chapter FOUR

Grace

The heavy rainfall outside mimics the flood of tears flowing down my cheeks. I’ve asked for a miracle, for Mother Gertrude to have a change of heart, but how can I fight what is already destined to happen?

I make my bed with the heaviest heart, much like when I first got here. It’s ironic that my arrival ten years ago was under the cloak of darkness while my departure now is clouded by the mist of rain. I change into a pair of black slacks, a white button-down blouse with long sleeves, and a blue cardigan. The only shoes I own—a pair of black flats—adorn my feet. It is simple and plain, just like me. As I walk toward the door, my eyes land on the offending luggage. I purposely placed it further away from me to stave off the desire to empty it of its contents.

I step out of my room and inhale deeply. I convince myself to enjoy the moment instead of focusing on my impending departure.

Once I enter the kitchen, Sisters Mary Ellen and Lois approach me with controlled excitement. Both envelop me in their arms and squeeze me a little tighter. A lot longer than their usual morning hugs.

“We made your favorite—pancakes with glazed pecans and chocolate milk,” Sister Mary Ellen semi-whispers. Her giddiness is so infectious, I giggle along with her. She’s a spunky sixty-five-year-old nun from New York.

Sister Lois is from Carmel, California. A quiet woman with a gentle heart. She’s more refined than Sister Mary Ellen even though they share the same birthday and age.

“I baked your favorite oatmeal cookies, too—you know, to take for the long trip.”

“Thank you so much,” I say with a forced smile.

Some hate good-byes, but I have learned to love it. Perhaps because I wasn’t given the chance to give a proper one to my parents. Through the years, I’ve seen older nuns pass on, but before they crossed over, I always bid them a heartfelt farewell. Whispering the most longed for and coveted three words in all time and space. Words I failed to utter back to my parents.

As my belly gets fuller, my heart becomes this empty vessel thumping against my chest. Seconds after I put down my empty glass, Sister Anne enters the kitchen with a somber look on her face.

“Mother Superior wants you, Grace.”

This is the talk I have been afraid of. I lament for its beginning and fear for its end. Sister Anne and I walk in silence to Mother Gertrude’s office. She smiles confidently before knocking on the thick red-stained door. Slowly, I push it open and timidly step in.

“Come here, Grace.” Her outstretched arms prompt my feet to move.

We fall into each other’s arms, and together, we start our good-bye with tears in our eyes.

“Oh, dear child, for ten years, I’ve worried for this moment. Forgive me for being selfish but I didn’t want to lose you.” She cups my cheeks and gives them a tender squeeze. “Your presence here has opened my heart to a new calling. That feeling of mothering and loving an innocent, carefree child.” She wipes the tears from my cheeks. “While I am not your mother, in my soul, you’re my child. I hope, through the years, my love has erased your fears. I hope, through the years, my answers have cleared your doubts. I pray, that through the years, my hopes have become yours. So, now that you’re leaving, take my love and my prayers with you. Face the world with the love we’ve shown you. Understand it with the eyes we’ve colored for you. But, more than anything, live how he designed it for you.”

As I listen to her words, I force my heart to accept my new reality. A reality without her next to me. Without the walls of the abbey for protection. Without the grotto as my refuge.

She pours out her benediction to me with words of hope to cover my doubts and of love to overcome my fears.

“I love you,” I manage to say through the golf-sized ball that has found its home in my throat. “Thank you for loving me, for teaching me, for opening your doors to me, for giving me a place rich in love and void of fear. I will never forget you, Mother Gertrude. Never.”

She smiles through her tears as I do the same. Then, all too soon, that clearing of the throat breaks our silent bubble.

“Excuse me, Mother Gertrude. Your nephew is here.”

The period for our final good-bye is given by Sister Bertha. She also has my luggage and guitar case with her.

Once I set foot outside of Mother Gertrude’s study, a long line of waiting nuns greets me. A few dozen arms hug me good-bye and none with dry eyes. As the sea of women in black parts, a tall, formidable warrior with a stoic face, dark brown hair closely cut to his scalp, a jaw covered in stubble, and soft honey-colored eyes meet mine. His smile is blinding. Welcoming. Yet his soft browns hide something painful. Something deep.

“Hi. I’m Phoenix Hayes. Nix for short.”

He stretches his hand and Sister Mary Ellen nudges me to take it.

“Hi. I’m Grace Carmichael.”

We continue to shake hands while the nuns stare and wait with bated breath. The longer I stare into his eyes, the more they lull me into a deep state of tranquility.

“Say, Nice to meet you,” Sister Mary Ellen whispers, accompanied by a pinch to my side.

“Er…um…nice to meet you.”

The corner of his lips tips upward. “The pleasure is all mine.” The deep timbre of his voice is unfamiliar yet a pleasant music to my ears.

Mother Gertrude gives her blessings to my new caretaker and motions for us to walk down the long and narrow corridor that leads to the gate. With Mother Gertrude and Sister Bertha ahead of us, a herd of women looking like penguins marches behind us. I giggle internally, thinking some do walk like one.