says Sister Agnes.
“But yesterday you said we were going to start hanging things inside, in the drying room.”
“Well, that was yesterday,” she snaps. I look out at the threatening clouds and decide to keep my mouth shut. She piles the hand towels in a basket and Sister Bernadette heads down the hall leading to Mother Superior’s study.
I’ve only been in there once—the day I arrived. The room is very dark and smells like leather and wood oil and old books. The abbess is very old, too, but also very kind; her round face is papery and her skin is practically translucent, as if she’s never seen the sun. She wears a heavy cross around her neck, which must be the reason she’s slightly hunched over. I think she’s been wearing it for almost a hundred years. She welcomed me and said she hoped I would be happy here, and that was the last time we spoke.
“Get a move on,” Sister Agnes says, nudging me out the door.
Sure enough, a light downpour turns torrential as I hang up the last towel, and I put the basket over my head and waddle over to stand under the eaves on the side of the abbey. I lean against the wall to wait for a lull, happy to take a bit more time away from Sister Agnes.
I sit on the dry ground next to the abbey wall. To my left is a row of windows. I hear voices and realize that these windows are right off the abbess’s study. There’s a soft, distant sound of spoons clinking against teacups. I imagine the abbess putting in her standard three cubes of sugar, the way Sister Bernadette told me she does.
“So, it seems that all your paperwork is in order,” she says. “The final step is to tell us a little more about yourselves so we can be sure you’re the right fit.”
Someone sets a cup down heavily, then murmurs an apology—a man’s deep voice. I am trying to remember his face, but all I see is that plaid shirt and possibly a beard. I wish I’d paid better attention.
“I work at the mill in town,” he says. “It’s good, steady pay and I’ll probably get moved to foreman within a couple years.”
He has a simple way of talking, but you can hear the kindness in his voice. He seems reluctant, or maybe unpracticed, talking about himself.
His wife jumps in to finish his sentences. “He got employee of the year last year; he’s a good worker, super dependable. He’s going to go far.”
The abbess can tell they’re nervous, and she doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to make others suffer. “I hope I’m not putting you on the spot,” she says. “It’s just important to us that this baby have a good home. The mother is not some stranger, she’s a member of our own family.”
It’s the last part of this sentence that hits me. She’s a member of our own family?
“The doctors have said we can never have kids,” the woman says. “We just want a family. We would do everything possible to make sure the baby had a good life.”
“If it’s a boy I can teach him to hunt—” the man begins, but his wife cuts him off. “We’d love it if it’s a girl, as well. Of course, if she wanted to hunt, too…” She trails off, and I imagine them looking at each other wondering if hunting was the wrong topic. I doubt the abbess knows what to think, but it makes me smile.
“We just really want a family,” the woman says again, a bit defeated, like she’s throwing out one last plea into the wind, hoping Mother Superior will catch it.
“Well, there’s still a few months before the birth, so we’ll get back to you and let you know about your application. I’m sure the Lord knows what’s best for everyone,” says the abbess.
They shake hands and I hear the abbess say a prayer, asking for God’s will and for them to trust in him, and then they leave her office. I stare out at the towels and the rain, wondering if I should go finish up before anyone sees me, but it doesn’t seem as important anymore.
I forget sometimes that this pregnancy won’t last forever. It will be strange not to feel the baby moving, kicking, swimming around inside me—as much as I didn’t want it, it’s hard to remember what I was like before. When it’s over,