The room has been ransacked.
My mattress is askew and all of my drawers have been opened and dumped out. My wardrobe contains nothing but open hangers. The desk drawers are hanging open and my laptop is face-down in the corner.
None of that really surprises me. I hope my laptop isn’t damaged, but I actually expected them to go through my stuff. And, to be honest, they really didn’t do that thorough a job. None of the furniture is moved. The bed hasn’t been stripped or slashed. The curtains haven’t been taken down.
This is a warning. “We’re watching you.”
I step around it all and find a black cardigan to cover my sweaty shirt and close my door again.
“Let’s go,” I tell Mona. She leads me up a level and toward the center of the building. We just make it inside and find seats at the last table before a priest stands up to give grace.
Mona and I keep our heads down throughout our meal, eating slowly. “My room was searched,” I mumble quietly, keeping my dinner roll in front of my mouth in case we’re being watched.
“Are you surprised?” she whispers back.
“No,” I take a tiny nibble and pat my lips, “Doesn’t look like they found or took anything. Was a warning more than anything else.”
“Keep dawdling over dinner,” she tells me, “We want to be in the back pew for evening Mass.”
We do and we are. Mona guides me through when to stand and when to sit and when to answer back. It’s not that bad, really. Mass is supposed to last an hour, but we are done in forty minutes. Mona pulls me quickly around a corner and poofs us directly into my room.
“Grab your stuff and go take your shower,” she tells me, “I’ll start cleaning up in here.”
“Thanks,” I smile and take my toiletries bag and pajamas into the shower. I’m already running conditioner through my hair before anyone else comes in.
The women are chatting to themselves in Italian – laughing and giggling quietly. Other showers turn on and my water pressure goes down.
I finish quickly and grab my towel to dry off. My arms and face are so dry they itch, so I grab my lotion and apply a generous amount. Maria was very thorough.
Once outside, I nod at the woman waiting for my stall and dress quickly. I decided to go for a man-style PJ set in fuzz-backed satin. They’re modest and light enough that I won’t swelter in the late-May heat. But the lining keeps them from clinging anywhere. They’re black with various medical-cause ribbons patterned over them. Surely that’s innocent enough?
I wrap my hair up in my towel and move to the sink to brush my teeth. There’s a woman at the other end of the vanity – completely naked – sponge-bathing herself with a washcloth and a sink full of soapy water. She’s old and her breasts hang to her waist.
I blush and avert my eyes as she raises her arm and exposes a very hairy and wrinkly armpit.
I finish up as quickly as I can, deciding that I can floss in my room with my hand-held mirror. Just as I’m repacking my toiletries bag, she heaves one flabby leg on the counter and I decide to take the long-way back to the door.
That sight almost made me forget Mona and Giselle’s ménage a trios.
Mona has most of the hanging clothes back up already and the rest of the stuff piled on the bed, which she’s reset and straightened up. My laptop is back on my desk and I’m relieved to see that it seems undamaged.
“How was it?” she asks.
“A lot like college, except that our dorm-mother didn’t sponge-bathe in front of us,” I shudder a little, “Run across anything interesting?”
“No – it really seems to be just a warning like you said,” she fits another drawer back into my dresser, “But I really think that you should keep your stuff in other Sisters’ rooms, just to be safe. Anne hardly ever gets searched – Bernice either. Or I could take it to my villa?” she offers.
“You have a villa?” I slap my forehead, “Of course you do.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Mona tells me, hanging up another dress, “I’ve lived for a long time. I’ve accumulated things over the years. I had to have somewhere to put it all. It’s in Philippe’s territory – outside of Giuseppe’s influence and under the Vatican’s radar. So do you want it or not?”
I sigh, “Yes – of course. Sorry. I know you’re trying to watch out for me. I’m just used to being self-sufficient, you know? Three weeks ago, I was the one watching out for everyone else.”
“And it’s hard trusting an agent of the dark, huh?” Mona teases, “I understand. You’re right in being paranoid – but I’m not your enemy, Claire. Gather up what you want kept safe and I’ll make sure it is. You have my word.”
I pull the photos and letters and Jamie’s scarf and my crystal shoes (minus the key. I don’t trust Mona that much) and a few other things and hand them over to her. She’s gone and back in a couple of flashes and we finish cleaning up before lights-out.
“Try to wake up early,” she tells me, “That and our hour in the evenings is all we’re allowed. Goodnight,” she smiles and heads to her room.
I plug my laptop back in to charge, but don’t bother logging in. I have seven minutes until lights out, and that’s not nearly enough time to finish logging in, much less accomplish anything. I feel guilty about my backlog of work files, but I actually want to talk to Jojo and Jamie and Jill and Father Jonas more.
“I have a lot of J’s in my life,” I laugh at myself.
Instead, I comb out my hair and put on face-moisturizer and climb into bed.
And fall asleep immediately.
I wake up to a soft knocking sound and someone’s voice. It’s muted and I can’t hear any words. My eyes spring open and I take my cell in, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary here. I hear it again.
It’s from the wall between me and my neighbor.
I fumble to see the alarm clock on my nightstand. It reads 3:00.
“Crap,” I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed, “Nine to three is – uh – six hours. Ok, I can live with that,” I sigh and dig around for my running gear. An hour jog and an hour of work before I have to attend Mass and then work. I can skip breakfast – I have some cereal bars held in reserve.
It’s chilly, but not cold when I hit the pavement. The dew has settled but there is no one else around this early. The grounds are endless this early, and pretty eerie. It’s completely silent except for my footfalls. No bugs, no birds.
I tighten my hoodie more and check to make sure my ugly little frog is still safely tucked in my pocket. I also make sure I’m fully cloaked. It’s gotten easier to do since Baron and Bishop kept after me, but I do not want to risk anything alone in the deserted grounds in the middle of the night.
And just in case I run up against human-trouble, I also have my pepper-spray.
I push myself hard this morning, trying to give myself some time for another super-quick shower. I know it would be considered vain to want one, but honestly, I consider it more an act of charity for those who have to be around me the rest of the day.
Tonight I’ll skip the shower and use the extra hour to get more work done and catch up on my correspondence. That way, tomorrow morning I can run and shower and still maybe make the end of breakfast.
By the time my pedometer tells me I’ve hit ten miles, I know the layout of the grounds fairly well. I head back to the dorm and take a very fast shower, barely toweling off before I’m dressing in my blouse and over-dress. I put my headscarf on and brush my teeth before a sleepy nun toddles in, still yawning the sleep out of her brain.
“Buongiorno,” she mumbles, “Ah – sorry – good morning.”
“Good morning,” I smile at her, “I’m Claire.”
“Sister Rachel,” she smiles back, “Sister Mona warned us that you don’t speak anything but English. Please excuse me.”
“It’s fine,” I chuckle, “I may not be able to carry on a conversation, but I’m multi-linguistic in good morning, please and thank you.”
“And you’re an early-riser too, hmm?” she yawns again.
“Sister Anne woke me up,” I explain, “But I really don’t mind. I like to run in the morning.”
“Better you than me,” she nods, “it may be sloth, but I like my sleep. Better get to it. See you at breakfast,” she wanders off to the laboratories. I finish up and get two files taken care of in my work VPN before Mona knocks on my door.
“Hurry up and shut down,” she tells me when I let her in, “If we’re not first in line we’ll get nothing but oatmeal.” She makes a face and I giggle. I don’t really like oatmeal either, but she’s acting like it’s a national emergency. Very different from the hung-over, “I couldn’t possibly eat a thing” Mona I saw yesterday morning.
She poofs us into an empty dry-storage closet just outside of the dining room and we are first in line when the doors open. “Get a table close to the back and I’ll get our food,” she tells me. When she comes back three minutes later, deftly balancing two overflowing plates, the aromas alone are enough to make me salivate.
Even though I don’t recognize a single thing on the plates.
“Hurry up and eat,” she whispers to me, “We want to be first for Mass this morning.”
“Why the change?” I ask, “Last night we wanted to be last.”
“Father Leo is old-school,” she tells me, “He dismisses front to back. He says it’s a punishment for the late-comers.”
“Oh,” I reply, shoveling food in like a teenage boy back from football practice, “So what do I do after Mass?” I ask.
“The jobs board will have your schedule posted,” Mona tells me, “We’ll check it after Mass.”
Father Leo is very old-school – and very old. He looks too frail to stand, much less conduct Mass. However, once he opens his mouth, I begin to fear for the fragile state of the stained glass windows of our little corner chapel. He’s speaking in Latin and Mona has to elbow me and respond loudly so I’ll hear what to say back.
However, Mass is short and he dismisses the front pew summarily. Mona glides regally down the aisle with me on her heels. Anne winks at me as we pass.
Outside our chapel is the duty board and we find my name.
“Wow,” Mona whispers, “Newbies never get assigned to the hospital, unless it’s to do laundry or clean. Wonder how you landed a spot in NICU?”
“Probably that priest I worked with yesterday – Father Jorge,” I tell her, “Or maybe Nurse English.”
“Who?” she giggles, “I’ve never heard of either of them.”
“Well, that’s probably not her real name, but she speaks English, so that’s what I refer to her as,” I tell her with a slight flush.
“Ok,” she laughs, “Do you know your way from here?”
“I do now,” I tell her, “See you at lunch.”
As it ends up, I don’t make it to lunch that day – or any day after that. Three weeks rush by before I know it. I rarely get a break from the constant feedings and changes and burpings and exercises that the preemies have to go through. Most of the time I’m in the unit by myself. The pediatrician makes his rounds at seven every morning and the nurses come in every three hours to take readings – and let me take a small break – but other than that, it’s just the five of us in that room.
I’ve only seen Father Jorge twice more since our initial meeting – once he came in just as I got the last baby to sleep and once through the window when he was reading stories to the toddlers in the children’s play-room.
I’ve christened the girl in the incubator “Hope” and the other boy “Gawain.” I always like Gawain in the King Arthur stories and Hope is all I can give that tiny girl since she’s too fragile to be touched yet.
I’ve taken to talking and singing and humming to them all – even when they’re asleep. And Maria, once Nurse English (whose real name is Lucy) translated, has agreed to disinfect my old phone, which I’ve downloaded with in utero sounds that are supposed to sooth babies. I hook it up to the speakers in the room and Lucy has told me that since I did so, the babies have all increased in weight by twenty percent since before I did it.
I’ve fallen into a routine in the rest of my time too. I use my free-time at night to get my work and correspondence done and I get up at three every morning (thanks to Anne) to run and then shower. Friday and Saturday evenings we’re allowed an extra hour before lights out, so I have a little time to read on my IPad (which Mona retrieves for me before she goes out to feed) and catch up with everyone in longer and more detailed emails.
I’m sitting in my room on a Saturday night, reading Jamie’s most recent email. It’s full of updates on the shelter, his investigation, antics of his nephew and niece, his mom’s latest subterfuge and questions about when I’ll be back and what I’m doing. I’m just about to reply when there’s a knock on my door.
“Sister Claire,” a male’s voice sounds from behind the door.
“Just a minute,” I jump up and slam my computer’s lid down, effectively locking it and disconnecting both VPNs. My email is still logged in, but that shouldn’t be a problem.
I open the door a crack and peek out. It’s Father Francis, a stout, happy-seeming man.
“They’re asking for you at the hospital. A baby,” he gives me a sympathetic look, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Father,” I tell him, “I’ll be right there.” In my mind, I’m screaming in panic. Which one is it? Which one of my babies is in trouble? What happened? Are they sick? Are they dying?
Mona is out and I don’t dare wait for her. But in the back of my mind, I also question whether this is a distraction so my room can be searched again. I have my IPad and I haven’t properly logged out of everything on my computer. I get them both and knock on two doors.
“Sister Beatrice,” I smile when she opens the door, “I’ve been called to the hospital. Can you keep this safe for me until I get back?” I hold out my IPad. She crooks her finger at me and opens a drawer at the bottom of her wardrobe. She has an open pack of adult diapers there. Wrinkling my nose, I shove my IPad inside and beneath them.
“Ja,” she says, “Ist gut.”
“Danke,” I tell her, “Danke schon.”
“Bitte,” she shrugs and opens the door again.
Next stop is Anne.
“Anne, can you hide this for me until I get back?” I ask her.
“Is there pornography on it?” she arches a brow at me.
“Of course not,” I tell her, “There’s actually nothing saved on it at all. It’s just a means for me to log into my job and do my work,” she doesn’t look convinced, “Please, Anne. One of the babies at the hospital is in trouble. I have to go.”
“All right,” she sighs and takes it from me, “But you come get it as soon as you get back.”
“Thank you, Sister,” I smile, “Thank you so much.” I turn and jog down the hall until I’m out the door, then I sprint like hell for the hospital.
“What is it?” I ask, skidding to a halt in front of the nurse’s station.
“Go get scrubbed up,” Lucy tells me. It’s bad if she won’t elaborate.
Maria isn’t there, but another surgical nurse scrubs me and wraps me up. “Nice pajamas,” he comments, tying my gown, “I thought all of you nuns were supposed to keep your hair covered.”
“I was off-duty,” I tell him, “And I’m not really a nun.”
“Never would have guessed,” he quips, piling my hair up on my head and fitting a surgical puffy-cap over it.
He washes his hands again and gloves me before pulling a mask over my face, “You’re all set,” he tells me, “God-speed.”
My heart falls into my stomach. My babies.
I hurry into the NICU. It’s terribly quiet and very dim, except for the four little spot-lights over my babies.
I move to them quickly. Their monitors are normal. They’re asleep. Everything looks good and I’m confused.
“Over here, Sister Claire,” I hear Father Jorge call from deep in the shadows.
“What is it, Father?” I sense something bad. Something I don’t want to face.
“Hurry, Sister,” he replies.
I tap Jamie’s medal through my gown nervously. My bootie-clad feet seem glued to the floor and I have to force every step.
When I finally get there, Father Jorge is standing over a heated crib, hand on the head of a baby I can barely-recognize as human. If I thought my preemies looked like baby birds or dinosaurs, they have nothing on this child. His eyes aren’t fully-formed and are still closed.
“Oh, God,” it slips out.
“He’s too under-developed,” Jorge tells me, “His spine is outside of his body. His lungs, his brain, his organs,” he sighs, “If there were any hope at all, we’d do all we could. But his little organs have no chance. It’s time to bless him.”
My tears start, running wet lines into my mask around my nose, “I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper.
“What for, Sister Claire?” he asks.
“Because,” I swallow, “Because I’m relieved that it’s not one of my babies,” I blink the tears gathering on my lashes and bite my lip beneath my mask.
“That’s a very understandable reaction, Sister,” he rubs my shoulder in support for a second, “But this babe is suffering right now. We need to be strong for him. Pick him up, Sister.”
As carefully as I can, I scoop they baby into my palm and cover his body with my other hand while supporting his head with my wrist. I can feel his spinal column grazing my palm and I pray that I’m not causing him pain. His tiny heart gives an occasional flutter against my finger, but his breathing is so shallow that I can’t feel his ribcage move.
Father Jorge crosses himself and lays his fingers softly on the baby’s head. I lower my head and stare at the boy through misty eyes while the Father begins in English. I’m expecting last rights, but instead Father Jorge just prays, “Holy Father, we pray that you receive this child into your everlasting love and bounty. Forgive this child his sin that was placed on him through no fault of his own and let him, ”
My sinuses are clogging with unshed tears, “You can pray too, Sister,” Father Jorge tells me, “Silently, if you’d prefer.” I nod and close my eyes, rocking ever-so-slightly. “You are forgiven, little one,” I tell him in my mind while the Father continues his prayer aloud, “It’s all right to leave this failing body and go back to where you’re loved and warm and happy.”
My tears, which had been sliding down the sides of my nose, come out faster as I talk to him in my head and one lands on Father Jorge’s hand. He pulls his hand away and gives me a squeeze on the shoulder, continuing his prayer. The boy’s heart is so weak now that I have to open my eyes to see if he’s still alive.
He’s a whitish-blue and I cup my hands a little firmer around him instinctually. Trying to warm him up. “It must be horrible to be so cold when you die,” I think, “So alone and afraid. Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” I tell him, “Father Jorge and I are here. We know. We care. We’ll remember. Go to the light, little one.” More tears fall. One splashes on his tiny forehead and Father Jorge places his finger on it, tracing the sign of the cross on him, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
“Amen,” I repeat as the boy gives one last little shudder and falls limp in my hands.
There is no monitor to confirm his death – no doctor with a stethoscope and watch. But there doesn’t need to be. Father Jorge and I both know this innocent little boy is gone.
“You can lay him back down now, Sister,” the Father tells me, removing his finger.
I want to hold him longer. I want to keep him warm and safe. But I know it won’t change anything. I bend down and press my lips against his paper-thin cheek, “Happy landings, Angelito,” I whisper to him before settling his tiny frame down in the bassinet again. I can’t see through my tears and my nose is starting to drip. I’m thankful for my mask once again.
Father Jorge is walking toward the door, his shoulders a bit slumped. I wonder how many times he’s had to do this over his life. Certainly more than I have, but he still seems affected by it. He glances back at me, but I nod at him and shift my eyes to my babies. He nods back, “Don’t touch them. You’re contaminated.”
I put my hands behind my back and he gives me a winsome smile before opening the door. I walk to my four little amigos – who are all asleep still. Even though my heart has gone through hours of torture, it’s actually been less than ten minutes since I stepped in.
I realize that I don’t know what to say to them. They are all still fighting for their lives – one mis-step, one stray virus, one complication – and it could have been any of them. As gut-wrenching as Angelito had been, I don’t think it was one-tenth what I would go through to see any of my four leave me.
“Keep fighting,” I whisper above their cribs, “Keep growing. Get stronger every day. Don’t give up,” I’m sniffing now, “I’ll see all of you Monday morning.”