slightly damp forehead, but instead sits on the infirmarian’s milking stool. She smells the tang of vomit and urine. And yet she is happy and proud to be there. She thinks, You see how I love you. Even this way. Especially now .
She can’t take her eyes off the sleeping woman—she who has become for Mariette sight and map and motive. Annie. She sees cracked, parched lips and a trace of sour yellow; a forehead as hot, perhaps, as candle wax; frail eyelids that are redly lettered with tiny capillaries; green veins that tree and knot under the skin of her hands.
The prioress achingly turns on her bed and opens her sorrowing eyes. She keeps them on a high windowpane darkly stippled with hailstones and imperfections. Without looking at Mariette, she asks, “Have you been watching me long?”
“I have brought you hot tea.”
She gazes skeptically at the postulant. “Where is Sister Aimée?”
“Elsewhere. Mother Saint-Raphaël sent me. She had me put a medicine in it.”
The prioress tries to rise up, but she sinks back to her original position as Mariette pours an orange tea into the Japanese cup. The prioress asks, “Have you read Sext yet?”
“We are having Méridienne now. We can talk.”
Mother Céline gets a hint of Alexandria senna aroma and seems upset, but she goes ahead and tastes it. She squints her eyes and sits back. “We haven’t talked nearly enough.”
“No.”
“Your letters…have troubled me.”
“You weren’t supposed to read them.”
“I was too curious.” She considers Mariette as she would a sudden noise. “You’re my sister, but I don’t understand you. You aren’t understandable.” She smiles. “You may be a saint. Saints are like that, I think. Elusive. Other. Upsetting.”
“I just am.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.” She has blood drying on her fingers. She has a water bowl on the floor with a pinked sponge in it. The prioress sips some more tea and pauses for breath, and then she empties the cup and hands it back to the postulant.
Mariette asks, “Are you hungry?”
“I have not eaten for more than a day.”
“We had soup.”
“I have spewed even that.”
“Is it terrible for you now?”
She shrugs. “I have been ill before. I shall be ill again. We are born with it beside us.” And then the prioress tightly clutches her stomach with her elbows and forearms. Sudden pain misshapes her face, but Mariette stands there impassively and softly prays as she puts her left hand onto her sister’s side.
The prioress shrieks with harrowing pain and slowly rolls away from Mariette’s touch. She stays in one position, just catching her breath, and then, as if she has already permitted too much affection and sympathy, she finally says, “You may go.”
Mariette gets the tray and goes out, but she smiles back at the prioress as she shuts the door.
December. First Sunday of Advent.
Evening recreation. A squat tallow candle is lit. A yellow thumb of flame trembles on a draft. Reverend Mother Céline is just as sick as she was five days ago, with skin as white as the undersheets, and tiny beads of night sweat that finally break and sketch across her forehead. She hears the sand rasp of sandals on the floor and opens her green eyes.
Mariette is there with a pastry bowl of soap and hot water and an ironed towel. She says nothing as she uncovers the prioress and unties the strings of Annie’s nightgown.
The prioress says, “I have become so weak. I hardly belong to myself anymore.”
Mariette reaches down to the prioress’s knees and inchingly draws the nightgown up over her body, skirting her gaze away from her mother superior’s nakedness. She asks, “Was the medicine any help?”
“No.”
Mariette sits on the palliasse and puts the bowl of hot water onto her lap. She soaps her own palms. “Shall we send for Papa?”
“God shall be my doctor,” the prioress says.
Mariette tenderly washes her sister’s hands and arms as a mother would
She can’t take her eyes off the sleeping woman—she who has become for Mariette sight and map and motive. Annie. She sees cracked, parched lips and a trace of sour yellow; a forehead as hot, perhaps, as candle wax; frail eyelids that are redly lettered with tiny capillaries; green veins that tree and knot under the skin of her hands.
The prioress achingly turns on her bed and opens her sorrowing eyes. She keeps them on a high windowpane darkly stippled with hailstones and imperfections. Without looking at Mariette, she asks, “Have you been watching me long?”
“I have brought you hot tea.”
She gazes skeptically at the postulant. “Where is Sister Aimée?”
“Elsewhere. Mother Saint-Raphaël sent me. She had me put a medicine in it.”
The prioress tries to rise up, but she sinks back to her original position as Mariette pours an orange tea into the Japanese cup. The prioress asks, “Have you read Sext yet?”
“We are having Méridienne now. We can talk.”
Mother Céline gets a hint of Alexandria senna aroma and seems upset, but she goes ahead and tastes it. She squints her eyes and sits back. “We haven’t talked nearly enough.”
“No.”
“Your letters…have troubled me.”
“You weren’t supposed to read them.”
“I was too curious.” She considers Mariette as she would a sudden noise. “You’re my sister, but I don’t understand you. You aren’t understandable.” She smiles. “You may be a saint. Saints are like that, I think. Elusive. Other. Upsetting.”
“I just am.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.” She has blood drying on her fingers. She has a water bowl on the floor with a pinked sponge in it. The prioress sips some more tea and pauses for breath, and then she empties the cup and hands it back to the postulant.
Mariette asks, “Are you hungry?”
“I have not eaten for more than a day.”
“We had soup.”
“I have spewed even that.”
“Is it terrible for you now?”
She shrugs. “I have been ill before. I shall be ill again. We are born with it beside us.” And then the prioress tightly clutches her stomach with her elbows and forearms. Sudden pain misshapes her face, but Mariette stands there impassively and softly prays as she puts her left hand onto her sister’s side.
The prioress shrieks with harrowing pain and slowly rolls away from Mariette’s touch. She stays in one position, just catching her breath, and then, as if she has already permitted too much affection and sympathy, she finally says, “You may go.”
Mariette gets the tray and goes out, but she smiles back at the prioress as she shuts the door.
December. First Sunday of Advent.
Evening recreation. A squat tallow candle is lit. A yellow thumb of flame trembles on a draft. Reverend Mother Céline is just as sick as she was five days ago, with skin as white as the undersheets, and tiny beads of night sweat that finally break and sketch across her forehead. She hears the sand rasp of sandals on the floor and opens her green eyes.
Mariette is there with a pastry bowl of soap and hot water and an ironed towel. She says nothing as she uncovers the prioress and unties the strings of Annie’s nightgown.
The prioress says, “I have become so weak. I hardly belong to myself anymore.”
Mariette reaches down to the prioress’s knees and inchingly draws the nightgown up over her body, skirting her gaze away from her mother superior’s nakedness. She asks, “Was the medicine any help?”
“No.”
Mariette sits on the palliasse and puts the bowl of hot water onto her lap. She soaps her own palms. “Shall we send for Papa?”
“God shall be my doctor,” the prioress says.
Mariette tenderly washes her sister’s hands and arms as a mother would
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