Changing Habits (23 page)

SISTER ANGELINA

S
omething was wrong with her, Angie decided. She couldn't seem to get enough sleep. That morning, she'd embarrassed herself by falling asleep during lauds. Right in the chapel, she'd nearly keeled over onto Sister Martha. Fortunately the other nun had managed to catch her.

Angie's appetite was nonexistent and the skirt she'd shortened only a couple of months earlier was so loose it hung on her hips.

Only recently she'd tried to talk to her father on the phone and all she'd been able to do was weep. He'd been upset and tried to discover what was wrong, but she couldn't tell him, couldn't bring herself to admit how bad she was. Instead she'd made light of her tears and ended the conversation as quickly as she could.

Sister Superior was worried about her, too. Worried enough to call for a Catholic physician to come and talk to her. Angie didn't need a doctor to tell her she was depressed—or to give her medication.

She knew why she felt the way she did. What she didn't know was how to deal with this never-ceasing mental anguish, this constant sense of guilt and doubt.

Everyone had been so kind and gentle with her. She tried,
she really did, to shake off the mantle of grief, but it clung to her. The world seemed dark and ugly, and it seemed that nothing good would ever happen again. All gaiety and laughter had evaporated into the darkness.

As the Christmas holidays approached, there was an air of celebration at the convent, an anticipation of joy. Angie experienced none of this. It was difficult to function, to pretend she was preparing the next day's lessons when she rarely put any thought or effort into her classes anymore. Luckily, with Thanksgiving, there was a four-day break coming this very week.

Staring down at the textbook as the nuns around her worked at the long tables, silence filling the room, Angie tried to force her thoughts onto the next day's lessons, but to no avail.

Instead, her mind continually returned to Corinne's parents. Again and again she was tormented by the question of how Bob and Sharon Sullivan were going to face this holiday season without their beautiful Corinne. How would it be possible for them to put up a Christmas tree and decorate their home when their only daughter had recently been buried? Where was their joy? Where was—

“Sister?”

Angie looked up from her book and realized Sister Martha had been speaking to her.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't hear you.”

“There's a man here to see you.”

“A man?”

“Yes, Sister. He's quite insistent. He says he's your father.”

“My father?” Angie was sure she'd misunderstood. “My father is in Buffalo, New York.” The Thanksgiving week was one of the busiest of the year for the restaurant. He would never leave Angelina's to travel at such an important time.

“He would like to see you,” Sister Martha said.

Angie got up from the table. Although she knew there
must be a mistake, her heart raced. Could her father really be here in Minneapolis?

As she entered the foyer, her steps slowed. It was indeed her father. He stood in the entry, still in his thick overcoat, hat in hand as he waited.

“Daddy,” she whispered.

Tony Marcello looked up, his face dark with concern. When he saw her, a smile came to his lips and he held out his arms.

As if she were a little girl again, Angie ran into his embrace. By the time she felt his arms around her, the tears had come, ravaging her with huge, breath-choking sobs.

He cradled her like a child, his hand on her head as he hugged her close. He murmured to her in Italian, in words she hadn't heard for so many years that she barely remembered their meaning. Then they were sitting on the sofa, where he continued to hold her protectively. “Angelina, my poor, sweet Angelina, what has happened to you?” He brushed the hair from her forehead, and in the process dislodged her veil. His eyes searched hers.

Through her tears, his features swam before her. She felt his love, and God help her for being weak and emotional, but Angie needed his strength—just as much as the motherless child she'd once been.

“What has happened to you?” he repeated in a broken whisper as though he too was close to tears.

“She's dead, Daddy. Corinne is dead. I told her it was wrong—I'm the one to blame. I'm the one who urged her to be a good Catholic girl. Then she got pregnant.”

“This high school girl?”

Angie nodded. “She panicked—she was so afraid. I knew things weren't right. I sensed it and I did nothing.
Nothing.
” She wailed in grief and guilt and hid her face in his shoulder. “She came to find me instead of going to the hospital…and she bled to death.”

“Oh, Angie, sweet, sweet Angie.”

“She's dead…gone, and it's my fault.”

“No, Angie, no.”

Others had attempted to tell her the same thing, but Angie discounted their words and refused to accept her innocence in Corinne's death.

Because Angie believed she
was
responsible. Corinne had come to her time and again and argued against the Church's stand on these important issues. Angie realized now that the girl had come to her seeking answers, searching for a way to rationalize what she and Jimmy were experiencing. Corinne had been seeking a tacit blessing to use birth control.

Angie hadn't given it to her, hadn't agreed with her arguments and as a result, Corinne had chosen to engage in unprotected sex. Then she'd discovered she was pregnant and her world had come crashing down. Angie's world had toppled, too.

As she'd mulled over her conversations with Corinne, Angie reached a conclusion. The girl
was
right. Such intimate decisions as whether or not to use birth control were between a man and a woman, between husband and wife. The Church had no business interfering, no Biblical ground on which to stand. The consequences of this decree were more and more apparent every week at Sunday Mass. Catholics were revolting and walking away from the Church, or at the very least choosing to follow their own consciences in the matter of birth control.

Corinne's words haunted her. If the Church was wrong about birth control, then what else might be a mistake? Angie was afraid to examine that question.

“Angelina, Angelina,” her father crooned. “I'm taking you home with me.”

She looked up at him, frowning. “I don't think I can leave.”

“You aren't in jail. You need to come home.”

She didn't argue. She didn't have the strength.

“Go, collect what you need and send Sister Superior to speak to me.”

With one exception—her insistence on becoming a nun—Angie had always followed orders. First from her father and then from the sisters who ran the order and the convents in which she'd lived. She never questioned authority, but accepted whatever she was told, did whatever she was asked. Her thoughts were subordinate to those of others—older, wiser people, whom she'd entrusted with her life.

She stepped away from her father.

“Go,” he ordered. “It's time you left, time you realized this place is not for you. It never was, but I couldn't refuse you.”

Angie found Sister Eloise in the room where the other nuns sat and quietly worked or studied. “Sister,” she said, “my father is here.”

“So I understand.” Her disapproval was evident.

“He would like to speak to you.”

Sister Eloise nodded. “He couldn't have come during the day? It is highly unusual for family members to stop by unannounced this late in the evening.”

“No,” she said without emotion. “He's here now.”

While Sister Superior met with her father, Angie went to her cell, pulled out her overnight case and packed her things. She placed her clothes neatly inside the case; it didn't take long to pack. With her coat over one arm and her suitcase in the other, she returned to the foyer.

Her father stood as she approached.

“I can't allow you to leave,” Sister Superior said, her expression severe.

“You can't stop us,” her father said, his jaw set. “I've come to take my Angelina home.”

“Sister Angelina, I implore you to reconsider.”

Without speaking, Angie moved closer to her father's side.

He took the suitcase from her hand and held open the door. The cold night air stung Angie's face as she stepped into the darkness.

“We're going home, Angelina.”

“Yes, Daddy. We're going home.”

SISTER KATHLEEN

K
athleen added cream to the large pot of mashed potatoes and turned on the hand mixer. Sean's wife, Loren, was busy preparing the platter of turkey and stuffing for the dining room table.

“Aunt Kathleen, Aunt Kathleen, help me,” four-year-old Emma cried as she chased the calico cat around and around Kathleen's legs while two-year-old Paul sat in the middle of the room pounding on an overturned pot with a wooden spoon. The television blared in the background.

“Emma, go see your daddy,” Loren said.

“Daddy sent me in here.”

The phone rang in the distance. “I'll get it,” Sean shouted from the living room, where he was watching a football game. This was like no Thanksgiving Kathleen could remember. In Boston it was a huge family affair, with as many as twenty people, and her mother supervising in the kitchen. At the convent it had been another matter entirely, a formal and subdued celebration but with the same roasted turkey and pumpkin pie. With Sean and his family, it was three adults and the two children in a cramped two-bedroom house.

Her brother, God love him, had taken Kathleen in on a moment's notice. He'd even given her money for the flight to Seattle. She was well aware that she couldn't continue to impose on Sean and his wife. She had to make a decision and move forward.

“Kathleen,” her brother called, standing by the telephone.

She turned off the mixer and peered around the corner. “Yes?”

“Do you know a Father Brian Doyle?”

She was so stunned all she could do was nod.

“He'd like to speak to you.” Sean held out the receiver, and when she'd accepted it, he returned to his football game, but lowered the volume.

“Father Doyle?” Kathleen asked, pressing the receiver to her ear.

“Sister Kathleen, how are you?”

“I'm well, and you?”

“Good,” he said. “Good. It's taken me this long to find you.”

“I'm sorry, I should have contacted you.”

“No one seemed to want to tell me where I could reach you,” he said. “I was finally able to locate your parents in Boston and they gave me this number.”

“I'm in Seattle.”

“So I understand.” He sounded out of breath. “What happened?”

It all seemed too complicated to explain. In the two weeks since she'd left, Kathleen had made an effort to forget.

“Tell me,” he urged.

“I told Father Sanders I could no longer keep the books for him,” she said, going back to their conversation shortly before his move to Osseo. “Just like you suggested.”

“Yes, that's good, but apparently there was some kind of trouble afterward.”

“There was,” she whispered. All at once she felt too weak
to stand and sank down onto the sofa arm. “Father Yates decided to audit the books and almost immediately discovered the discrepancies.”

She heard the slow release of Father Doyle's breath. “I was afraid of something like that,” he muttered.

“Then Father Yates contacted Sister Eloise.”

His silence said everything. He knew without her elaborating how uncomfortable the situation had been.

“I assume you didn't explain that I was the one making up the shortfalls?” he said heavily.

“No.”

“Why not?” His voice was incredulous. “I would've stepped forward and told the truth. There was no need for you to go through this alone.” She heard him sigh. “In my eagerness to serve the bishop and help Father Sanders, I was more of a hindrance than anything else. Now I see I'm responsible for your troubles as well.”

Kathleen disagreed. “I was ultimately the one in charge of the books. Not you. It was only right that I accept responsibility for my role in all this.”

“But at what cost?” His words were angry—and regretful.

She had no answer to give him.

“Why did you leave the convent?” he asked next. “Or did Sister Eloise send you away?”

“Sister Superior instructed me to return to Boston,” Kathleen said reluctantly. “But I chose to come to Seattle instead.”

“But isn't Boston your hometown?”

“Yes, but I was going back in disgrace, an embarrassment to the order and I…I couldn't. I just couldn't look my parents in the eyes and tell them I'd done wrong.”

“You didn't,” Father Doyle insisted. “I was the one who—”

“We both did,” Kathleen whispered.

“Sister Kathleen, I can't tell you how sorry I am.”

He had nothing to apologize for. Worse, he blamed himself for not being there to protect her.

“It's my fault,” he said. “I'm the one who should've been reprimanded. If I hadn't tried to protect Father Sanders, none of this would have happened.”

“I don't think it's necessary to assign blame, Father. What's done is done.” Kathleen felt better just hearing his voice. She'd missed him terribly. Other than a few of the nuns she taught with, Father Doyle was her only friend; they'd shared this burden and helped each other and in the process had developed a certain closeness, careful though it was.

“What can I do?” he asked, obviously distressed.

“Do?” she repeated. “Nothing.”

“I don't believe that. First thing tomorrow morning, I'm contacting the motherhouse and explaining the circumstances,” he said. “I refuse to allow you to be punished.”

“Please don't,” Kathleen pleaded. “Father, I'm sincere about that. This business with Father Sanders and Father Yates has helped me.”

“How?” He didn't sound as though he believed her.

“It's clarified some issues I…hadn't realized I needed to deal with.”

“What issues?”

“We don't need to discuss those now.” Kathleen preferred not to delve into the whole complicated mess. She felt resentful and angry and misjudged. With Father Doyle gone, she'd been left vulnerable, facing a difficult situation on her own. She'd hoped, had
believed
that her own order would come to her defense; instead her superiors had condemned her without even hearing her version of events.

“If that's what you want.” Father Doyle didn't seem happy with her reticence.

“I do.” She felt strong, stronger than she had in a long while.

“What about the future?”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

“You're leaving the convent, aren't you?”

No one else had asked her that question. Not her brother or her sister-in-law, not her parents. Had they voiced it, Kathleen wasn't sure how she would've responded, but the minute Father Doyle asked, the answer was clear.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I've decided to leave.”

She heard the priest's harsh intake of breath. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“I'm positive it's the right decision,” she assured him. She stood, easing herself off the sofa arm. She had given nearly ten years of her life to the Church without ever truly questioning her vocation. But in that time, the world had changed—and so had she.

“I called for another reason,” Father Doyle said. “I got word this morning that Father Sanders was in a car accident.”

“No,” she gasped. “Was he drunk?”

“Yes.”

“How bad is it?” Her greatest fear was that Father Sanders had injured an innocent party or killed himself in a drunken crash.

“He walked away from the accident and thank God no one else was hurt.”

Kathleen murmured her fervent relief.

“God used the accident to get Father the help I couldn't,” the priest continued. “He was arrested for drunk driving and the judge placed him in a facility that specializes in the treatment of alcoholics.”

She said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

“Unfortunately—” he sighed “—the press got hold of the story and it's front-page news.”

As far as Kathleen was concerned, it was Bishop Schmidt who'd brought the bad publicity down upon the diocese. If he'd listened to Father Doyle and taken steps to
help Father Sanders earlier, the outcome might have been very different.

“What about Father Yates?”

The priest laughed softly. “He's been promoted and will be assuming Father Sanders's position as head of St. Peter's.”

Kathleen laughed, too.

The line went quiet for a moment, and Kathleen supposed it was the end of their friendship. They had no reason to maintain contact. “Thank you, Father, for calling, and for telling me about Father Sanders.”

“I'm the one who should be thanking you.”

“Would you mind…I mean, if it would be all right, I'd like to talk to you every now and then.” Where she got the courage to ask, she didn't know. But he was a link with her past and she faced so many transitions as she moved toward the future. It would be good to have a special friend she could call when she needed to.

“I'd like that, Sister Kathleen.”

“Just Kathleen,” she corrected.

“Kathleen,” he repeated softly. “Write down my number and phone me anytime you wish.”

“Thank you.”

After a few words of farewell, she replaced the receiver and looked up to see her brother and Loren and the two youngest O'Shaughnessys waiting by the table. She joined them, their Thanksgiving feast about to begin.

“Are you ready?” Sean asked.

Kathleen nodded. She was ready now for whatever the future held.