The Divine Economy of Salvation (29 page)

Sister Bernadette bows her head to give me some privacy but stays planted in the room. I cover my face with my hands and sit on the edge of my bed, the familiar grey afghan offering little comfort. It is tucked in firmly and makes the room feel more like a prison than my home. Sister Bernadette probably assumes I'm thinking about the man who has called. I wonder if I can trust her.

Mr. M.'s round, bearded face intrudes into my thoughts, and the smell of his cologne assaults me. I'd never thought it might be a man who had found me out and sent the candle holder. But it makes sense. It's always a man intruding on the secret lives of women. If it's Mr. M., I think, I'll tell him everything. He had been there with us, taking care of the girls as if they were his own
children. The afternoon I caught him in Esperanza's arms, I had judged him for his actions. I'd felt repulsed by his needs, the way he could let himself be led so easily towards a young woman who worked for us, doing our laundry and washing the walls. Yet I envied them all the same. We are not always capable of doing the right thing. Look at Kim. She is not to blame. But now, I suppose, is his time to judge. I'm no longer a child. Mr. M. probably assumes I can take it.

I regain a bit of control, enough to fumble through the outside pocket of my tote bag for a package of Kleenex. Sister Bernadette is at the dresser now, fingering the base of the candle holder, lingering over the foreign etchings. I cannot bear to tell her where it has been. She should clean her hands. Smell the blood on it and withdraw. I can't stand watching her. I get up off the bed, my tears not yet spent, and grab Sister Bernadette's wrist. I can feel her skin underneath her dress, pinched by my fingernails. I cannot let go.

“Please don't touch it,” I say sharply. “It's not yours.”

Sister Bernadette backs away from the dresser, trembling slightly. I've frightened her, so I've lost a possible ally. The messages waiting for me from some man will take on enormous significance. She will inform the other Sisters if they don't know already. She will tell them how my behaviour connects to the telephone calls. A story will surface.

She wants to escape me now but doesn't leave. Maybe she is here on behalf of the Sisters, to pry into what's going on.

“How's Kim?” I ask to divert her, releasing her wrist and
dabbing at my cheeks. She stands in her usual way, her sneakers rubbing to and fro against the floor. Sister Bernadette is incapable of standing still. Her energy tires me. Her boundless hope.

“You should check on your messages, don't you think?” she says.

I do think. “It can wait.”

I know it can't. Rumours have a life of their own.

ESPERANZA WAS THE ONE
to find Bella in the morning. Bella didn't show up for choir practice, and Sister Aline waited half an hour before starting our warm-up scales without her—a rarity, as she always insisted on punctuality. With Bella's impeccable attendance and her strong voice necessary for the solos, however, Sister Aline paced uncomfortably up and down the aisles of the church, her songbooks held tightly against her chest.

Rachel, Caroline, and I were in attendance, but Francine was not. We avoided each other's eyes, rereading the hymns we were to sing, sitting cross-legged on the red-carpeted stairs in front of the altar. Rachel and Caroline were distraught, messy, and short of breath, as if they had just come from calisthenics in the gymnasium. We were all exhausted and frightened, staying apart; not angry, but scared that if we put ourselves in each other's way we would unravel.

The three of us had helped Bella to the washroom. She was hurt but trusted us as we carried her, one arm slung over Rachel, one over me. Caroline kept watch of the hallway in front of us, drawing us to her every few feet with a forward movement of her hand, all
of us trying to make as little noise as possible and hoping no one would be in the washroom when we got there.

“When does it stop?” Bella whimpered. Her entire body was in a cramp, her arms tightening against our shoulders, her knees buckling. “When does the pain stop?”

“Soon,” Rachel kept saying, her small hands cupped around Bella's waist dabbed with blood. “Don't worry, Bella. Just wash up and it will end soon.”

Her motherly stance surprised me. Rachel, the one so intent on hurting Bella, had instantly become her protector.

Water running in the bathroom was no cause for alarm. Many of the girls would leave their rooms in the night to get a glass of water or use the toilet. Caroline filled a jug of water kept beside the sink and handed Bella one of the white washcloths from the hamper. Bella entered the middle shower stall, her woollen skirt at her ankles, visible under the curtain. We could hear her wincing and scrubbing. Caroline prayed over the sink,
Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee,
her knuckles clenched to the porcelain. Rachel and I sat in front of the shower like uneasy guards.

“Is she . . . is she going to be all right?” I asked Rachel, who had curled into a ball on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking back and forth.

“I don't know,” she admitted blankly, her eyes on her kneecaps, her lips close to the skin as she rocked.

“But you told her that she'd feel better—”

“How the hell should I know?” she spat back while keeping her voice down and continuing to rock. I didn't care whether she had the answers or not; I just wanted her to say she did. Whatever she said I would accept, so we could get to sleep without nightmares, so we could wash this night from our hands and forget. I wanted Bella to be all right. Her pain to end. Rachel was our leader. I didn't know who else to turn to.

Caroline recited the Hail Mary without pause, her head bent over the sink as if she were going to be sick. She was marking a bar of soap with her fingernails with each repetition, counting as one does beads on a rosary. Sister Marguerite made us say the rosary whenever we did badly on a test or disobeyed her instructions. We had to sit in the corner of the room and recite it softly to ourselves, then sign on a piece of paper when we had completed the assigned penance. It was worse than Confession. She always prescribed more punishment than Father McC. did. Caroline had switched to her native French after the first prayer, unmindful of the reprimands she usually received from Sister Marguerite when she did so. Matters between the English and the French had exploded into violence only a few years before. We had seen pictures and news reports regarding the kidnapping and murder of an English official. A bomb had gone off. Caroline's sister had warned her that even with time she should not be so forthcoming about her French background.

Rachel said little to Caroline, except to ask her for a glass of water. Caroline handed it to her, stopping her prayer in mid-line
and then returning to it as if she hadn't been interrupted. I was afraid Caroline would leave us alone with Bella, as Francine had done, but Caroline stayed. I was tempted to join in her prayer, but I knew it wasn't going to be adequate punishment for what we had done.

After about fifteen minutes, Bella dropped the washcloth, its fresh whiteness turned a dark burgundy, the colour running down into the drain.
What else is down there?
I thought, horrified.
Under the ice of the canal?

“I'm feeling better,” Bella managed. “Just a little dizzy.”

Caroline spat in the sink with a heave.

“It's OK. You can go now.” Bella stayed behind the curtain. Rachel and I confronted each other with nervous smiles.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yeah. I need to use the washroom first.” Her voice was level, almost confident. She had stopped crying and I thought how odd it was that she was now embarrassed to show her naked body to us, after what we had seen.

Although we were filled with guilt over the bruises the candle holder might have caused, we believed her, eager to trust. We left Bella in the washroom sometime after nine o'clock. Caroline stopped praying. Rachel accompanied her down the hallway to their rooms and I left in the opposite direction to mine, noticing a light flickering on and off in Francine's like a signal.

My room was cold. I turned on my bedside lamp and curled under the covers, shivering, desperately hoping I could sleep soundly for once. Beside me on the dresser, the dried pink carnations I had kept from a centrepiece at Rachel's birthday party
amazed me with their stubbornness. The original bright colour of the petals had faded, yet their skeletons were preserved, the stems upright in the vase. I brought them to my nose and breathed in their lingering perfume, trying to keep the night from my mind. The precious flowers in my hands, I said my nighttime prayers, careful not to crush them. But Bella, Bella would be dead by morning.

“Does anyone know where Bella is?” asked Sister Aline finally, approaching the stairs before the altar where the majority of the girls had congregated, seated on separate stairs, their knees kept together modestly, the hems of their skirts hanging to their ankles while Rachel and I sat on the top stair.

“I saw her last night,” replied Yvonne. “I went to the washroom, and she wasn't feeling well.”

Rachel concentrated on the red carpet in front of her. I stared at Yvonne, who didn't seem concerned, only relaying basic information with the same tone of voice she would use if you asked her directions to a classroom or what she ate for breakfast. Caroline got up and excused herself.

“Probably the flu,” asserted Yvonne. “She said she didn't feel well in the stomach.” She gestured to her midriff with her hands to indicate nausea and glanced around the room furtively, since girls frequently said they had the flu to disguise the fact they were having their periods. Some of the girls caught her euphemism and returned Yvonne's sympathetic glance.

“Maybe someone ought to check,” mused Sister Aline absently.

“Francine's not here either,” piped up Jessica, who was always meticulously on time for any class or event.

“Francine had to take a test she missed,” Rachel muttered. “She told me so, yesterday.”

“Well, all right then,” Sister Aline replied, clapping her hands against her hymnal. “Angela, why don't you go check on Bella and we'll begin with the scales. Can't do much more without Bella. Just ask if she's in need of a nurse.”

I rose, but it was difficult for me to do so. I moved slowly, the way a pregnant woman struggles to rise from a chair, my body weighing me down. I wasn't even sure whether I would actually go to Bella's room or just walk around the residence for a few minutes and return. I descended the stairs and crossed the threshold, shuffling my shoes, my cardigan tied around my waist. Rachel stared at me with dread. My black soles clicked against the wooden floor of the church as I departed, marking time.

I ran into Esperanza in the washroom collecting the laundry. The shower stalls were empty, their curtains pushed to the sides, and I lied, told her I was looking for a missing hair clip Mr. M. had bought me. At the mention of Mr. M's name, Esperanza immediately searched the drains in the showers and under the garbage can. She rifled through the laundry to see if it had slid to the bottom of her cart. The last time I'd spoken with Esperanza had been when she washed my nightgown.

“Did you find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Esperanza,” I added, “I'm also supposed to check and see if Bella has the flu. She's not at choir practice.”

“So, why don't you?” Esperanza retorted, hands against her hips.

“She's no friend of mine,” I said and turned to sort through the garbage can, filled mostly with Kleenex.

Esperanza, accustomed to continual bending, prostrated herself on the cold floor, combing with her fingers under the sinks.

“So, what do you want me to do?” she said.

“Could you check on her for me?” I asked, my voice cool and controlled in a manner surprising even to me. “I don't want to have to take her to the nurse. I've got choir. You could get out of work for a while, couldn't you?” I knew from Rachel that Esperanza liked to deviate from her regular routine as much as possible, just for the sake of change.

“No. I'd still have to finish,” she snorted, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation. “What does it look like?”

“What?”

“The hair clip. What does it look like?”

“Forget about it,” I said, and I was on my way out to face my own punishment when Esperanza grabbed my arm, drawing me close.

“You trade me that bottle of perfume Rachel gave you last week and I'll go for you. I'll even sniff around the other rooms for your hair clip if you like. Maybe someone stole it.”

It was then that I realized Esperanza rummaged through the
things in our rooms. I thought of a couple of missing magazines and tiny trinkets Rachel couldn't locate that I assumed she had been careless with, had left or lost outside the school. Rachel's father had bought her a bottle of perfume, a more expensive brand than the one I'd given her for Christmas, but she sneezed when she used it and passed it on to me. As far as I knew she hadn't shown it to Esperanza. I had been so pleased with the bottle itself, a blue-tinted glass in an oval shape, I hadn't worn the perfume yet. The only way Esperanza would have known about it was if she had pried into my top drawer, where it was hidden inside one of my socks.
She's taking things from me,
I thought angrily.
People are always taking things from me.

Esperanza removed her cleaning gloves and draped them over the rim of her empty pail.

“Forget about it,” she said, pushing her grey cart past me, bumping it against my side.

“I know about you!” I screamed.

Esperanza stopped her cart. She didn't turn around to face me, but gripped the handle tightly.

“I know about you and Rachel's father! I know!”

I attacked Esperanza from behind, smashing her up against her cart, then punching her in the stomach when she turned to defend herself. Esperanza, doubled over, rammed her head back into my ribs. Without a cart to steady my balance or catch my fall, I landed on my tailbone. A number of dimes I had in my blouse pocket, tokens from Mr. M. I hadn't yet spent, clattered to the floor. Esperanza raised her leg as if to kick me.