Forty-Four Book Twelve (44 series 12) Read online

  He returned wearing some beat up Chuck Taylors and we headed across the grass.

  “What are you up to today?” I asked.

  “Building pews,” he said.

  For the last few weeks, he had been going into New Orleans to help at St. Ignatius, a church that was still closed because of the damage it had suffered from Hurricane Katrina.

  “What about you? What does Sister Ruth have planned for you?”

  Sister Ruth was my boss and set my schedule. I worked at various jobs to help pay for my room and board. In addition to sweeping up in the coffin workshop three nights a week, I weeded in the garden, did data entry, and sometimes did some housekeeping work at the guest quarters. Basically, I did whatever was asked. I had to put in twenty hours a week to satisfy the debt. But compared to Hatch it was a piece of cake. Most things would be.

  “I’m at the center today, working on the computer,” I said.

  “Well,” Father Carmichael said, his eyebrows rising like a drawbridge. “At least you’ll be dry.”

  I smiled.

  It was an inside joke. We weren’t particularly fond of Sister Ruth. She was the one who had checked me in when I arrived, giving me the rundown of the rules and regulations. I could tell right away that she wasn’t happy about me getting special permission to be here. I knew she was suspicious. She never asked me anything about it, but I could always see the questions behind her eyes.

  We made it to my cabin just as the rain started. But it felt good, cool on the skin as it blended with my sweat. Father Carmichael pulled up his hood.

  “Bye, Father,” I said. “Have a good day.”

  He nodded and walked off in the rain.

  CHAPTER 6

  The storm didn’t let up all day long and I was glad to be inside even if it meant sitting in a stuffy office with Sister Ruth lurking about.

  “Here you go,” Sister Charlotte said, dropping another tall stack on my desk. “April 2012.”

  “All those for only one month?”

  “Yes, that was when we were featured in Catholic Digest. We’ve been swamped with applications ever since.”

  I was in the process of helping the abbey join the digital age. Sister Charlotte would pull the manila files from the storage room downstairs and bring them up to me so that I could enter the information into the computer. It wasn’t the most entertaining work, but I didn’t mind.

  “Just get through what you can before you leave for the day,” the sister said. “You can finish the rest tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking that it would more likely be sometime next week.

  I worked in Sister Charlotte’s office. She was younger than the other nuns at the abbey. She had her hair covered in a plain dark headdress, her bangs pulled out on her forehead. Even with the sharp nose and angular jaw, she had a kind face. She had sympathetic eyes and wore the same thing every day, a modified habit that consisted of a simple shirt and skirt.

  When we had first started working together, I had had one of those strange flashes.

  We were talking about a guest and I suddenly saw Sister Charlotte standing with a group of teenagers by a bonfire, looking a lot younger and talking to a boy. He took her hand and I could feel the rush inside her.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Elizabeth,” she said, sitting down in a nearby chair. “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Are you by any chance thinking of joining us?”

  I let out a little laugh and she smiled.

  “No, no,” she said softly. “I’m not trying to talk you into anything. And I certainly don’t mean to pry. It’s just that you’ve been here a while now. Most guests who stay as long as you have are often considering service. I just wanted to see if you had any questions.”

  I sat back in the creaking chair, thinking of the right words.

  “To be honest, the thought of being a nun hasn’t crossed my mind once. I came here because I needed a break from everything. I was raised in the Church, but left when my mom died. I was mad at God for a long time following that. I know it was a childish reaction. I guess I’m trying to see things through a woman’s eyes now, trying to find my way back. Maybe find a few answers along the way.”

  I glanced down at the worn carpet. I hated using my mom’s death like that, but it was all I could think of. I could feel a crooked trail of sweat dripping from my scalp and down my face.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I had no idea. Death often challenges our faith. I know in my case, after my sister passed, I was also very angry at God.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “She must have been young.”

  Sister Charlotte nodded and remained quiet for a moment as she stared out at the raindrops splattering across the window.

  “Well, you are most welcome here, Elizabeth, whatever your reason,” she said, a faraway look in her eye. “Whatever your reason.”

  CHAPTER 7

  About an hour later I got up and stretched. The rain kept coming down in sheets, blanketing the world outside. The clouds were dark and mean, the thunder loud and jarring. I thought of the hurricanes they had here and how scary it would be to be caught in one. We had storms back in Central Oregon, but they were different. During the bad ones the snow could pile up high, but even then there was a gentleness to them, the flakes floating down the way they did. A few trees might crash down, the electricity might go out, but it was nothing like the violence here.

  I strolled around the office, taking in all the art that covered the walls. There were paintings and framed prints of various religious scenes. A huge Bible sat on a lectern in the corner of the room, opened flat and marked with a sash on a page from Matthew. A large wooden crucifix was hanging by the door.

  When it was nice out, we were able to open the windows facing south and let the breeze blow through. It brought with it sweet scents of rosemary and gardenias and jasmine. But today the windows were closed tight.

  I turned on the fan in the corner and pointed it up, with Sister Charlotte’s words still stirring in my mind. Maybe I had overstayed my welcome. Samael had been able to get me in, but it didn’t mean I could remain here indefinitely. We hadn’t talked about where I would go if I had to leave, but it was clear that I should start thinking of a plan just in case.

  I was tempted to check the internet but held back. Sister Ruth told me more than once that we “should be communing with God, not Facebook.” But her words weren’t the reason that kept me offline. I couldn’t take the chance. The abbey walls wouldn’t protect me from cyber cops looking for suspicious behavior. It would be like leaving a trail of bread crumbs leading straight back to me.

  Besides it wasn’t even necessary. I kept in touch with Kate fairly regularly on the phone she had left for me. She kept me up to date on what was going on in the outside world.

  When I found out that Kate had nearly died after a terrible fall in March while she was working on a story at the Portland Zoo, I nearly lost it. I hadn’t even known she was in the hospital until after she was released. When I called her I was relieved to learn that she was okay and already back home. But I still felt terrible. I thought of all those times she had been at my side when I was recovering in St. Charles. And now, when she had been in the hospital, I wasn’t there for her.

  I told her I was coming home.

  “No, Abby, don’t you come anywhere near here!” Kate said before letting out a moan. “Don’t even think about it. You think the cops aren’t thinking the same thing? You need to stay smart and stay out of jail.”

  Of course she was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

  “Seriously. I’m fine,” she had said. “It only hurts a little when I take a deep breath. Or have to yell at my sister.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay away. I promise.”

  A sudden jolt of thunder brought me back. I looked at the clock. It was quitting time. I glanced outside and my breath caught in my throat.
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br />   There was someone down there in the rain, standing by the fountain in the middle of the courtyard, staring up at me with dark, empty eyes.

  CHAPTER 8

  The ghost stayed out there in the storm for several minutes while I slowly grabbed my sweatshirt from the back of the chair and played with the zipper. She didn’t move, almost looking like just another statue out in the garden, standing perfectly still in the hard rain that didn’t touch her.

  I really didn’t want to go out there and face her. I was out of practice. I had enjoyed my ghost break and didn’t want it to come to an end.

  It wasn’t like I didn’t see them here. They were around. There were plenty of ghosts, actually. But something about them was different. Whatever their lives had been like before, in death they seemed to have found some sense of peace here at the abbey. They followed around certain priests or nuns, hovering and watching, but not intruding or needing things. None of them ever approached me. And for that I was grateful.

  But I could tell straight away that this young woman by the fountain wasn’t like the other ghosts. She was glaring at me, her eyes fixed on the window. It was a look I had seen before. Her face was covered in dark makeup. She wore a low-cut tank top, a very short denim skirt that exposed long, pale legs, and cowboy boots. Silver rings and bracelets covered her fingers and wrists. She had a terrible black slit across her neck, a river of dried blood staining her chest.

  There was no point in putting it off any longer. I took a deep breath and decided to just go talk to her and see what she wanted. I gathered up the files and took them downstairs to put away in the storage room.

  But by the time I was finished filing she was gone. I stood in the same spot where she had been, the sun finally peeking out through the clouds now, but she was nowhere to be found.

  As I headed back to my cottage, I couldn’t help but wonder what she wanted. What she wanted from me.

  CHAPTER 9

  Like everything else at the abbey, dinner was basic and austere. Most of the time it was a stew, made up of fresh herbs, carrots, onions, and potatoes with chicken or beef. It was served with slices of sourdough bread. It was solid and hit the spot, but it was a bit plain for Louisiana.

  On any given night there were about a hundred people or so gathered at the round tables in the dining hall. The members of each group kept to themselves, the priests sitting in the back, the seminary students in the middle, and the retreat guests at the tables closest to the doors.

  I lined up, got my food, and took it over to one of the empty tables by a window. There was a small group of older painters sitting nearby. They said hello. They were talking about a workshop coming up on religious icons that they would be attending.

  I quietly sipped my stew and was happy to see Father Carmichael walk in. He got his dinner and sat down next to me.

  The guests seemed to love Father Carmichael, even though he never encouraged it, keeping his conversations with them devoid of any small talk.

  “Hello, Father,” an old woman said. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, thanks,” he said.

  “We were just saying that when we paint, we find that the act of the art itself is a religious experience,” said another man with bright white hair. “That we are communing with God. Have you ever tried your hand at painting?”

  Father Carmichael shook his head and dipped a spoon inside his bowl.

  “No,” was all he said.

  The artists returned to their conversation and Father Carmichael turned toward me and took a small baggie from his pocket. He threw it down on the table between us.

  “You go first,” he said.

  When he went to the city, he always seemed to bring back a spice mix from a shop in the French Quarter. I doused my stew with some and pushed the bag back over to him, the strong scent of cayenne and paprika shooting up into my nostrils. I ripped off a chunk of the bread and soaked it and then put it in my mouth. Even with the bread, the heat tickled the back of my throat.

  “This mix has got more of a kick,” I said through teary eyes. “More than the last one.”

  “I had them add extra red pepper flakes,” he said.

  “Of course you did.”

  I smiled, holding back a cough, while I reached for my water. Father Carmichael slurped down several spoonfuls, his own eyes turning into small lakes.

  We were quiet for a while as we ate the revitalized stew, but our silences were never uncomfortable. Most of the dining hall was pretty quiet, in fact. Even the painters had lowered their voices into half whispers. I stared at Father Carmichael’s finger and the bandage wrapped around it.

  “Nail gun,” he said, holding it up and looking at it.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “Which came first?” I asked. “The carpentry or the priest thing?”

  I knew that the question broke our unspoken rule of not asking each other about our pasts, but he didn’t seem to mind. He shook his head, and stopped eating for a moment.

  “I was a priest first. The hammer and nails came later.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “What about you, Elizabeth? What were you doing before?”

  I guessed it was fair, but the question unsettled me a little and I hoped I hadn’t opened up a can of worms.

  “Not too much really. Jobs in coffee houses and diners after high school. I’ve thought about going back to school. My parents want me to go.”

  “I thought you told me that your family was dead,” he said, his eyes cutting over to mine.

  Lying was hard work. You had to not only keep track of the stories, but of the verb tenses as well.

  “Yeah, what I meant was they wanted me to go to college. Since I was little.”

  “I see,” he said.

  The artists got up and took their dishes to the clean-up station before filing out the door. We sat quietly again as we ate. When Father Carmichael finished, he pushed his bowl aside, unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. It was his post-dinner ritual. He told me that it had replaced the cigarette that still haunted him ten years after he had quit smoking.

  “I see you have a new neighbor,” he said.

  “I was wondering about that. It’s been sitting empty for two nights. I thought there was this long waiting list to get into this place.”

  Sister Ruth never failed to mention that fact to me, mostly as a nudge.

  “Well, she’s here now,” he said. “I saw Sister Ruth giving her the run down this morning before I left.”

  New people coming into the monastery always made me a little nervous. They had the most recent access to the outside world, and while David seemed to be holding his mouth in check lately, I knew it wasn’t something I could count on.

  Father Carmichael stood up.

  “Thanks for the spice,” I said. “It made a huge difference.”

  He nodded.

  CHAPTER 10

  I closed my eyes and focused on my breath.

  In, out. In, out. In, out.

  One by one, I began blocking out the sounds of the afternoon. The low hum of the refrigerator, the lawn mower in the distance, the birds singing outside the cabin. Thoughts bubbled to the surface, but I cast them aside as well, not allowing them to take hold. Eventually they got smaller and smaller, drifting away and disappearing beyond the horizon of my mind, as I remained focused on my breathing.

  After a while I opened my eyes again and let everything come back. The objects around me were soft at the edges. The bed, the table, the chair that was pushed up against the wall. The apples on the counter, the stove. I took a few more deep breaths and checked the time.

  Twenty-six minutes had gone by. Not bad.

  It was easier to run nine miles than to sit for half an hour and meditate. I would much rather move my body and let my thoughts run free. I didn’t pretend to be some great thinker, but emptying my mind of all thought did not come
naturally. But I was slowly making progress. When I first started, five minutes was my max and left me feeling antsy and exhausted at the same time. Now I was able to sit still for nearly half an hour.

  I put a kettle on the flame, a peppermint teabag in a mug, and I thought about all the beauty that surrounded me. The grass and trees outside, a roof over my head, kind people. I was grateful to be here. I tried to have a lot of these moments, to look around and notice things. I didn’t want to take anything for granted anymore.

  While I waited for the water to boil, I again directed my thoughts intentionally toward Nathaniel. I imagined meeting him face to face and pushing him into a black hole so deep that he could never again reach the surface. I held the image for a long time, inhaling and exhaling, touching it with my eyes, tasting it with my tongue.

  I would have been lying if I said I wasn’t scared at times. Sometimes the fear swept in like a rogue wave at midnight. Those moments usually came when I couldn’t sleep, when I remembered Nathaniel on that dark shore with those lost souls standing beside him. How could I be a match for such evil? I wasn’t sure I was, or even if Samael was, for that matter.

  But in those times I liked to remind myself of something I had once read back in high school. It was a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt. I wrote it down and taped it to the side of the nightstand near the bed so I could see it first thing in the morning.

  You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.

  I also thought of something I had read from Mother Teresa.

  I know God won't give me anything I can't handle. I just wish he didn't trust me so much.

  Most of the time, I didn’t think I could destroy Nathaniel. I didn’t have that kind of confidence. I hadn’t felt that way since before my accident, really. Back in high school, on the soccer field. That feeling that nothing can stop you. I no longer felt that way. I knew too much about losing.