that Gabriella was entitled to her private griefs, and secrets, even at her age.
“I was afraid you were angry at me. When Sister Mary Margaret came to get me, she said you wanted to see me in your office, and I thought…”
“I only wanted to talk to you about your mother.” A tremor of fear instantly ran through her. The mere mention of her name filled Gabriella with dread, yet she knew she would see her again soon, and in some ways she missed her. But she had been praying constantly to quell the hatred she felt, and had said countless Hail Marys. She wondered suddenly if the priests who were hearing her confessions had said something to Mother Gregoria about her. The wise old nun saw the shadows darting across the child's face and could only guess at the terrors they represented. “I heard from her yesterday. She called me from California.”
“Is that Reno?”‘
“No.” She smiled. “We're going to have to work on your geography. Reno is in Nevada. California is a different state.”
Gabriella looked confused. “Isn't she supposed to be in Reno?”
“She was in Reno. And now she's divorced, and has gone to California. She said she was in San Francisco.”
“That's where Frank lives,” Gabriella said, by way of explanation. But Mother Gregoria already knew that. It had been rather a lengthy conversation, and she had felt strongly that Eloise should talk to the child herself, but she had been emphatic about wanting the Mother Superior to do it.
“Apparently…” She took a long, slow breath, wanting to choose her words well, and not shock Gabriella unduly. “Apparently, your mother and Frank, whom you seem to know…” She smiled warmly at the child, watching her eyes for signs of suspicion or discomfort, but so far there were none, other than her initial look of terror. “Your mother and Frank are getting married tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Gabriella said, looking at first blank, and then startled. She had never said more than ten words to him, and he had always more or less ignored her. And now her mother was marrying this stranger. And God only knew where her father had disappeared to. She still thought she would hear from him again one day, but it had been a long time now. And she got a sinking feeling when she realized again that she was alone now.
But now came the hard part, the rest of the story the child's mother had entrusted her with telling her only daughter. “They're going to live in San Francisco.” Gabriella felt the briefest stab of disappointment as she heard the words. It meant she would have to leave and go to a place she didn't know. It meant she would have to fight for her life again, and struggle every moment, every hour, every day, for survival. It meant a new school, and new friends, or none at all. And it also meant living with a stranger, and the mother she both feared and hated. And leaving the women she had come to love in the convent.
‘When do I have to go there?” Gabriella asked bluntly, and Mother Gregoria could see that something had died in the child's eyes again. It was the same look she had seen the first time Gabriella had come to her office.
There was another long, silent pause, while the Mother Superior weighed her words carefully, never taking her eyes from Gabriella's. “Your mother thinks you would be happier staying here with us, Gabbie.” It was the kindest way to translate what her mother had really said, about not being able to put up with the child any longer, not wanting to jeopardize her own happiness, or burdening her new husband with a child she herself had never even wanted. She had been brutally frank with Mother Gregoria on the phone, while offering to pay her board there for as long as they would keep her. Forever, possibly, was how Mother Gregoria had interpreted it, and she had not read her incorrectly. Eloise had no plans whatsoever to bring the child to San Francisco, and seemed to have no remorse about it. And when she had inquired about the child's father, and the possibility of Gabriella staying with him, Eloise had assured her that he didn't want her either. Mother Gregoria knew that this was the sorrow she read in the child's eyes, or some of it at least. She herself was well aware that her parents didn't love, or want, her.