Stony River by Tricia Dower Page B

Miranda practically as a teacher’s aide in deference to her age, praising her progress in subjects James didn’t assign. “If you ever want to talk to me about anything, know that you can,” she said one day, taking Miranda aside after school and looking at her hard, as if she could see into the girl’s heart.
    Doris, smelling of baby and cold air, kisses Miranda’s cheek. “I’m late, I know. Bill was called out this morning and I had to wait for him to get back.” She laughs. “Leaving the kids with him is such a production. Gotta be sure Mickey’s diaper is dry—Bill sure as heck won’t change him—pump out four ounces of milk, leave a list of snacks Carolyn can have, the TV shows it’s okay for her to watch.”
    A tear escapes and dribbles down Miranda’s cheek. Doris wipes it away with her thumb. “Oh, sweetie, listen to me whine. Showing off how important I am. I wouldn’t miss visiting day for the world. You know that, don’t you?”
    â€œCian’s gone.”
    Doris’s smile freezes. “What do you mean?”
    â€œHe’s been fostered out, he has.”
    Doris slumps against the wall and closes her eyes for a second. “When?”
    â€œToday. I went to collect him for your visit and he wasn’t there.”
    â€œYou didn’t meet the people? You didn’t give your approval?”
    â€œI did not.”
    Once a month couples visit the orphanage to consider children they might want to foster or adopt. They cluster in the lounge, perchedon couch and chair edges, as inmates march past them. Their faces betray no emotion. Sister Celine assured Miranda that, if she kept Cian in her arms, prospective parents would know they were to go together. How often did Miranda parade, unaware, in front of the people who took Cian? A doctor and his wife, according to Sister Cameron: “Good Catholics with a weakness for babies in need of healing love.”
    Doris takes long strides into the lounge and right up to Sister Celine. Miranda stops just inside the entrance to the big room that throbs with inmate and visitor conversations. Any other day, she would be at Doris’s heels. But entering now, without Cian, she’s self-conscious, as if everyone in the room knows of her loss. Did Father Shandley know all the while he sat with her?
    â€œHow can a child be fostered out without his mother’s permission?” Doris demands.
    Sister Celine glances up at Doris, over at Miranda and then pointedly around the crowded room. In that low, first-warning voice she uses when someone in class misbehaves, she says, “This is not the time or place for such a discussion.”
    â€œWhen is and where?” Doris’s voice is loud and shrill. Conversations stop. She leans toward Sister Celine, speaking as if she and the nun were equals or, even more astounding, as if Doris were superior. It took Miranda weeks to recognize that the twelve identically garbed sisters are not mirror images of each other. To see that Sister Celine has one blue eye and one brown, Sister Joseph a hairy mole on her chin and Sister Cameron a flat nose. Yet they are as one in their authority over her, their word not to be doubted, their orders not to be questioned.
    Sister Celine strokes the silver crucifix over her heart and mutters too softly for Miranda to hear. Doris nods and backs away. Sister pushes herself from the table as smoothly as if the rigid wooden chair were on wheels. Doris crosses to Miranda and gives her a quick hug.
    â€œShe’s escorting me to Mother Superior,” she whispers, then laughs softly. “Pray for me.”
    Sister Celine, smelling of soap and starch, leans into Miranda. “Would you mind sitting at the desk until I get back?” A kindness. Inmates ordinarily aren’t allowed in the lounge without a visitor. Some girls never have visitors, even those who are at St. Bernadette’s