The Guineveres (47 page)

But I will soon.

For this is Guinevere's Revival Story. I've written it down for her, all of it, so that when she turns eighteen and leaves the convent she'll know she was loved, by me, by all of us. She'll know she was never alone, not for a single day. She'll know the answers to how she came to be a ward of the Sisters of the Supreme Adoration, and why. Because that's what we all go on seeking in life—the whys. It's the one question for which we may never have the answer, and we turn to faith, so we can keep on asking without seeming redundant. This is my gift to Guinevere: the truth of our stories, the truth of her life. Because if she knows it, the good and the ugly, perhaps she'll be spared the seeking. After all, there's a lot of living to do out in the world, and I'm counting on her to do it.

As for me, I've stayed on at the convent as a layperson, working in the kitchen mostly. I'd like to think that the food these days tastes far superior than when I lived in the Bunk Room as a girl. No more colorless vegetables; no more canned fruit. I've grown a garden out back in the courtyard, replacing the old shoe planters with raised vegetable beds. Sometimes the garden yields so many zucchinis that we can't eat them all before they spoil. I make breads and cakes for the girls, and still have plenty of vegetables to give away. It's an embarrassment of riches, a problem of abundance, and those are the best problems to have.

Once a week I cook for Father James, too, up in the rectory's kitchen. He's a changed man now—stopped drinking years ago, shortly after the War ended, not too long after Gwen left. He experienced his own Revival, and he redoubled his devotion to the priesthood, despite the path that brought him there. He's grown patient and wise, and he treats the young girls well. He realizes he made mistakes, and he's tried hard to correct them. I can't say he feels like a father to me, but he does feel like a friend.

“Do you know why Gwen did it?” he asked me one day, out of the blue. We'd just returned from mass. Now the altar girls and altar boys serve side by side, as if these things happened all along. As though The Guineveres weren't special.

I hadn't considered the question in years, not since Gwen's Boy died and his remains were shipped away to be buried properly with other unknowns. I wrote Gwen to tell her; it seemed like the right thing to do, despite everything. She wrote me back a short note and thanked me.
P.S. Tell Guinevere I say hello,
the letter read. She didn't ask about her daughter, or what kind of young girl she's become. I'm not sure if she doesn't care or if it's too painful or if she's too ashamed. I don't want her to be sorry for any of it. I don't. Guinevere is a beautiful girl. She's a strong girl, too.

“I guess it doesn't matter, Father,” I said.

“But don't you want to know?” he asked.

I remembered how Gwen could hardly bear to look at the scars on Her Boy's face. I was imagining those scars now, the way they oozed, how they were deep and cavernous, as if he hid his secrets in there. “Maybe we'll never know,” I said.

“She confessed it to me,” he said. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he was willing to break confessional confidentiality for our friendship. But I also knew that if he told me, I could never trust the sacrament of confession again, my one solace over the years. When I feel things, I confess them—and, like that, the weight lifts away from me. That's the beautiful power of absolution. It's not so much about the ritual as it is about the need to unburden our stories onto someone who will carry the weight for us.

“It doesn't matter now,” I said. “And besides, I forgive her.”

“You do?”

“I thought forgiveness was our duty, Father,” I said.

“It is. Don't be mistaken,” he added. His hair is gray now, no longer dyed, and I think it looks better this way, even if he looks older than his age. “It's just … forgiveness isn't a natural human propensity.”

“Then perhaps you should make me a saint, Father,” I said, my face warming.

“Perhaps I will. The Patron Saint of Chicken Pot Pie,” he said and took a heaping mouthful of the meal I had prepared him.

When Guinevere turns eighteen soon, I'll be sure she's sent to college. I tell her to go on, go on, and never look back. Don't be like Lot's wife, who turned into a pillar of salt. Look forward; look ahead. She's got her whole life still, and I'll tell her to find someone to love, then love like it's her duty. Love like her heart will explode if she doesn't, like the world will catch on fire. It won't always be easy, I'll tell her. All humans have flaws, and we must love these flaws, too. Such dedication love requires. Such surrender. Love is its own kind of religion, but it's the most rewarding one.

My Boy still sleeps soundly. I used to count the days. But Saint Th
é
r
è
se of Lisieux says when one loves, one does not calculate, and so I've stopped. Instead, I measure the days with affections: I wash him with a cloth, I shave him carefully, I speak to him while he dreams. When nobody else is around, I speckle his cheeks with kisses. His skin has grown taut and his jaw angular; he no longer resembles a boy. I knead his hands and feet to keep his circulation moving. He's so warm. Sometimes my body grows stiff from sitting beside him for long stretches, and in this way I believe I'm closer to him—I can feel what he feels, the stillness of it. In those moments, I close my eyes and imagine the way his eyes looked when they were open, the way his smile spread slowly across his face like the sun cresting on the horizon. I can still hear his voice as he asked me my name. It's a form of meditation, this remembering.

He hasn't awoken yet, but he will; I know he will. I'll wait. And when he wakes, I'll say: Look, look! I'm the only Guinevere here. I loved you most of all.

 

Acknowledgments

I've been extraordinarily fortunate for the support of so many individuals, and this book wouldn't exist without them. My sincerest gratitude to the following:

My fantastic agent, Michelle Brower, for seeing the promise in this book and for being my champion every step of the way;

Everyone at Flatiron Books, especially my editor, Amy Einhorn. Working with you has been a dream. Also special thanks to Caroline Bleeke for your thoughtful guidance and to Lauren Harms and Amelia Possanza;

Early readers of bare-boned drafts, in particular Nicola Mason and Annie Hwang;

The Sewanee Writers' Conference, and all those there who workshopped the first chapters of the book, especially Margot Livesey;

My early teachers: Valerie Combs and Katharine Gillespie. You'll never know how much your encouragement meant to me;

The Ph.D. program in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati for providing a supportive and challenging environment where writers can flourish. Thanks in particular to Brock Clarke for his mentorship and generosity and to Michael Griffith and Jana Braziel;

Lauren Bailey, for your sisterly camaraderie and wisdom. And to Julie Gerk Hernandez and Kelcey Parker Ervick, for your humor, intellect, and spark. I cherish our friendships;

Other friends who have inspired me in both writing and life, including: Jody Bates, Natalie Lamberjack, Kathy Bradley, Kirk Boyle, Liz Tilton, Susan Steinkamp, Darrin Doyle, Laura Van Prooyan, and Annie Jablonski, who once gifted me with a (now dog-eared) copy of
Lives of the Saints
;

My parents, Luke and Sally, for your unconditional love and your staggering kindness. I'll always be grateful. And to Kevin, Molly, Shelby, Mary Ann, Luke, and, in particular, Laura, who shared with me her own (hilarious) experiences as an altar girl while I was writing this book. I'm glad you're all my family;

Saskia, my daughter, who has been my lucky charm from the start. I wrote this book for you, even before we met;

And last, but always: my husband and first reader, Rob, the most compelling person I know. You believed in me from the earliest days. Thank you for dusting off your English degree and hunkering down for the long haul. You're a partner in the truest sense. I can't believe my luck in love.

 

About the Author

Sarah Domet
holds a Ph.D. in literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati and lives in Savannah, Georgia.
The Guineveres
is her first novel.

Visit her on the Web at
sarahdomet.com
or sign up for email updates
here
.

 

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

The Assumption

Saint Rose of Lima

Penance

Ginny's Revival

Sacrifice

All Saints'

Thanksgiving

Saint Cecelia

Advent

Communion

Win's Revival

Baptism

Saint Irmina and Saint Adela

The Vigil

Saint Ita

Ordinary Time

Involuntary Doubt

Saint Agatha

Lent

Easter

Gwen's Revival

The Ascension

Saint Alice

Eternity

The Feast of Saints Peter and Paul

Saint Christina the Astonishing

The Assumption

My Revival

Absolution

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE GUINEVERES.
Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Domet. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.flatironbooks.com

Cover design by Lauren Harms

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Names: Domet, Sarah, author.

Title: The Guineveres / Sarah Domet.

Description: First edition. | New York: Flatiron Books, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016016414 | ISBN 9781250086617 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250086600 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Female friendship—Fiction. | Teenage girls—Fiction. | Convents—Fiction. | Orphans—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Coming of Age. | FICTION / Family Life. | GSAFD: Bildungsromans.