The Four Seasons (11 page)

The car rolled through the countryside without a word of counsel from her father, a man known to be generous with his advice to strangers. It hurt more than she could admit that he didn't offer her what she needed most right now: his love.
Riding in the silent car, glancing at his unyielding profile, Jilly swore that if her father could never forgive her, then she would never forgive him, either. And she would never tell him—or anyone—the truth about the baby's father. Never. It was her secret alone.

The torturous journey at last ended when her father turned the long, sleek Cadillac through a heavy, ornate, black iron gate. Behind it was a hill covered with majestic trees. Jilly sat up in the car, scouting out the unexpected majesty of the entrance. They traveled up a steep, winding road. It was a vast property overlooking a large lake, secluded and absolutely gorgeous. She spied tall wire fences bordered by barbed wire and wondered if they were intended to keep the public out, or the girls in. After a final curve, they passed a large stone grotto carved into the hill that was dedicated to the Virgin. The irony wasn't lost on Jilly. Just beyond, the road flattened and they pulled into a large, well-plowed parking area.

A severe, redbrick building stood isolated on top of the snow-crusted hill. Though the woods were close, not a tree or shrub broke the slab of blacktop that stretched right up to the front door. Four unshuttered windows were lined across the top two floors and three more below them. A single white door was at the right, a single-bulb light fixture affixed over it. This was a no-nonsense, no-frills place. This was Marian House.

“Here we are,” her father said, pulling into a parking space. Theirs was the only car in the lot. He heaved a sigh of relief, glanced her way, then said, “It seems a decent place.”

It wasn't the derelict flophouse she'd expected, but neither was it welcoming. Nervous, with a feeling of dread, she opened the car door and stepped out, careful not to slip on an ice patch. She trembled as she obediently followed her father to the
entrance, wanting to disappear inside her voluminous coat while he rang the bell.

“Hello and welcome,” said the diminutive, elderly nun who opened the door. The woman only reached her father's chest and had to bend her head far back to smile into his face. Her own face had that paper-thin, pasty-white color unique to elderly nuns, but her eyes shone a brilliant blue from behind wireless glasses.

“I'm Sister Celestine. You must be Mr. Season. And you must be Jillian.”

She appeared outwardly meek, all sweet smiles and welcomes, but from the moment she rested her laser-sharp gaze on her, Jilly knew that Sister Celestine was the force to be reckoned with at Marian House.

“We expected you at eleven,” she said through a hard smile, her tone laced with reprimand. “Lunch is due to start in twenty minutes and Jillian and I are expected in the dining hall. We'll just have time for a brief tour.”

Turning with a swish of her long black habit, she walked quickly into a large recreation room with forest-green-and-white linoleum flooring and modern 1960s-style woodframe couches and armchairs upholstered in bright orange, brown and gold nubby fabric. They lined the walls and formed a semicircle before a large, old television. There weren't any magazines on the flat, wood coffee tables, only the
Catholic Observer
newspaper and a few Bibles.

“This is the rec room,” she said with pride as she whisked them through.

Jilly thought it had the immaculate, cold aura of a hospital waiting room.

“You may watch television in the afternoons and in the evening until ten o'clock,” she said, leading them across the highly
polished floors. “The phone is located outside my office in the stairwell. It's a pay phone and you may use it until ten o'clock. We don't want the noise to disturb the girls who retire early.”

They entered another large room with a small L-shaped kitchen and two metal-and-vinyl dinette tables. This was the snack room.

“Here the girls can make snacks when they're hungry. But no cooking is allowed,” Sister Celestine warned. “You may heat up water for coffee or tea. There's a refrigerator for juice and milk and plenty of apples that you can help yourself to. Did you know there is an orchard on the grounds? In the fall, the girls help to pick the apples for applesauce.”

Jilly smiled and thought how glad she was it was winter.

For the most part Sister Celestine directed her comments to her father, while casting little more than a few, quick assessing glances her way. He towered over the nun as they walked quickly through the rooms on the first floor, never removing his coat and holding his hat in his hand, as though looking for a quick getaway. He was polite and listened courteously but had no comments or questions. Jilly followed them, virtually unnoticed, carrying her coat over her belly, craning her neck from left to right as she passed through the rooms, each one more cold than the next. This would be her new home.

Men were not allowed upstairs in the private rooms of the girls, but Sister Celestine showed her father a small guest room on the first floor so that he could get an idea. She assured him that the austere room with two narrow beds covered in a dull green cotton coverlet with a crucifix overhead was typical.

“Lights are out at ten o'clock. We rise early for daily mass at six-thirty with the other nuns in the chapel. On Sundays, the girls can sleep in until eight o'clock since we celebrate high mass at nine.” She seemed to think this an enormous treat.

Jilly bit her tongue and smiled again. She hated to rise before eleven on the weekends. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the next few months?

“The old high school is that small building across the parking lot. We are fortunate to have retired teaching sisters who can provide tutoring for our girls. We have Jillian's transcripts and curriculum and I feel sure we can keep her from falling behind. The younger girls are required to take advantage of this program. It's optional for the high school graduates. In addition, we feel it's necessary to instruct all the girls in religion and health.” She fixed him with a commiserating look.

Her father's lips tightened and he turned to look at Jilly for the first time since they'd begun their tour. She could see the shame in his eyes that he, a respected judge, an upstanding Catholic who sent his children to Catholic schools and went to mass every Sunday, had a pregnant daughter who had to be instructed in religion. And “health” was clearly a euphemism for a refresher course on pregnancy, childbirth and abstinence.

Sister Celestine then made her way back to the front door, ending the brief tour.

“The dining hall is shared with the novitiate across the way,” she indicated with a brief wave of her hand. “I'm afraid I can't show you that, Mr. Season.”

“There's a novitiate here?” Jilly asked. No one had told her she'd be living with nuns.

“Oh, yes, of course. This building is just a small part of a much larger complex of buildings here. This was once an old family estate,” she explained. “The order purchased the property in 1960 to become the motherhouse. We've added on wings to the original mansion to house and educate the novices in training. Farther down the road is a conference center and the nursing-retirement home for the elderly nuns.”

Jilly looked out the window but could see nothing but a glimpse of brick beyond the thick wall of pine and spruce. Apparently, they didn't want the sinners to mix with the saints.

“This was once a high school for girls who had aspirations of entering the sisterhood,” Sister Celestine continued. “But sadly, the numbers were dropping so precipitously that, a few years ago, we had to close the school. Instead the order opened Marian House to meet another need of the community.” Sister Celestine sighed and clasped her hands together. “It's a sign of the times, I'm afraid.”

She cast a loaded glance at Jilly. She didn't have to say that the new residents of Marian House were a far cry from the sweet, naive virgins who used to inhabit these halls.

Her father looked out the window toward his car.

Jilly looked past her belly at her polished shoes. The tour had ended, and though brief, Sister Celestine had efficiently demolished the last shreds of Jilly's self-esteem and put her firmly in her place.

“I think it's best to say your goodbyes now,” Sister Celestine said, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her habit. “Jillian and I have a few things to discuss before lunch and we've run out of time. Meals are served punctually.”

She didn't leave the room but stepped back a few feet to allow them a small measure of privacy. As it was, privacy wasn't needed. Her father stepped closer, placed his hands on her shoulders in a fatherly gesture and looked into her eyes.

A tenderness passed between them that crossed the barriers of anger and recrimination. She saw in his eyes that he loved her, was sad that this had all happened, and also disappointed. Jilly held her breath, waiting for the words of love or advice that she so desperately needed to hear. She wanted to tell him that she was terrified of living here in this impersonal place with
these strangers, of adapting to this nun's institutional lifestyle while her belly grew and grew. Most of all, she wanted him to know she didn't know anything about having a baby. Wasn't this the time when a girl needed her parents most of all? All this she tried to convey in her eyes. Her throat ached from holding back the torrent of words.

From outside she heard the tolling of a church bell. Twelve bongs, calling the nuns to lunch.

The moment ended. He was the dignified judge again. He bent to kiss her cheek with dry lips. “Goodbye, Jillian. We'll be back to pick you up after…” He stumbled with the words. “When you're ready to leave,” he amended.

She stood in the doorway and watched him go. He walked quickly and didn't stop at the car door to wave. Jilly gripped the door's wood frame, fighting the urge to run crying after him.
Daddy, don't go! I'll be good. I'm sorry! Take me home
.

“Jillian? Won't you come this way, please? And bring your bag.”

Jilly turned to face Sister Celestine, startled from her thoughts. The other woman was smiling, but her tone allowed for no disobedience. Jilly picked up her small suitcase and hurried to follow the rustling habit to a small office at the edge of the stairwell. Inside, there was barely room for the wooden desk and two chairs.

Sister Celestine took the seat behind the desk, briskly indicating for Jillian to take the seat opposite. Once settled, she offered a weak smile then looked at her watch, clearly aware of the ticking away of each moment.

“We hope you'll have as pleasant a stay as possible, under the circumstances,” she began, getting right down to business. “Now then, I have all your paperwork here, but let me go over a few points.” She picked up a fountain pen and unscrewed the top. “Your due date is…”

“May 1.”

She checked this on her paper. “You've been under a doctor's care?”

“Yes. Dr. Applebee. In Evanston.” She flushed, remembering how shocked and humiliated she'd been during her obstetric exam. She'd closed her eyes and choked back the tears as his ironlike fingers probed and poked her tender skin, hurting her, not offering any friendly words to try to calm her down. When he was done, he'd looked at her with thinly veiled disapproval. “Next time, use a condom,” he'd said before he left the room.

“You will visit a doctor every Monday while you're here,” Sister Celestine said. “And there is a staff of nurses at the sisters' nursing home should an emergency arise. St. Francis is the hospital where you'll deliver. It's close by and they know our girls. We usually escort the girls by private ambulance service.”

Ambulance? Jilly hadn't even thought that far into the future. She had horrid visions of spinning red lights and sirens.

“And you're still decided to release the baby, I assume?”

Jilly squeezed her hands together in her lap. This was the moment. Her mother wasn't beside her like a guard. Now was her chance to ask the question she'd most wanted to ask when her mother filled out the adoption forms.

“Is there any way…I mean, what if I want to keep my baby?” She took a deep breath, waiting for the reply.

Sister Celestine was not pleased. Her lips compressed and she glanced again at her watch before answering the question.

“Now, Jillian,” she said in a tone that thinly disguised her frustration. “I'm sure this has all been explained to you. It would be very difficult, even impossible for you to offer this baby the same respectable home and lifestyle that adoptive parents could provide. We will make certain that your child goes to a family of similar ethnic background and appearance.
And the child will be raised Catholic, of course. Why—” she smiled perfunctorily, as though delivering a well-rehearsed punch line “—we'll even try to find a parent with green eyes and red hair like yours.”

When Jilly didn't smile, Sister Celestine frowned and glanced at the papers on her desk. “Your parents have made it clear that it is their wish that the child be put up for adoption.”

Jilly clenched her hands tighter. “I understand.”

Sister Celestine looked up now, solicitous. “Think of what it would mean to the child to be raised as illegitimate. A bastard. That is a crude term, but we both know the child will hear it. The adoptive parents will want your child. He or she will complete their family. They will provide a better home than you could for this child. And we must keep in mind that the child's needs should come first. Truly, if you love your baby you will give him up.”