Harmony House - Nic Sheff Page 0,15

is hatred, let me sow love

Where there is injury, pardon

Where there is discord, harmony

Where there is error, truth

Where there is doubt, faith

Where there is despair, hope

Where there is darkness, light

And where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

To be consoled as to console

To be understood as to understand

To be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Many other, less familiar prayers follow, along with illustrations of Saint Francis himself surrounded by woodland creatures—the animals gathered around him, birds perched on his fingers and shoulders like he’s some kind of goddamn Disney princess.

I flip quickly through and land on the inside back cover.

A name has been penciled in on the thick, rough-textured endpaper. I read the inscription—

Margaret.

I snap the book shut and throw it on the floor.

Margaret. My mother’s name.

My mother’s name is written in the cover of the book. It is written in the same kind of perfect, feminine handwriting she always had.

I sink down onto the bathroom rug.

The house sounds fade out.

Everything blurs around me.

Images are projected on the backs of my eyelids.

Gray morning light seeping in around the edges of plush, red velvet curtains. A small boy, dark-haired, with shining blue eyes and pale white skin, sits on the frayed Oriental rug looking up at a young woman in a black tunic with her long blond hair hanging down her back. She holds a nun’s habit in her hands and stares down, lovingly, at the boy.

The images flash and stutter like film running through an old-fashioned movie projector—jumping from frame to frame, skipping and tearing in places.

But I recognize the room.

It’s where I found the book—here, in Harmony House. Only it is different. Crosses are nailed to the bare white walls. The boy plays absently with a string of rosary beads. A fire burns, flickering in the hearth.

The woman—a nun, I realize—retrieves a brush from the antique bureau and begins to sweep it through her long, shining hair. She sings softly to herself—and to the boy.

“You’re beautiful,” the boy tells her.

She turns and smiles.

“What a nice thing to say.”

The boy reaches out his hand to her.

“Are you my mother?” he asks.

The woman presses her lips together.

“You don’t remember?”

The boy shakes his head.

She takes his hand in hers.

“Your mother is with the angels in Heaven,” she says. “But I love you just as much as if you were my own child. And I will always love you. And I will always care for you. And I will never let you go.”

“I love you, too,” says the boy.

The woman ties her hair back now and secures the habit over her head.

“The babies will need to be fed and changed,” she says. “Will you come with me to heat the bottles?”

The boy nods.

“Is that girl still here?” he asks.

The woman stops adjusting the buttons on her habit and stares at him.

“Which girl?”

“The one who was screaming last night?”

The woman gets down low next to the boy and whispers, “Hush, now. Hush. Don’t let the monsignor or the other sisters hear you talk about that.”

“But . . . she was screaming and . . .”

The woman shakes her head.

“She’s gone up to Heaven, baby.”

“With my mommy?”

“Yes.”

The boy gets to his feet and then bends to tie his shoe. The woman takes the laces from him and ties them herself.

From down the hall, heavy footsteps sound, creaking the floorboards, growing rapidly closer.

“Quick,” says the woman. “Under the bed. Go. Hide!”

The boy’s eyes go wide with something like terror. He stumbles quickly beneath the wooden bed frame and threadbare mattress, peering out from underneath. He watches as the woman, now fully dressed in her habit, goes to tend the fire. The door swings open. Another nun, older, with rimless glasses and deep furrows around her mouth, steps into the room.

“What are you still doing here?” the older nun demands. “The babies need tending.”

“Yes, Sister,” the woman says. “I was worried about sparks from the fire. But I’ve fixed it now. I’ll start making up the bottles.”

“See that you do,” the older nun says.

She slams the door.

The woman turns toward the bed.

“Okay,” she says. “You can come out now.”

But the boy remains hidden, soaked with sweat and trembling cold.

CHAPTER 4

I wake up on the cold tile floor with a feeling like a drill boring into the center of my forehead. My teeth grit together and I press