The Virgin

“No, what are you doing here? At the abbey?”

“Oh...long story.”

“Long story?” her mother repeated. “Long story? I haven’t seen or heard from you in two years—”

“You called me a whore, Mom. Did you really think I wanted to keep having that conversation with you?”

Her mother’s spine stiffened visibly.

“That was wrong of me. I was worried about you, and I took what I’d learned about you...badly.”

“Is that an apology?”

“It is.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Elle said, meaning it. Right now she was sorry for everything.

“Forgive me?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” her mother said.

“I’ll forgive you for everything you said to me. And if you remember accurately, calling me a ‘whore’ was just the beginning of that discussion.”

“I overreacted. I had my reasons for overreacting.”

“I know you did,” she said, although she’d had no sympathy for her mother at the time. Everything had been okay between them until one night Søren had driven her home on the back of his motorcycle. Her mother was supposed to be out late at a church function but had got ill and come home early. One glance out the window and she’d seen her daughter kissing a Catholic priest. Elle had been so angry after her mother had called her a “priest’s whore” she’d spilled everything. The sex. The kink. And if her mother dared speak a word of it, Elle would never speak to her again as long as she lived.

The next day Elle had moved out.

“Mom, I need your help with something.”

“How can I help you?” she asked, sounding both concerned and suspicious.

“I need to stay here for a while.”

She shook her head.

“That’s not possible. Only sisters are allowed in the abbey. You shouldn’t even be behind this door.”

“Maybe they can make an exception for me. I can work.”

“Work? How? We do all our own work here. We cook our own food, clean, farm, everything. We don’t hire outside help.”

“But I can help. You don’t have to hire me. I’ll work for free.”

“No, Ellie. I don’t know what you’re into or who you’re in trouble with again—”

“I’m not running from the cops. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m not running away from home, either. I need a place to stay for a while, a safe place.”

“So you didn’t steal any cars this time?”

“No,” she said. “Well, one. But that was more like borrowing. And he’ll get it back.”

“Elle, I don’t have time for your games. I have work to do. I have a life here and you’re not a part of it. You can’t be. You can come to Mass here at the chapel. We can visit once a week. But this is a sacred place, a sanctuary.”

“I need sanctuary.”

“Why? Because you got arrested again?”

“No, Mom. Because I left him.”

Silence.

Total silence.

A great silence even. A silence so loud it echoed off the floors like footsteps. Finally her mother exhaled and crossed herself. Tears shone in her eyes and she whispered, “Benedicta excels Mater Dei, Maria sanctissima.” Elle didn’t know much Latin, but she knew a prayer of thanks to the Virgin Mary when she heard it.

Before she knew it, her mother had wrapped her up in her arms and Elle’s neck was wet with tears. Not her tears but her mother’s. Elle closed her eyes and breathed in the faint, clean scent of talcum powder. Some things were still the same about her mother. The clothes, the hair, even her name...that was all different. But at least her mother smelled the same.

“You can stay, baby,” she whispered. “I’ll make them let you stay.”

“Thank you.” She wanted to cry too but the tears wouldn’t come. She wouldn’t let them. Tears were not welcome here. Elle couldn’t remember the last time her mother had hugged her, had held her like this. Years. It was almost worth it to leave Søren for this one hug alone.

“You really did leave him?” her mother asked again.

“I did,” Elle said.

“For good?” her mother asked.

Elle nodded against her mother’s shoulder.

“Forever.”

7

ELLE’S MOTHER ESCORTED her down hallway after hallway. From the outside, the abbey looked like a gray stone square—three stories high and likely as long as it was wide. The inside, however, was labyrinthine. Every few feet they turned a corner, then another. Winding hallways, unmarked doors. On the walls were crucifixes, icons, shrines, image after image of Saint Monica in various poses, in various mediums. In one mosaic Saint Monica held her son Saint Augustine in her arms. Elle glanced at it only a moment, glanced away quickly.

“Where are we going?” she asked her mother, who hadn’t released her hand this entire time.

“I’m going to the Chapel of Perpetual Adoration. Mother Prioress is there tonight. We’ll need to get her permission to let you stay.”

“Will she give it?”

“She doesn’t like outsiders in the abbey.”

“Is that a no?”

“No, but start praying anyway,” her mother said, and Elle did as she was told.

Elle had a good sense of direction, but by the time they arrived at the chapel, she knew she’d never find her way back to the front door without help. Good. The front door was the gateway to the outside world. It was the last place she wanted to go.