Angeline, p.1
Angeline, page 1
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Books by Anna Quinn
The Night Child
Angeline
Copyright © 2023 by Anna Quinn
Published in 2023 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Alenka Vdovič Linaschke
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission
of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-75665-0
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-200-75664-3
Fiction / Literary
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
“I also am other than what I imagine myself to be. To know this is forgiveness.”
—Simone Weil
Chapter
One
Meg lies prostrate on the stone floor. Her body, a cross. Incense curls around her white gown and spirals up like tiny resurrections. When she rises, they dress her in black and call her by a new name: Sister Angeline. It is the twelfth of December, 2014. She is twenty-three years old. She is now, after six years of discernment, officially a bride of Christ.
The bishop, dressed in reds and blacks, slides a gold band on her ring finger. A choir of nuns sing the psalm “De Profundis,” a celebration of her death to worldly things. They sing something beyond the swell of human voice, something closer to white birds wrapping her in silk and promising to be there when she emerges.
And she stands there among them, head lifted toward light pouring through stained-glass windows. It is then, when she opens her eyes, she sees the baby floating in the perfumed clouds of smoke, a crown of lilies on its tiny head. Sister Angeline wipes her eyes, her face, and whispers I love you, and the baby flies away through the night.
Chapter
Two
With the exception of singing and chanting and an hour of conversation each day, the twenty nuns live together in complete silence. Their daily lives divided by bells, moving them from one prayerful hour to the next, reminding them to pay attention to the moment. Even though there are no cell phones, computers, televisions, or radios, and the windows are frosted, a cloistered nun can become distracted.
The first bell rings at 12:30 a.m. for Matins, and Sister Angeline rises from her bed, kneels, and places her forehead on the floor. Attempts to relinquish ego. Washes her face. Dresses in full habit but leaves her feet bare. It is a breach of discipline to hurry, so she moves steadily, not with haste, and strives to stay in a perpetual state of prayer.
Once the nuns are gathered in the chapel, the prioress, Sister Josephine, exposes the Blessed Sacrament. She opens the door to the tabernacle, and there in the form of wine and wafers lies the body and blood of Christ.
Sister Angeline absorbed by this metaphor. The thought of all becoming one body—no one separate from the other—but there are those who drink the wine and eat the bread who still feel alone, afraid, hungry, desperate, and ashamed.
She is one of those.
The nuns chant then, an ancient Latin call and response, creating a primal echo, a oneness of heart, extinguishing a silence that can sometimes suffocate.
Afterward, they return to their cells for three more hours of sleep. Sister Angeline undisturbed by this bifurcated sleep pattern—she hardly sleeps anyway. To fall asleep means ghost bodies crawling in and dead sparrows floating in coffins filled with blood.
Another bell at 5:30 a.m. The nuns gather to pray the Rosary. Father Condon arrives at 7:00 a.m. to say Mass. He has a heart condition and a kind temperament and must be helped to walk. Sister Angeline likes that he drinks the consecrated wine from the golden goblet with such gusto.
After Mass the nuns eat breakfast, usually eggs and buttered toast—sometimes there’s blueberry or strawberry jam—and freshly squeezed juice and coffee. The only sounds: chewing and drinking and the muffled throb and scream of traffic through the double-paned windows.
Once the nuns clean up the kitchen, they pray for an hour in solitude. Sister Angeline prays in her cell, on her knees, head in her hands. She prays for the suffering, the sick. She prays to be with the ones she lost. She prays to be forgiven.
After prayer she assists with the laundry and cooking, polishing, sweeping, sewing, and gardening in the tiny, enclosed plot behind the convent. Sometimes, while she works, rappers perform on the other side of the brick wall. It seems to her that rapping requires an incredible grasp of human nature. Also, fearlessness and urgency.
Today a young man recites words rapidly, “These streets are shit, why can’t I speak, I ain’t telling you how to survive, ain’t telling you, babe, when to cry, when to die, these streets are shit, why can’t I speak?”
She can hear him breathing hard, and she feels an ache of pain for him, and it makes her call out, “I hear you,” and there is a sudden silence, and then he says, “Thank you, whoever you are.”
Lunch is the biggest meal. Never meat, but sometimes fish, usually lentils and rice, and if it’s a feast day, they might have cookies.
They eat in silence except for one nun who is appointed as reader. The reader reads aloud the story of her choice. Whenever it’s Sister Angeline’s turn, she chooses a biography of a female saint—there are hundreds of these stories, and she wants to learn from all of them. These are women who didn’t flee from suffering, who chose to live their entire lives at the edges—without possessions or power, undergoing hardship for the sake of others. Who stayed true to themselves even in the gravest of circumstances, even if it meant being burned at the stake.
After lunch more prayer and manual work. At 4:30 p.m. they sanctify the day with Vespers, by singing and chanting psalms. They must sing louder at Vespers because of the yell and bellow of rush-hour traffic.
The evening meal always consists of soup—the idea is to fast with only liquids until morning. Fasting is not an end unto itself, but a means of sharpening their minds and bodies for spiritual growth.
For an hour after the evening meal, the nuns may use their voices for conversation, though Sister Angeline doesn’t participate. She prefers to use her free time to pray, not because she feels spiritually superior, but because she feels she owes a great debt.
In the beginning she’d waited for Sister Josephine or one of the other Sisters to say something about her lack of interaction, to insist she socialize, but no one ever said a word to her. Though, once, Sister Leon whispered ice princess as they passed in the hall, and Sister Angeline’s throat tightened, and for a moment she was back in middle school where the bullies lived.
She’d been harassed in school for her strange eye colors, one blue and one brown. Kids passed rumors, said she was a witch, said she cast spells, blamed her for everything from bad test scores to a teacher’s suicide, pushed her up against walls, and once, an older girl, a girl she’d only seen in the hallways, held a lit cigarette to her neck in the bathroom and said, I never want to see you using this bathroom again or I’ll burn you hard, Meg. After that, she only used the bathroom by the nurse’s office.
The doctor explained that she has heterochromia—a difference in coloration in two structures of the eye that are normally alike in color. He said it wasn’t a negative thing.
Yet.
There was always someone within striking distance who made it so.
The bell for Compline rings at 7:30 p.m. More prayers, a hymn, and an optional examination of conscience. Though they are nudged to let the Ten Commandments guide them, Sister Angeline has her own set of questions.
Have I been distracted from prayer?
Have I knowingly hurt anyone?
The final bell rings at 9:00 for bedtime.
Prayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleanprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleancookprayeatchantcleanreadprayprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleanprayeatchantcleancookreadprayprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleanprayeatchantcleancookreadprayprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleanprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleancookprayeatchantcleanreadprayprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleanprayeatchantcleancookreadprayprayeatchantcleancookreadprayeatchantcleanprayeatchantcleancookread
The monotony drives some of the nuns away. The monotony kills some of them.
For Sister Angeline, the surrendering, the predictable rhythm
carries its own body,
its own blood,
its own redemption.
Marriage between humans is a dare, a summons, a trial. Marriage to God is a microscopic introspection, a quantum leap, a release. A chrysalis.
Chapter
Three
When Sister Angeline is twenty-four years old, only a year after taking her final vows, the Archdiocese of Chicago runs out of money to support the Daughters of Mercy. The foundation crumbling, stained glass shattered by bullets. The once-solid neighborhood collapsing into crime. And the number of nuns
dwindling
dwindling
dwindling.
The archdiocese closes the convent down. Heartbreak for the small band of women. Seventeen of the brides over seventy. They’ve lived and prayed here for decades, believed this was their home. Now they will be sent to nursing homes or families with extra bedrooms. The three younger nuns will be transferred to convents around the United States.
“I’m sending you to Light of the Sea convent,” Sister Josephine says to Sister Angeline. It is morning, and they are sitting in her small dark office. The room has only two tiny, square stained-glass windows. The one above the prioress’s head is open slightly, and the morning breeze whispers its way into the room and touches Sister Angeline’s face. But now the cry of sirens, and they both close their eyes and whisper a Hail Mary. When they open their eyes, light slants in and lands on the papery hands of the old nun—the crinkled fingers clasped together on the worn oak table between them.
“Light of the Sea is on Beckett Island in the Pacific Northwest,” Sister Josephine says. She is in her late seventies. A strand of gray hair hanging loose from her wimple. The heavy slump of her shoulders. The authority gone from her body. She will go to live with her sister in Michigan and volunteer at Our Lady of Refuge, the local Catholic elementary school, twice a week.
“They are looking for another nun to join them,” Sister Josephine continues. “When their director, Sigrid, wrote to me, I immediately thought of you.” She moves her hands, tucks them under her scapular, and the light flashes now on the silver crucifix hanging from her neck, illuminating the entire body of Jesus.
“But the Pacific Northwest is thousands of miles away.” Sister Angeline stares steadily into the old woman’s eyes, an overwhelming feeling of dread creeping throughout her entire body.
“There’s more,” Sister Josephine says.
“More?”
“Light of the Sea is not a cloistered convent. There are five Sisters, and they have contact with the outside world, and they’re—they’re quite radical. They’ve started their own community and no longer follow canonical law. They define their convent as a deconstructed one, an intentional spiritual community inclusive to all.”
“They’re excommunicated?”
“Yes. The pope has removed his blessing, but it doesn’t mean they are stripped of God’s blessing, remember that. They left of their own accord, and they, well, they just have their own vision about how things can be done.” Sister Josephine shuts her eyes for a moment, inhales deeply, and then opens them.
“Their own vision?”
“Their abbess, Sigrid,” Sister Josephine says calmly, “is a dear friend of mine, and you are like a daughter. I want you to be with her. I’ve prayed long and hard on this and I believe it’s the right place for you. You’ll love Sigrid.” She clears her throat, rearranges her fingers into a shaky steeple. “She used to live here with us, but over time, she decided she couldn’t live with the Vatican’s stance on homosexuality and abortion, the subservient role of women, the cover-ups, so she left and started her own convent—it’s been going for over forty years.” Sister Josephine’s face soft with pride. “She was, still is, the Gloria Steinem of nuns. She marched in civil rights protests, campaigned for the Equal Rights Amendment. She even says the Sunday Mass for the locals.”
“Without a male priest?”
“Without a male priest.”
Sister Angeline looks at Sister Josephine and takes this information in. Something sparks inside her. The kind of flicker she hasn’t felt in a long time. She remembers how often her mother had shouted about the Church’s subjugation of women—she’d hated the fact women didn’t have the same rights as men, didn’t have rights to their own bodies, were rendered illegitimate to deliver the words of God. She’d even flown to Rome in the ’70s for a women’s conference and marched in front of the Vatican, wearing a pink pantsuit, and carrying a sign that said, Open the Door! Open the Dialogue!
Meg and her mother came together on the Church’s issues, one of the few subjects they agreed upon, and more than once, before Meg took her solemn vows, she asked herself why she would join a convent connected to an oppressive Church. She likes to think at some unconscious level it was because her mother often said, Don’t run, stay and fight. But the truth is she joined because all she’d wanted was to atone for her wrongdoings. In the cloister, life is designed for atonement and prayer. Except for the tiny garden out back, she’s never left the convent. The dentist comes to them. The doctor comes to them. The groceries come to them. Sometimes if you want, a relative even comes, but Sister Angeline requests no one and no one requests her, and she wants to keep it that way.
Sister Angeline knows her vow of obedience means she needs to listen to the prioress, but she also knows that since Vatican II this vow no longer means she need serve blindly. She need only listen intently—to hold open the possibility that others might know what’s best for her and who she is meant to be. And she trusts Sister Josephine. Admires her wisdom and fairness. But this. This is too much. She needs to be in a place where she can focus all her energy on prayer, not designing posters for protests and campaigning for politicians. She needs to pray without interruption.
Outside a motorcycle roars its engine. A guy shouts, look out, asshole!
“I’m not going,” she says.
“Sister Angeline, do you remember the conversations we had when you were going through your six years of discernment? I expressed to you then that I didn’t feel you were here for the right reasons. I believed that you, like most novitiates, were having doubts, but you were so passionate about prayer, I allowed you in. However, my sense now is that your doubts, your unhappiness, have only grown stronger, and hiding in a cloister is not the means to spiritual growth.”
The walls collapsing on Sister Angeline, the cells in her body simmering distress, her chamber of solitude and privacy dissolving fast. “Am I supposed to be happy?” she says. “Or am I supposed to draw closely to the suffering of others? Was Catherine of Siena happy? Rose of Lima? Joan of Arc?” She immediately wants to suck these words back into her mouth, the arrogance and absurdity of comparing herself to saints deeply embarrassing.
“Listen,” Sister Josephine says. “I know the sacredness of the cloistered vocation. I also know how enclosures and locked doors can fool you into believing isolation and prayer are the answers. But those women, those saints—they had a fervor, a fire burning within. They did not stay behind walls—they were out in the world.”
For a few moments, Sister Josephine says nothing, just opens and closes the steeple of her hands. Then she says, “I believe you are ready for what’s coming next, I can feel it. To follow a doctrine that isn’t yours is a tremendous burden.”
Angeline bows her head. Tears begin to fall.
“I want to tell you something,” Sister Josephine says, more softly. “Something very personal.” She rises from her chair and walks toward the large oil painting of Mary. She stumbles slightly, even though the floor is bare.
Sister Angeline waits, her heart working to control itself. In the seven years she’s lived here, she’s never heard Sister Josephine reveal anything personal. Not a word in the halls, not a whisper at meals, not a sound except for chanting and song and an occasional reprimand should someone fail the vow of silence.
“Decades ago, when I was a young nun in Ireland, I was assisting at a facility in Galway operated by nuns who sheltered orphans and cared for babies and unmarried mothers, a Magdalene institution—you’ve heard of those, yes? The home babies?”
“Yes.”
“Once the babies were born, we were to care for them until they were adopted. At times, there must have been at least a hundred.”
Sister Angeline’s hands reach for her belly, and she enfolds it.
“But the conditions were horrible,” Sister Josephine says, “the rooms damp and cold, all the babies whimpering, the stench of urine so strong you had to hold your hand over your nose, and there was hardly any staff, and I knew . . .” Sister Josephine’s voice catches, and there is a small silence before she continues, her voice barely audible. “I knew many of the babies were sick, starving of hunger, but I never saw a doctor or nurse come near the place.”
