden. The subtle aroma of the potatoes, the boiling milk, and butter wafting up as he stirred the creamy mixture.

A brimming bowl of baked onions. Another of carrot and parsnip mash, under a thick slather of butter. Irish soda bread and a garden salad with Shanagarry cream dressing.

And finally, Kenneth, his cheeks flushed, put the family platter, handed down from generation to generation, in front of his place at the table. It held a twenty-pound roast turkey with chestnut stuffing. A look of great satisfaction spread across his face as he carved thick slices, laying them on the plates offered him, one by one.

Later came the traditional desserts: plum pudding and the sinfully rich Irish sherry trifle. The trifle was so desired that when Kacey turned thirteen, her father assigned her the task of hiding it the night before so no one would dip into it ahead of time. Kacey could hear her grandmother Doyle's lilting voice, “If you're going to make it, then don't spare the sherry, and if you're going to use cooking sherry, don't bother to make it at all!”

For all the chaos of day-to-day life in the Doyle household, Kenneth's Irish Christmas dinner was always perfection.

But now, Kacey's attention was jolted back to the task at hand. “At the rate you're going, we won't have enough chickens ready until Epiphany!” snapped Sister Mary Anthony, hands on her hips.

“Oh, you startled me!” Kacey responded without thinking.

“And
you
disappoint me,” came the reply. “Where do you go when you drift away like this?” The tone was a shade gentler.

“I'm sorry, Sister. I—” Kacey paused. What could she say that would make sense to this woman whose entire world had been within these walls for fifty years? Finally, “I was thinking of Christmas,” she whispered.

22

Kacey burst through the kitchen door. “I smell spring!” Seated at a table covered with packets of Northrup King seeds were Sister Mary Adrian, Sister Mary Andrew, and Mother Mary Bernard. All three turned toward Kacey, eyes wide in astonishment.

Mother Mary Bernard rose in one swift movement. “Sister Mary Laurence! I cannot believe this outburst!”

Kacey froze, her head dropped in shame. The old nun had only begun. “How long have you been with us now? Almost two years, and still you behave as if you were a free-spirited teenager! Is there no reverence in you?”

Kacey clenched her fists inside the folds of her habit. She could not lift her head to meet the riveting glare of her superior.

“Look at me when I speak to you, Sister! Answer this one question: Is it not possible for you to be obedient?”

“Mother Mary Bernard, I am most sincerely sorry for my actions! I don't know what came over me. I beg forgiveness.”

“You did not answer my question. Is it not possible for you to be obedient?”

Kacey whispered in a hoarse voice, “It
is
possible, Mother. I
will
be obedient.” But even as she spoke, the sweet scent of spring was filling Kacey's senses.

Indeed, spring arrived in a splash of glory that year of 1964. And once again, the crocuses and hyacinth, the tulips on parade along the back sidewalk, all greeted the sisters with bursts of life that defied the stark interior of the convent.

A light rain had fallen off and on throughout the night, and the ensuing humidity sucked the energy from Kacey as she entered the library Sunday afternoon. She joined the others in searching through the stacks of mail lying on the table, though more often than not, she would find nothing from her family—a fact that both saddened and embarrassed her.

But this day, she recognized the backward slant on an envelope. She reached for it eagerly and hurried to her room to read it in private.

Dear Kacey,

Ha! I'll bet this is one big surprise! You probably thought you'd never hear from me, but here I am. Well, I do think of you, even if I never write. If it's any comfort to you, I never write home, either. College life is pretty demanding, but I'm having the time of my life. I've finally settled on an English major, tho I have no idea what I'll do with it. I love being so near Chicago and have gotten comfortable making my way around the big city. Truth be told, I've got some pretty good help in the form of a handsome hunk named Dean Knutson. (Knutson! Can you believe it—he's Norwegian! And a Lutheran! Which is worse??) He's a year ahead of me, and we're spending a lot of time together. As in A LOT.

So, things are great with me. I've never been happier. Hope that's true for you, too. When will you be done with all this in-house training stuff and get out in the real world doing your good deeds?

Love, Annie

PS. Keep this news under your veil!!! Dad would have a conniption fit! Maybe Mom, too.

PSS. I hear Bridget's writing to Greg at Notre Dame. What's that all about?

Kacey read the letter once, quickly. More slowly a second time. Then she skimmed it, with phrases leaping out at her: “the time of my life,” “never happier,” “When will you get out in the real world,” “Greg.”

Her breathing was tight. It was all unsettling. She closed her eyes.

She did not envy Annie's chosen life, and yet, in it was something that made her own life, by comparison, ring untrue. Or lacking. Something was missing, truth be told.