Traces of Mercy (5 page)

“Then you’ll help her?”

Mother Helena issued a heavy sigh. “She obviously needs more time and help than I can give her. Besides, I can’t imagine how she would fit in here.”

The level of excitement in the yard grew exponentially with the readiness of the horse. Mother Helena turned her attention to the bay as he danced in his harness.

“’Tis time to say a silent prayer to the Father that all goes well with this attempt, Sisters,” Mother Helena announced. For the moment she forgot about Abe and the mysterious young woman and took her own advice to direct a prayer to God that the horse would have a complete change of personality and—for once—cooperate.

Reaching up to open the collar button of her wool shirt for some relief from the wet heat, the girl nearly tripped over the huge piece of wood on the ground. Chastising herself for almost falling in front of all the strange women, she quickly realized that they weren’t even looking at her. They were all focused on the beautiful horse. She watched as a woman gave a final tug on the rope knotted around his harness. This woman was young and dressed differently from the others. She wore a black lace cap, black skirt, and white blouse covered in dust and dirt. The young woman got to her feet and looked up at the sisters on the roof.

“Are you ready, then?” she called out in a voice that practically lilted like a song.

The sisters hollered back down. “Ready!”

Though the girl was grateful her presence seemed to go unnoticed, she would have liked to ask one of the women what they were doing. She could see that the rope tied around the horse’s harness was also looped up and around the beam on the roof. That rope went down and was attached to one end of the wood.

She heard one of the sisters say, “Let’s hope that this horse has found his Catholic roots!”

The horse started to move forward, straining from the weight of the wood. She watched as the nuns moved on either side of the horse, encouraging him—cajoling him—willing him to keep moving away from the building. The rope grew taut, and the end of the wood came off the ground. Gaining momentum, the horse dug in and continued to move. The rope around the beam groaned and creaked, and as she watched, the wood inched higher and revealed itself to be
two
pieces of wood that were crossed in the center. The wood wasn’t smooth—it was like living bark that seemed regal and tall and imposing as it came completely off the ground and ascended.

She couldn’t take her eyes from the beauty of the bare wood lifting into the cloudless blue sky. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she heard nothing but the sound of a breeze sighing over the crossed boughs now poised in the air above the roof. The only sight in the world was the sunlight burning around the edges of the cross suspended from the wide expanse of the heavens. Inexplicable longing made her choke back tears, and she wondered at the power of that simple piece of wood.

Then her reverie was shattered when the wood began to dance erratically in the air, swinging to and fro from the rope. The nuns behind her started to yell—panicked cries of “
Whoa! Whoa!
” On the roof, Sister Martha seemed to have but one objective—to grab the cross. She scrambled to her feet on the beam. The horse whinnied and snorted and stomped hard enough to cause the sisters around him to scatter back in fear. As the cross swung wildly toward her, Martha got her arms around the wood. Ruth, on the opposite side of the beam, sat frozen and unmoving.

“Let it go, Martha!” someone shouted, but the nun hung on with fierce determination. And then the horse skittered backward. The nun screamed as the cross plunged off the roof. The sisters tried frantically to gain control of the horse, but he seemed oblivious to everything as he reared in the air—causing the heavy wood to swing back and forth over the ground, the nun hanging on for dear life.

In the chaos of the moment, the girl’s eyes connected with the horse as his front legs crashed back down against the ground.
He’s looking straight at me
, she thought.
That horse
sees
me
. She could hear the nun on the cross praying out loud; she could see the nuns around the horse back away in fear from an animal who had lost all control. Yet she went toward him, lessening the space between them in a purposeful stride, and raised a hand in the air while he continued to stare at her.

“Easy now,” she said to him, and he instantly calmed. His flaring nostrils were the only indication of his excitement as she grabbed hold of his harness. He responded readily to her commands and then strained under the weight of the wood again as he found purchase on the ground and dug in to raise the cross back above the roof.

“Pull it over, Ruth! Pull it over!” Mother Helena called out.

Seemingly jarred out of her shocked reverie, Sister Ruth reached out a hand for the sister clinging to the cross as it inched past the apex of the roof. Between them, they guided the heavy wood behind the parapet of the wall made for the sole purpose of housing the cross. Making quick work of the heavy rope, the sisters loosened it from the wood and threw it to the ground.

The horse’s sides heaved with exhaustion, but he stood stock-still while the girl stroked his nose and whispered in his ear. It took a moment for her to remember that they weren’t alone, and she looked up to see all the women in black staring at her in reverent silence.

“Glory be to God the Father,” Mother Helena said.

“And to a young woman who seems to have a way with horses,” Doc said with a definite smile in his voice. He turned to the older nun. “Can you imagine how she might fit in
now
, Mother?”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Doc Abe is gone, and I am here in a place with thirteen women. It is embarrassing to cry in front of strangers, but I couldn’t help myself as I watched him leave. I was mad and scared and wanted to run right after the wagon and go back to the clinic with him.

The sisters left me alone on the porch with my tears for a good while, and then when my head felt as if it would split wide open from misery, Mother Helena, the sister in charge, came to sit by me. She told me that sometimes God takes away all of the options but the one staring us in the face. I think that sounds like a dirty trick, but she knows God a lot better than I do. I followed her inside, hoping that her God knows what He’s doing with me.

Mother Helena is small but quick, and I had to hurry to keep up with her as she led me through the house. She said the other sisters were having their afternoon prayers and then would have supper. I didn’t want to do either, so she brought me to the room I am going to share with two sisters that she said are close to my age. Someone had already brought some nightclothes into the room and put them on one of the two beds. Mother Helena told me that tomorrow is a new day and we would “sort things out.” I don’t know what that means, but I am grateful to be alone now, doing what Doc Abe said to do—writing things down so I won’t forget.

I feel lonely in the pit of my stomach and homesick for a place I can’t describe.

A day can start out one way and end up in a way you can’t even imagine.

I found a horse who can speak to me without words—and who seems to understand me better than people.

I like the end of the day the best—and the dark that covers me up so I can sink into sleep and not have to think about the puzzle my life has become.

The girl was already awake, dressed and sitting on the edge of the narrow cot, when Mother Helena knocked briskly on the door and then entered.

“Good morning,” Mother Helena said. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept fine,” the girl lied.

Mother Helena studied her. “Good. Then let’s have a wee look around the place before we’ll be having breakfast.”

She followed Mother Helena down the hallway from the bedrooms into an austere common room.

“We’re an order of nuns from Ireland,” Mother Helena said. “Women devoted to serving God. Our community is called the Little Sisters of Hope.”

“What do you hope for?”

Mother Helena smiled, and her face transformed. “Right now, I hope you will come to feel like this is your home and we are people you can trust.”

Once out of the common room, they moved through a kitchen and then into a narrow room where various pairs of galoshes were lined up against a wall and overcoats hung from pegs. Mother Helena pointed through the window on the far side of the room.

“We have a large garden we all tend to,” she said. “And presently, we are in the process of adding on to the existing structure. Well, you saw that firsthand now yesterday, didn’t you?”

The girl nodded. “There is a lot of pounding.”

“Yes, lass, and I might as well be warning you now, you’ll be hearing it morning, noon, and night until we get the place completed.”

“Because you need a bigger house?”

“Because we’re going to open an orphanage soon and need more room to accommodate the children who will be coming here. We will be a place for children who have lost their parents and have no one else to take care of them,” Mother Helena explained. “Even though your circumstances are a bit different, they are like you.”

“I’m not a child,” the girl protested.

“As a wise man reminded me, you
are
a child of God, lass. If you don’t remember anything else—remember that.”

Moving through the house on the heels of Mother Helena, the girl met the sisters she would be living among. Engaged in various activities, each one stopped, glanced at the young woman in the dirty trousers and shirt, and nodded her greeting.

By the fourth sister she met, she detected a pattern. “All their names start with Mary,” she said.

Mother Helena smiled. “Yes, at least
almost
all of them start with Mary. We have Sister Mary Agnes, Mary Gertrude, Mary Margaret, Mary Martha, Mary Ruth, Mary Constance, Mary Sarah, Mary Rachel, Mary Rebecca, and Mary Marie.”

“But you are not Mary? You are Mother?”

“I am Sister Mary Helena,” she explained, “but because of my position in the convent, the others refer to me as Mother. Deirdre and Oona are the other inhabitants of the house. They are called postulants—beginning nuns, if you will. They spend about a year with the community, studying and learning, and at the end of that time, they reconsider if they really have been called to this holy way of life.”

They arrived back at the small bedroom she’d slept in, and Mother Helena led her inside. “We let you have the room to yourself last night, but I’m afraid that isn’t a luxury we can continue. Tonight, Oona and Deirdre will be back in the room with you.”

Another sister appeared in the doorway, carrying a bundle of clothes. Sister Agnes had lively blue eyes, and her fair skin had a generous dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her face looked far less serious than her habit.

“Here they are, Mother,” she said, handing off the clothes and offering a quick smile at their guest.

“Thank you, Sister Agnes.”

Sister Agnes disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, leaving the two of them alone again.

“Can we discuss your clothes?” Mother Helena asked.

The girl offered a small shrug.

Mother Helena pushed on. “Abe tells me that you were found wearing that shirt—those trousers.”

“He tells me the same thing.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“I know you’re not supposed to go around naked,” she said. “I suppose that’s why.”

“Well, that’s true,” Mother Helena answered with a smile. “I meant do you have any idea why you would be wearing clothing meant for a man?”

“No. Doc kept asking me that too, but I don’t see why it matters so much.”

“Clothing is a uniquely human characteristic. It’s a way to communicate to people who we are and what we value.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mother Helena unfurled a simple blue dress from the pile of clothes in her arms. “What we wear usually defines our gender, our place in life—what we consider to be important. Even what we consider to be beautiful,” she said. “Women usually wear dresses like this one.”

“You’re a woman.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t dress as a woman?”

“Not as
you
will dress, no. My clothing—my habit—tells the world that I am a woman who has decided to commit my life fully to God. Sisters dress alike because we value the conformity in it and the fact that it sends a message that we are living in our community for a sacred purpose.”

“What do
my
clothes tell the world?” she asked.

Mother Helena hesitated for a moment. “I think that you were trying to tell the world that you didn’t want to be known as a woman, lass.”

The girl didn’t respond to the statement, simply because she didn’t know how to. She had no idea if the sister was correct. For a moment, she wondered if she’d ever know the answer.

“Am I to be lass, now, instead of Missy?” she asked, changing the subject.

“No. You need a proper name until you remember the name given to you at birth,” Mother Helena said, taking the hint that the clothing discussion was over. “Just as I told you, when a postulant takes her sacred vows, she relinquishes her worldly name and takes the name of a saint to signify her new life in the church. Is there a name that has some kind of significance to you that you might remember?”