In This Small Spot Read online

  Sister Helen had become curious about Mickey’s past and what brought her to St. Bridget’s. She began interrupting their rehearsals to talk.

  “Are you trying to be mysterious?” Sister Helen asked with a smile as Mickey evaded her questions.

  Mickey could see that this tactic was not working. Hardening herself, she replied coldly, “What I’m trying to do is tell you that my past is none of your damned business.”

  Sister Helen looked as if she had been slapped. Her cheeks reddened and she blinked back tears. “I’m sorry,” she said in a quavering voice.

  “Let’s pick this up tomorrow,” Mickey said curtly as she got up and left. Stalking away, staring at the floor, Mickey rounded a corner and ran heavily into Wendy, almost knocking her over.

  “Sorry,” Mickey muttered before hurrying along, cursing under her breath.

  Wendy was staring after her retreating form when Sister Helen emerged from the music room. Startled, she saw Wendy and reversed direction, but not before Wendy saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ╬ ╬ ╬

  Christmas came to the abbey with a fresh blanket of snow. The juniors had outdone themselves, and the Chapel looked magnificent. There were evergreen garlands everywhere, now adorned with brilliant red clusters of holly and nandina berries. There were extra candle sconces inserted into the stone pillars behind the nuns’ choir stalls and flanking the grille that separated the choir from the public pews. The dancing light from the extra candles seemed festive while simultaneously creating deeper shadows which lent an increased air of austerity to the Office in the dark winter days leading up to Christmas.

  There was an almost palpable feeling of anticipation among the nuns as Christmas drew closer, as this was one of the few times during the year when families were permitted to enter the enclosure for a reception after Mass on Christmas Day.

  “We do not forbid visits from family in those first months,” Sister Ignatius had told all of the postulants during the admission process, “but we find it helps new postulants settle in better if family holds off visiting until Christmas.”

  Jamie had written that he would be coming. Mickey hadn’t seen him since the day he had brought her to St. Bridget’s. She had never written as many letters in her life as she probably had in the last nine months – mostly to Jamie, but also to friends and former colleagues in Baltimore. In keeping with its adherence to traditions such as the full habit and singing the Office in Latin, St. Bridget’s had avoided bringing in computers and the internet. “But a lot of religious orders have web sites and they say that much of their outreach to this younger generation happens via computer,” some of the more progressive nuns argued, while others reasoned, “Part of our role, part of what calls women to us, is the simplicity of the life we have chosen. We do not wish to remove ourselves entirely from the world, but we don’t have to invite it inside our walls on the internet.” Writing was the most economical way of communicating with people outside the abbey. Telephone calls could be made, with permission, if something needed more immediate attention. Mickey had had to re-learn the art of written description, something which was very unlike the terse, concise notes she had used in medical charts and the neverending e-mails she had had to respond to.

  On December 24th, the afternoon work session was cancelled so that the nuns could have an early dinner and retire to their cells for some rest before rising again for a late Matins and a period of reflection before midnight Mass.

  Mickey was just leaving the refectory after supper when Sister Lucille came to her, telling her that she had visitors in one of the parlours. Wondering who in the world could be here, she walked quickly to the abbey’s entryway, where there were four parlours for receiving visitors. Peeking into the first, she found it empty. She heard voices coming from the second and walked into it to see Jamie and their mother sitting there. She stood there in shock. Jamie leapt up and came to her with a big smile and a hug.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she held him tightly. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow – and I wasn’t expecting this,” she added in an undertone.

  “Thought we’d surprise you,” he answered with that look she knew so well, partly because she’d used it so often herself, the one that said, “I knew you’d be mad if I told you about this ahead of time, so I’m springing this on you now.”

  Turning to her mother, Mickey guardedly said, “Hello, Mom.”

  Natalie Stewart did not come over to embrace her daughter. She sat stiffly in her chair, her blue eyes pale and icy, her bony, arthritic hands tightly clasping the purse in her lap. She looked Mickey from head to toe and said, “I never thought I’d see you in a skirt again.”

  Turning back to Jamie with an amused expression, Mickey said, “Well, you surprised me.”

  He grinned apologetically as they sat.

  “So, Mom, how long are you up here for?” Mickey forced herself to make polite conversation.

  “I’m not sure,” Natalie replied, looking around the parlour with an expression of distaste. “Probably a week, and then I’ll go back to Florida.”

  Mickey gave Jamie a pitying look.

  “So, do you really intend to pursue this convent thing?” Natalie asked.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Mickey warily replied.

  “Do they know about… you?” Natalie continued. “I wouldn’t think they would want people like you in here.”

  Closing her eyes and praying for patience, Mickey said, “The Abbess and I had many honest conversations prior to my entering St. Bridget’s.”

  “And you’re willing to give up everything? For this?” Natalie gestured around the parlour with its clean but plain furnishings. “Your house? Your money?”

  Mickey smiled pityingly. “Those things mean nothing by themselves. I would have thought you would have come to understand that these past ten years.”

  Natalie’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Don’t you dare compare yourself and your, your… to what your father and I had. He wanted me to be well taken care of –”

  “So, Jamie,” Mickey interrupted, turning to her brother, “how is your work going?”

  Natalie furiously clamped her mouth shut.

  “It’s going really well,” Jamie said, jumping into the ensuing silence. “I’ve got three commissions, one of them for a gallery in New York.”

  “Good for you,” Mickey said proudly.

  “How are things going here?” he asked.

  “Surprisingly well,” she admitted. “I’m settling in better than I thought I would. I’ll be asking to enter the Novitiate in April.”

  “How long does that last?”

  “Two years. After that, if I’m accepted, I’ll take my simple vows which can last up to five years before taking final vows.”

  “Wow.” Jamie’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “I didn’t realize it was such a long process.”

  “They want us to be really sure before we make a lifetime commitment.”

  A bell rang, and Mickey looked up.

  “We should go,” Jamie said, standing. “We’ll be back for Mass tomorrow.”

  Mickey gave him another quick hug. “Thanks for coming… I think,” she whispered in his ear.

  He chuckled and let her go.

  “See you tomorrow, Mom.”

  Natalie Stewart didn’t reply as she walked stiffly out of the parlour.

  Chapter 8

  After Christmas, the abbey returned to a more normal schedule. Mickey had held her breath, feeling she would breathe a little easier once her mother was back in Florida, but, to her surprise, Natalie had behaved herself on Christmas day and had been civil if not friendly. Jamie, of course, had been very charming, and he and Mother Theodora had hit it off as if they were old friends. Tanya’s parents came to visit all the way from Minnesota. Mickey smiled remembering how nervous and wide-eyed Jessica’s younger sister had been – she looked exactly like Jessica. Wendy, she’d noticed with a touch of curiosity, was the
only one of the postulants who hadn’t had any family there for Christmas.

  The postulants were re-assigned to help in different areas of the abbey. Mickey and Abigail were assigned to the kitchen. It was hard work, and required missing some of the hours of the Office in order to have each meal ready on time. Never much of a chef, Mickey was quickly relegated to clean-up or chopping of ingredients, but “no cooking for you,” Sister Cecilia commanded after tasting Mickey’s first unsavory attempt at mixing a simple stock for soup.

  Sister Cecilia was in charge of the kitchen. She was a large, no-nonsense woman, and Mickey privately thought she would have done well in the Army. Sister Cecilia made up all the menus, ordered all the food and personally did most of the cooking. It was a huge responsibility.

  Far from complaining, Mickey actually enjoyed the mindless nature of washing pots and pans; it gave her time to think, “wool-gathering,” Alice would have said with a knowing shake of her head. The only cloud over her Christmas recollections was Sister Helen’s coldness. After Mickey’s rebuke, their remaining rehearsals had been peremptory, and once the juniors’ concert was concluded, Sister Helen had had nothing more to do with Mickey. Even now, on those occasions when Mickey happened to be at the kitchen pass-through, collecting dirty dishes, Sister Helen would not meet her eyes, would not speak. As much as Mickey wished she could apologize, “it’s better this way.”

  Over the next few weeks, Mickey and Abigail adjusted to the routine of the kitchen. Mickey found to her surprise that Abigail’s youthful bravado disappeared when she was around the senior nuns. She was very receptive to instruction, and humbly accepted Sister Cecilia’s criticism as she was allowed to help with the preparation of the ingredients for the hearty, warm soups and stews Sister Cecilia made during these dark, cold months of winter. Sister Cecilia seemed to be making a special effort to teach Abigail, and Mickey grudgingly had to admit to herself that Abigail was thriving under the attention.

  “Michele,” said Sister Cecilia one afternoon, “please take this tray to the chaplain’s house.”

  “Oh, Sister,” Mickey protested. “Please, no. The last time I did that, Sister Linus practically threw me out.”

  Lowering her voice, Sister Cecilia said, “Yesterday, Sister Linus slipped in the snow and dropped an entire dinner tray. She’s getting on a bit, but… I know you will be tactful enough to realize that when she snaps at you – and she will – well… you won’t take it personally.”

  With a resigned sigh, Mickey picked up the tray, covered with a clean kitchen towel and ferried it across the snowy enclosure to Father Andrew’s residence. As before, Sister Linus answered the door and impatiently beckoned Mickey inside.

  “I’ll do this,” she said, taking the tray from Mickey and laying the lunch dishes out on the table.

  Mickey, who hadn’t had the chance to put on a cloak, stood there, shivering. “Would you like me to wait to take the tray back, Sister?”

  “No,” Sister Linus said. “You can come back later.” She glanced at Mickey, whose shoes and stockings were wet and snowy. “Go in the kitchen first and get some hot tea before you catch cold.”

  Mickey found a hot kettle on the stove and a tin of teabags on the counter. Pouring the steaming water into a mug, she could hear Sister Linus calling to Father Andrew. A moment later, she joined Mickey in the kitchen.

  “Would you like some tea, Sister?” Mickey asked.

  Sister Linus peered up at her, her bright eyes looking out from a wizened face. “All right, then.”

  Mickey poured another mug of boiling water and let the teabag steep while she handed the first to Sister Linus.

  “How long have you been taking care of things here?” Mickey asked, cradling the second mug in her cold hands.

  “Over thirty years,” Sister Linus said. “Through five chaplains.”

  “That’s a long time to be doing one thing,” Mickey said in surprise. She knew that most of the positions within the monastery were rotated, with the exception of a few positions like Sister Regina on the farm and Sister Margaret in charge of the music, and even then, “None of us is irreplaceable.” How many times had Sister Rosaria said that?

  “The Fathers won’t have anyone else,” Sister Linus said proudly.

  “No,” Mickey smiled as she took a sip of her tea. “I can see that they wouldn’t.” She drank a bit more of her tea as Sister Linus went to check on Father Andrew.

  “I’ll be back later for the tray,” she said when Sister Linus returned to the kitchen. “I’ll let myself out.”

  Ferrying the meal tray three times a day became a regular part of Mickey’s responsibilities after that. “I’m not sure,” she confided to Sister Cecilia, “but I think Sister Linus might actually be relieved not to have to do this.” She still wasn’t exactly friendly, but “she doesn’t throw me out of the house anymore,” Mickey laughed.

  February arrived with a cold snap that put a hard freeze on all the plants, turning the clinging snow to crystal so that everything looked as if it were encrusted with diamonds in the winter sunlight. Mickey returned to the kitchen after having delivered the lunch tray, shivering and bringing the empty breakfast tray back when she saw Sister Cecilia holding Abigail who was white as a sheet, clutching a towel to her hand.

  “She cut herself,” Sister Cecilia said. “I’m taking her to the infirmary.”

  “I’ll take her, Sister,” Mickey volunteered, wrapping an arm around Abigail’s shoulders.

  “Yes, of course, thank you,” Sister Cecilia replied distractedly, already cleaning up and disinfecting the cutting board where Abigail’s blood had dripped.

  When they arrived at the infirmary, Sister Mary David came over immediately to inspect Abigail’s hand, unwrapping the bloody towel. “Oh, dear,” she said, “this is definitely going to need stitches.”

  “May I?” Mickey asked, pulling on a pair of gloves.

  “Yes,” Sister Mary David said, stepping back with a frown. Mickey gently pulled the edges of the cut apart and had Abigail bend her finger.

  “Can you do stitches, Sister?” Abigail asked in a quavering voice.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t,” replied Sister Mary David with a worried expression as Mickey reapplied the pressure of the towel. “We’ll either have to call the doctor out here or take you to the hospital in Millvale. Either way it will take over an hour.”

  Mickey spoke, but it felt to her as if the words were issuing from someone else’s mouth. “Would you both please wait here a moment? I’ll be right back.”

  Having made up her mind, she walked quickly to Mother Theodora’s office before she could reconsider.

  “Venite,” came the answer to Mickey’s knock.

  “Pax tecum,” said Mickey as she entered to find Mother speaking with another nun whom she didn’t know.

  “Et cum spiritu tuo,” Mother Theodora said, looking up from the papers they were studying.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Mickey said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “I’ll give you a moment,” the other nun said, getting up to leave.

  “Yes, Michele?” said Mother Theodora.

  “Mother, Abigail has cut her finger rather badly. She needs stitches. We could take her to the hospital, or…” she looked down at the floor, “I could do it, with your permission.”

  Mother Theodora put her pen down and sat back in her chair. “What supplies would you use? I doubt our infirmary has what you would need.”

  “I took the liberty of packing a bag of emergency supplies just in case they were needed. I know how far we are from town.”

  “Then, my next question is, are you prepared to open this door to your former life?”

  Mickey met her gaze with a small smile. “No,” she admitted, “but that’s a selfish impulse. There’s no reason to incur the time and expense of an ER visit when I can take care of this here.”

  Mother Theodora looked at Mickey approvingly. “Very well. Thank you for doing this.”
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br />   Mickey went to the postulants’ dormitory and opened the trunk at the foot of her bed. Inside, she found her black medical bag. She closed the trunk and hurried back to the infirmary.

  Sister Mary David had Abigail lying down with a cool compress in her forehead. “She was becoming faint,” she explained as she came over to the table where Mickey was laying out a suture kit and gloves.

  “Sister, I can take care of the stitches here, with your permission, of course,” she added, deferring to Sister Mary David’s authority in the infirmary.

  “Of course.” Sister Mary David’s eyebrows went up. “Then we’ll talk.”

  Sister Mary David stood by, calming Abigail, as Mickey swabbed Abigail’s finger with Betadine and then injected enough Lidocaine to numb it.

  “Are you okay?” Mickey asked Abigail as she picked up the suture needle with a very fine thread attached.

  Abigail nodded. She suddenly looked very young.

  “You really won’t feel this,” Mickey assured her gently.

  A few minutes later, she snipped the suture at the end of a line of tiny, neat stitches. She wrapped Abigail’s finger with sterile gauze and said, “You shouldn’t get this wet for about a week.”

  “I’ll speak to Sister Cecilia,” Sister Mary David said, handing Abigail a pain medication and some water. “Do you feel well enough to go to Chapel? It’s almost time for Vespers.”