The Divine Economy of Salvation (9 page)

With various holidays about to begin, the choir sheets were put to use. I understood immediately why Bella had been given all the solos. None of the girls teased Bella about her talent. I'm not sure if that was because she was so good or if they were afraid of the nuns, who were enormously proud to have such a gem to show off to the parents. We all enjoyed her singing; it was impossible not to. When she sang, it was nearly impossible to think. She had the ability to clear one's thoughts with her voice, which filled the church, and she could hold a single note for what seemed like an eternity. When we passed each other in the hallways of the school or the dormitory, I was amazed that such an ordinary creature could move others so effortlessly, with nothing but her voice. Bella and Rachel were complete opposites, but I suspected Bella possessed a power even Rachel didn't. I just couldn't put my finger on it. There was a calmness to her face when she sang, not unlike the look of serenity she had in the classroom busy at her work. I'd never seen that look on someone of my own age before, only on my mother when she spoke of God.

On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, we had choir practice in the afternoons and calisthenics in the mornings. On Thursdays and Fridays the activities were reversed. It was said that
Mother Superior liked to send the girls home a little tired, to prove they had studied hard during the week, that the nuns had earned their keep. There were many tests, and lots of little reports we had to write on a weekly basis for school, but the tests Rachel set up for us girls were more rigorous and anticipated and held much more anxiety for me than a future report card to my parents. As I relied more and more on The Sisterhood, pleasing my parents mattered less and less. I wanted to please Rachel. We all had to come up with new ways of amusing ourselves, ways to go further in our advancement as young women. One night we kissed our arms until we produced bruises, wearing our sleeves proudly rolled up the next day in class; on another night we each came to the meeting with a boy's real telephone number; on a third we had come prepared to strip down to the nude, but we didn't entirely, cracking up in our underwear before uncovering our pubic hair. One night, I remember, Rachel found a condom and we unrolled it together, sticky on our hands, and filled it with water in the washroom. My idea of what a penis would actually look like was warped by this experiment; I thought it was round with a tip on the end like a breast. We acted like we knew everything.

Caroline, at sixteen, was the oldest among us. She had been kept back a grade when she first moved to an English school. Francine was the second oldest, fifteen, and had the most developed body of the four, her breasts larger than her hips, her armpits and legs requiring shaving twice a week instead of every other week like the rest of us. Rachel, like me, was fourteen, but I was younger than Rachel by three months. Regardless, Rachel acted as if she were the
oldest; she claimed to have lost her virginity the year before, and this left the three of us in awe. When we filled the condom with water, Rachel said she hadn't used one that first time because the boy was too excited and dirtied it by dropping it on the ground. Then she burst the condom on the floor and we howled back to her room, unsure whether she was joking or not. I was the least womanly in our group; I hadn't yet gotten my period. I was beginning to fear I never would. The girls and I tried everything we could think of to speed things along: a hot bath, doing a headstand after a shower and then getting up quickly, wearing a tighter bra and pants in the hopes I'd produce the proper cramps, drinking three cups of tea a day. Nothing worked, and I began to fear that despite my biology I might end up being no different from a boy.

By Thanksgiving weekend, a few weeks after my arrival at the school, I still hadn't returned to my family. When I phoned home, my mother said that Christine had visited earlier in the week but my father was being paid overtime for working on the holiday and the extra money was needed. I was about to point out that all this money wouldn't be necessary if they hadn't sent both their daughters away, but decided against it. I hated upsetting my mother in her condition, though I did feel she deserved to feel bad for leaving me alone on a holiday. My loyalty had shifted over the weeks, The Sisterhood becoming a new family to me, yet it hadn't disappeared. The holiday triggered an immense longing to be with my real family again. I tried to hide my disappointment. “Your father's taking good care of me,” she reassured me. There was a great deal of static and background noise, and my mother coughed
several times during the conversation. “It's the television,” she said, and quickly got off the phone.

Caroline and Francine went home for the holiday, but Rachel stayed behind. Her father came to join us for a special meal with the nuns. I'd met Rachel's father when he took us to the movies the day after I stole the red bra for his daughter. Since then he'd taken us to the Market for milkshakes and on other short excursions. I was one of a group of six or seven girls on those occasions, so he offered me little individual attention beyond asking my name and whether I liked the school or wanted any popcorn. He paid for us all, and I was flabbergasted by the amount of money he seemed to have on him at all times. I also noticed that he never asked the price of anything before purchasing it. When we strolled down to the cafeteria together for the holiday dinner, Rachel and I were practically the only girls left, except for twin sisters in the youngest grade whose mother was in the hospital delivering another child.

“What a beautiful way to celebrate Thanksgiving,” Sister Aline said warmly as we ate our turkey dinners. The nuns themselves had prepared the meal, the cafeteria staff off for the holiday.

“Yes,” said the twins in unison. But they didn't seem happy or thankful. Neither was I.

“Angela,” commented Mr. M., “You don't seem to be enjoying this delicious cranberry sauce.” He was dressed for the bank, where he worked as the manager: a three-piece suit with a tie and a silver lapel pin with a miniature carnation tucked inside. His auburn hair was parted to the right and a bit greasy. He smelled strongly of cologne.

“It's good,” I replied, scooping another spoonful to prove I believed what I'd said. Rachel was having no trouble eating; she acted like it was any other day.

“Are your parents on a trip, Angela?” Mr. M. asked absently.

Rachel poked her father's arm. “Is Mother on a trip?” she said wryly.

“Rachel,” scolded Mr. M. “I'm asking Angela a question.” Rachel returned to cutting her turkey meat into thin slices, her head bent.

The question caught me off guard. Regardless of the presence of Rachel and Mr. M. on this day, I felt so alone in the cafeteria filled with nuns and without my parents, I barely managed to contain my tears. I'd never spent a holiday away from them. We always ate together at the table, my mother saying grace, and afterwards we would watch television together, play a game, or go for a walk. Thanksgiving was my mother's favourite holiday. “The Sisters of Mercy taught me the value of every thing in God's world. Every living thing is worth giving thanks over,” she would say. I wanted to be thankful for everything she loved, but I wasn't. I was resentful.

I turned to Mr. M., hoping he might save me from my loneliness if he knew the truth. “My mother's very sick, Mr. M., and my father works a lot.”

Rachel stopped cutting to scrutinize me, to figure out if I was putting her father on. I hadn't told her or anyone about my mother yet. I broke open a dinner roll and laid a thick mound of butter upon it with my knife. Mother Superior asked me to hand over the butter dish when I was done, a request I obeyed automatically, passing it
across Sister Aline and another nun at the table whose name I didn't know. They waited until Mother Superior had finished garnishing her meal before adding seasoning to theirs.

“Say a prayer for them then. I'm sure you'll see them soon.” Mr. M. dumped more of the sweet cranberry sauce onto my plate. “It'll do you good.”

My sadness must have been palpable, because Rachel accepted what I'd said about my mother. “Father,” she said, spooning another helping of the dry mashed potatoes, “why don't we take care of Angela until her parents are able to come for her? She's been here every weekend, you know.”

I whipped my head in Mr. M.'s direction. I was shocked by Rachel's suggestion, but also deeply touched. “You can be sisters,” Mr. M. said, smiling broadly in the direction of the nuns at our table, who seemed neither pleased nor displeased but returned his smile with polite nods.

“Sisters,” said Rachel again.

“Sisters,” I echoed, sounding the word on my tongue. Rachel and I were choosing to be sisters. The word meant something more to me now. The Sisterhood was a club name; ours was a pact. If I could have no mother, then I'd have a sister. As we ate, I didn't know which I longed for more. I felt love for Rachel then, genuine love. I felt blessed.

Sister Yolande, the religion and geography teacher of the grade lower than ours, who was a little hard of hearing, turned around from her table, wondering who it was that might be calling her.

PARISHIONERS ARRIVE EARLY FOR
morning Mass, determined to have first choice of the rummage-sale items. The Sisters working at the event run like chickens, pecking here and there through the boxes, putting together the final touches. They pour the complimentary tea and coffee, find extra chairs for some of the booths, retag the items whose labels have disappeared in the shuffle. The parishioners bring in the cold, shivering, as the weather has grown aloof, the sun hiding behind the clouds, a chill wind blowing. Snow has finally fallen, flecks of white on the hibernating ground. Father B. has to go out on the ladder to rehang one side of the white banner, which has gone askew in the night. It reads “Rummage Sale” and is hung over the regular banner, which declares “Returning Catholics Welcome.” The Sunday school children made the banner as an exercise for the church. They filled in the letters with dark-blue paint, and most of them miraculously stayed within the red outlines, the youngest students sent to paint on sheets hung up in the basement classroom and not meant for public display.

Regardless of our regular banner's mandate, the rummage sale draws our most loyal worshippers as well as people from the neighbourhood who've never attended Mass, who aren't returning Catholics or Catholics at all. You can tell the latter by the way they avoid Father B. as he weaves around the tables chatting about other upcoming spiritual events sponsored by the church—a marital seminar or father-son outing. The outsiders chat with the Sisters about the items for sale, asking whether a colour suits their complexion, if we've read the book, or how many pieces are missing from the dinner set. The regular worshippers do the same, but are more cunning about it because they know they will run into us again in the following weeks. They check underneath linings, examine shirts for stains or missing buttons, read the backs of the novels and cookbooks feigning disinterest, tell the Sisters they will buy a damaged item at the asking price in order to help charity. The doors on rummage-sale day are open to everyone. We don't care where the money comes from as long as we can put it to good use.

Kim insists on letting me sit on the stool, although her back has been bothering her. She went to see Sister Ursula about it and is supposed to be doing exercises in the morning to help alleviate the pain. She showed me her pamphlet with crude stick drawings of pregnant women kneeling and stretching on the floor and against the wall. The instructions are highlighted in yellow ink. Sister Sarah even acquired a blue mat for Kim to do her exercises upon. Kim drinks the decaffeinated coffee that Sister Josie has made especially for her, ignoring the cup of ginseng tea that Sister Celeste brought and which Kim sniffed with a forced smile.

“She thinks I'll drink it 'cause I'm Korean,” she says, pushing it to the side of our table. “It smells like dirty socks.”

I am getting used to Kim. She has slowly seeped into my routine. Father B. knew this would happen. It is difficult when living and working with someone not to form attachments of some kind. I'm prone to hiding out, and being responsible for Kim has forced me to leave my room, go through the motions of a day. I find myself walking past Kim's room on the second floor when I have no other business to do there, sitting near her at meals, or waiting in the orchard for her to come out, hoping she'll keep me company as I watch the people going by. I'm worried about her and her baby and what will become of them. I know she has spoken to Father B. about the possibility of adoption. Sister Maria let that get around. Apparently Kim dropped the subject when Father B. told her she should speak to Mr. Q. if that was her decision. Abortion, of course, has never been discussed. The Sisters know there are ways to make it appear like an accident, and this is part of the reason we never leave Kim alone for too long—and part of the reason no one questions me about seeking out Kim's company over theirs. Alone at night, in the privacy of her room, however, Kim could probably do much damage. There's no telling what her dreams reveal, trapped with that baby in her belly. There's no telling if she feels the least responsible to this life, something inside her she's not seen, doesn't know. She won't be able to avoid Mr. Q. and his programs forever, but she does her best, and I admire her resolve. She is determined to do things her way.

I even brought her with me when I went to the library, under
the premise that books would help her use her time in a valuable manner, but really so that I could use the computers there. I asked the staff if they could help me locate addresses on the Internet, thinking it might be more fruitful than the telephone book. But the World Wide Web proved equally unproductive. There were too many entries for each name, and I had no way of knowing whether I'd identified the right person without actually sending an e-mail message. To do that, the librarian explained, I would need to open an account. It would have my name on it. I didn't like that idea. I looked around and saw countless young people glued to their terminals, pressing keys and changing screens without anxiety or bewilderment. I realized then that the people I'm looking for might be as unfamiliar with the Internet as I am. I had brought Kim with me but I couldn't ask her for help. How could I explain my predicament? That I am filled with dread because I am sure someone is looking for me to accuse me of a crime. I almost wished she were my partner in this search, so I could share my burden with her, but she is only my alibi, and an unwitting one at that. It's becoming clear that I am a bad detective, whereas the person wishing to contact me has done so without leaving a trace. No other anonymous messages have been received since; no other clues. At the library, Kim ended up in the horror novel section but had the good sense not to ask me to take out any of those books on my card. If you want those, I told her, there will be plenty at the rummage sale. Before we left, she haphazardly selected a pile of recent best-selling novels and a book about the emotional life of animals. The cover had a picture of an elephant holding white
bones in its trunk. I shook my head at her taste but checked them out anyway.