Love May Fail (23 page)

Please, Nathan.

Write or call.

Love and blessings,

Your mother

February 27, 2012

To My Sweet and Good Son, Nathan,

The young doctor’s science and machines were not far off with their predictions, because I am now in bed mostly, groggy from their medicines, weight falling off me daily, and many other things that I do not wish to share with you—and yet the worst pain of all is that you remain a silent mystery.

With almost every waking breath I pray to my husband and ask why He is refusing to answer my prayers. I even ask the Crab, and she recites scripture and makes many logical and calming assurances, but behind her mask, I see that she too is frustrated with our shared husband, because her answers are hollow as my innards will be when this awful cancer eats me all up from the inside out.

That is all I will say about the bad I must endure, because it is a sin to dwell on our misfortunes. We must count our blessings always, and God has sent me one more that you may find particularly interesting.

Remember the drunken woman on the plane I described in my last letter?

Well, she wrote to me!

I received her letter just shy of a week after she and I had our chance meeting.

She started off with many apologies for her intoxicated state and also for describing her ex-husband’s anatomy in great detail—apparently he was not very well endowed, ha!—all of which amused me and was a welcome alternative to thinking about my sickness and the lack of communication I have received from my only son. A wonderful surprise, receiving this unexpected correspondence.

But then her letter took an interesting turn, because my young friend started to ask questions about what she called “destiny,” which, of course, is just an unbeliever’s word for God.

“Do you believe in destiny, Sister Maeve?” she wrote. “That maybe we are each called to do something in our lives and will find no peace until we do?”

What she was describing of course is a calling, and asking a nun if she believes in a calling is like asking a hungry robin if it believes in pecking worms out of the grass.

I laughed and smiled at her childlike naiveté.

Matthew 18:3—“Truly I say to you, unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.”

But then she went on to tell me that she knew a man long ago who had made a huge impact on her life, a teacher by the name of Nathan Vernon. Perhaps I had heard of him, because he became infamous after one of his students attacked him with a baseball bat, shattering all of the bones in his arms and legs.

I had to put the letter down and pray the rosary seven times.

Then I prayed to my husband first and Mother Mary second, asking them to forgive my doubts, for they had led me right to this naive young woman who was talking about destiny and my very own son, with no idea whatsoever that she was writing to her hero’s own mother.

My eyes filled with tears when this woman—her name is Portia Kane, do you remember her?—described in great detail all of the many beautiful things you did in the classroom and how much these lessons had shaped not only her life but the lives of many.

Hubris is a sin, but my heart swelled up two extra sizes.

The letter ended with her fumbling for the right way to convey the fact that she felt called to assist you in some way—to “resurrect” you and help you find your way back into the classroom where you could continue the good work God had sent you here to do. (Mostly my words, not hers—but her sentiment. She just lacked the vocabulary to express herself properly.) Portia said she admired my conviction—becoming a nun—and that even though her current plan to rescue her former high school teacher seemed delusional, she felt as though she must take this “leap of faith” (her exact words) and return the many kindnesses that you had given her so many years ago.

I rang the bell the sisters had given me to call whenever I need help, and when Sister Esther came, I asked her to bring the Crab.

“But she is praying,” Sister Esther said.

“God is in this room at the moment, not in her palace! Bring her quickly!”

The Crab appeared some fifteen minutes later with a sour look on her face.

“What could be so pressing that you’d interrupt my prayer time?” she said.

I held Portia Kane’s letter up. “Read this and be amazed.”

The Crab squinted her beady little eyes at me, but eventually she took Portia Kane’s letter into her claws, sat down, and began to read.

“This is from the drunk woman on the plane,” Mother Superior said without looking up at me.

Then a smile bloomed on the Crab’s face—a wondrous grin, like an upside-down rainbow. I had never seen her so happy. And when she finished the letter, she covered her mouth with her hand and giggled like a schoolgirl.

“There’s a phone number here,” Mother Superior said.

I nodded.

“Well, why aren’t you calling it?”

“I wanted to share this with you, because even though you are an old annoying Crab, you are part of this. You sent me to the doctor and then to Florida. So you might as well be in for the rest of the ride!”

“Shall I dial?” the Crab said, holding up her expensive “smartphone” that’s covered in some sort of fancy red plastic, which no doubt cost her brother a lot of money.

I held my tongue and nodded.

When Portia Kane answered the phone—she was clearly sober—I heard goodness in her voice right away, like a ray of light through a stained-glass window.

I identified myself, told her I had received and read her letter, invited her to visit the convent, and promised to tell her the most amazing story she had ever heard.

For some reason, she warned me that she was not a religious woman, as if I hadn’t gathered that already.

Ha!

“And yet you talk of destiny?” I said. “Well, how’s this for destiny—the woman you just so happened to sit down next to on the plane is the mother of the very man you wish to save now, your beloved high school English teacher, Nathan Vernon.”

It took her a few seconds to process the information. Then
she said, “You’re Mr. Vernon’s mother? But how? You’re a nun! And you have different last names.”

“He has the last name of his father, a man I was smart enough not
to marry. Come visit me, and I will tell you everything—answer all of your questions—but come quickly, because I am dying and will soon be forever gone.”

She arrived at the convent a little less than three hours later, sat by my bedside—I drew strength from her!—and we talked until late in the night.

Her love for you rivals my own.

She simply glows when she recalls the details of your class and the time you spent with her during her adolescent crisis. She said you once let her stay a night in your apartment because she was hysterical and afraid she was pregnant with the child of a weak boy she was trying to save with sex. Portia said there were no other friends or relatives to help her. She slept on the couch in your living room, after you talked her off a ledge.

Based on what she told me, you may have very well saved her life.

Again, I have reason to be proud of you.

Portia will be tracking you down and visiting soon, but has agreed to sit with this old dying woman a few more times before searching for my lost son.

Selfishly, I have asked Portia to visit with me in these last days—to tell me more stories about my son the teacher and the good deeds he did in the classroom.

Jesus Christ has sent Portia Kane to me, and I am confident He will send her to you when I no longer need her.

I have no idea if you are still in Vermont or if she will be able to locate you in the future, but I have made peace with the fact that I will not communicate with you again in this life. I
see now that everything is as it should be, and I was wrong to doubt.

Portia is a funny woman—always cursing in front of me and then apologizing right afterward. There is something in her eye that suggests that perhaps she really has been called to do this thing she says she feels she must.

And so I will allow her to regale me with stories of my son the teacher until I die, because it is a great comfort, especially now when it has become apparent that you will not be responding.

I am thankful for this strange gift my husband has provided.

Love and blessings,

Your mother

March 6, 2012

To My Sweet and Good Son, Nathan,

I’m dictating my final words to you through the old Crab, Mother Superior, which is why this letter is written in her chicken scratch and not my refined hand, if she hasn’t bothered to type up her scribbling for you, like I asked her to do. (The Crab is giving me dirty looks now.)

I am going to die tonight—I feel sure of this. The drugs they shoot into my veins no longer allow me much clarity, and it hurts even to speak these words, so I must be brief. My husband has granted me the strength for these few last sentences, praise be to Jesus Christ.

I love you. I am not mad at you for failing to answer these letters. Maybe you didn’t even receive any of them? Maybe the PO box address I have is no longer current, no one is forwarding your mail, and this last letter will never even be read by your eyes, and yet I will send it anyway, because a mother’s hope is unending.

God has told me that He will take care of you—that your work is not yet finished here on this earth.

And there is the hope of Mother Mary arranging for me to meet your former student, Ms. Portia Kane, who has promised to find you and then do her best to get you back on track. I’ve
given her my crucifix necklace as proof that we have been in contact, so that she might show it to you and you will know that we have been exchanging stories about you, my sweet son.

She is a misguided naive young woman who has suffered much, but her unexpected companionship has been a great comfort in these last days of my life.

I am glad you are not here to see me in this dilapidated withered state, whispering my last words to an old crab of a woman whose handwriting is probably unreadable because it is hard to hold a pen in a claw. Ha ha!

The Crab is giving me another nasty look now, so I must cease joking, because—in all seriousness—she has been a true friend in my time of need, and I have grown to love her very much.

You are a better man than you believe you are.

I love you always and know I will see you again in heaven.

Good-bye for now.

Love and blessings,

Your mother

March 8, 2012

To Mr. Nathan Vernon,

The purpose of this letter is to inform you that your mother has died and gone to heaven, God rest her soul.

She passed into the hands of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, in her bed on the evening of March 7, 2012, almost at the midnight hour. She had the prescribed intravenous medicine, so she did not experience excessive pain.

At Sister Maeve’s request, there will be a closed casket funeral mass given here at the convent on Wednesday, March 14, at 10:00 a.m. I’ve overnighted this letter to you and have delayed the funeral for as many days as I possibly could.

I’ve taken your needs into consideration out of respect for Sister Maeve, and that is the only reason, because, quite frankly, cutting your own mother out of your life simply because she tried to comfort you in your time of need—even if she did use what you consider to be skewed logic—was exceedingly cruel in my humble opinion, and caused her much unnecessary suffering, far worse than the cancer. Granted, I don’t know your side of things, but I do know that she loved you very much, warts and all, and in her time of need you were not here.

Perhaps her many letters did not reach you, and this is all some sort of grand Shakespearean misunderstanding, an Eliza
bethan tragedy, if you will. (I used to teach a high school literature class, too, a long time ago at a school for Catholic girls.) Maybe. But I am fairly certain that there has been no mistake,
and rather, you have simply been weak when your mother needed
you to be strong. Such is the way with men and women, and I’d be a liar if I pretended I was never before weak when others needed me to be a pillar on which many could lean. But your mother was my friend and confidante, so I am not impartial.

There is the funeral, yes, and while it would be decent of you to make an appearance, it might also help you move on from the beating your former student gave you and whatever else has you so stuck.

There is also the rest of your life, which, regardless of your religious views (or lack thereof)—make no mistake about this—is a great gift.

Life is the greatest gift there is.

With life, there is possibility.

The woman who brought you into this world was many things—jealous, proud, quarrelsome, obstinate, myopic, to name but a few of her lesser qualities—but she had a certain talent for spotting the potential in people, the goodness, if you will, that divine spark within all of us, but that for whatever reason is capable of shining a little brighter in the chosen few string pullers God calls to make His mysterious ways possible.

She talked about you incessantly, had us all praying round the clock, which we will continue to do, and insisted that God called you—gave you a gift, one that you used for many years to help others, but then stopped using.

A gift is a great responsibility, a fact that your mother knew well, and such gifts often force us to make sacrifices, be better than we think possible, rise up for the sake of others—and while employing said gifts often makes our lives more complicated than
the lives of others less burdened, we are never more miserable than when we stop using our talents.

Are you happy, Mr. Vernon?

If not, when was the last time you were?

Perhaps you should resume doing what last gave you a sense of purpose and joy?

Put my religious views aside, and you will see that I also am fighting on the side of rationality here.

My condolences on the loss of your mother.

She was a woman of God, and she was my dear friend, however difficult she might have been—and believe me when I say Sister Maeve could be tiresome.

The truth is this: I will miss her deeply.

We hope you will be able to attend the funeral mass. You would be our honored guest.

“He’s real!” the sisters who have been praying so hard and long for you will proclaim when they see you, because your mother’s big talk about her only son has bestowed upon you a mythical quality.

Regardless of all that has transpired, you are welcome here at St. Therese.

All of the necessary information, along with directions from the north, has been listed on the enclosed card for your convenience.

Also, she’s left her Bible to you, along with her beloved photo album, mostly containing pictures of you when you were a little boy. If you will not be attending the funeral, please provide me with an address so I can send you these items.

Love and light,

Mother Catherine Ebling (aka the Crab)

Mother Superior, Sisters of St. Therese

PS. Docendo discimus. (Latin. By teaching, we learn.)