was going to talk to Mother Gregoria about it once, but she always says that I have to let go of the past, and leave it far behind me. She's right, I guess. He never called or wrote after he left.” She said it with a sad look in her eyes. Talking about them still pained her greatly.
“Maybe your mother wouldn't let him,” Father Joe offered, but it gave her small comfort, and maybe Mother Gregoria was right after all. She had a very different life, and the ghosts of her past had to be released, though they still haunted her in darker moments. “Where is she now?” he asked, referring to her mother.
“San Francisco, or she was up until she stopped sending money for my room and board here.” It still amazed him to think that her family had completely abandoned her, never wrote to her, never visited, never saw her. He couldn't understand how they could do that. It was entirely beyond him.
“Well, Sister Bernie, you have a good life here, and St. Matthew's needs you. The nuns all love you. I think Mother Gregoria thinks you're going to step into her shoes one day. That would be quite an honor. We've done all right for ourselves, haven't we?” he said, smiling at her. But as their eyes met, they both knew how hard-won it had been, how far they had come, and how much of themselves they'd left behind them. He patted her hand gently with his own, and for an instant she looked startled when he touched her. His hand was so firm, so strong, and once again reminded her so much of her father's. It had been so many years since she'd been that close to any man, that it couldn't help but bring back memories of the only other man she'd ever known or been this close to. And as though he sensed the shock of her memories, Father Connors stood up slowly. “I'd better see how drunk my pals are after drinking your wine all afternoon, and get them back to St. Stephen's.” She couldn't help laughing at the vision of drunken priests, falling down amidst the nuns in the convent garden.
“They look all right to me.” She stood up next to him, glancing around, and then laughed at the image he'd created of them. Two of the priests were talking to the Mother Superior, and another was talking to a family he knew. Sister Emanuel looked as though she was trying to round up the postulants to clean up the kitchen, and most of the children and visitors were looking happy but tired. It had been a lovely Easter for all of them, and especially for Gabriella, talking to Father Connors. “I never talk about this stuff with anyone,” she confessed as she prepared to leave him and join the others. “It still scares me a little.”
“Don't let it,” he said wisely. “They can't hurt you now, Gabbie. They're all gone. You're safe here, and you have been for a long time. They'll never come back to hurt you again, and you never have to go back there.” It was as though he had released her, with his kindness and his words, and with his gentle presence. It was as though just being there next to her for a while, he could protect her. “I'll see you in the confessional,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Try to stay out of trouble with Sister Anne,” he said, looking amused. Sometimes he felt so old when he was talking to her. She was twenty-one, and knew so little of the world beyond these walls, and he was a full ten years older than she was, and in his own eyes, a great deal more worldly, and far wiser.
“I'm sure she'll have a lot to say about my talking to you this afternoon.” Gabriella looked a little tired and somewhat exasperated as she said it. It was so annoying to have to deal constantly with the angry young postulant's accusations.
“Will she?” He looked startled. “Why would she say that?”
“She always has a bee somewhere in her bonnet. Last week she was complaining about the stories I write. She claimed I was writing one when I was supposed to be saying Matins… or Vespers… or Lauds, or something. There isn't much I do that she doesn't complain about.”
“Just keep praying for her,” he said simply. “Shell get tired of it.” Gabriella nodded, not particularly worried,