Waiting to Believe by Sandra Bloom

be “heading downstairs” on a regular basis, instead of “heading upstairs.” Kacey flashed back to such a moment. Her dad had gathered the family together for a photo. “Look at you!” Kenneth exclaimed. “You look like rungs on an Irish stepladder!” Focusing his Leica camera, he made sure each of them stood tall and proud, from eleven-year-old Joseph to eighteen-year-old Annie, now dreaming of leaving home.
    Kenneth positioned them by the front porch, with the clean white clapboards as background. He looked through the lens again. “Where’s your mother?” he called out.
    â€œI don’t think she’s feeling so good, Dad,” Joseph said reluctantly. “I saw her heading upstairs a while ago.”
    Heading upstairs—they all knew what that meant. Rose would be bringing a bottle with her, and she would not emerge from her bedroom until much later, if at all.
    â€œWell, so be it.” Kenneth shook his head. A sad memory for Kacey, of an occurrence all to frequent.
    In the basement of the convent, another room was filled with rows of neatly arranged footlockers and suitcases. Never very large, always very old. Kacey had peeked in at them during her first visit to the cellar.
    In the largest and warmest area, near the octopus furnace, sat the old Maytag wringer washing machine. Clotheslines were strung the length of the room. Lisa stood at the machine. “Give me a hand,” she said as she dipped the short wooden stick into the scalding water, lifting up a dripping sheet. Gingerly, Kacey took the corners and began feeding them through the wringer.
    â€œDamn!” Kacey exclaimed as the sheet bunched up, causing the wringer to shudder and grind to a halt. Kacey threw the release lever, opening the rollers.
    â€œSlow down!” Lisa called out. “You’re trying to push it through too fast! What’s going on with you, Miss Crabby?
    Kacey tugged at the sheet, smoothing out the twists, and started it over. Without turning, she said quietly, “I don’t know. I just feel irritable. That’s all.”
    â€œYou didn’t seem so irritated at vespers last night,” Lisa remarked slyly.
    Kacey grinned in spite of herself. “Oh, that! I could sure use a beer or two!”
    Lisa lifted another sheet, and Kacey took it from her, beginning the process again. “Are you going to tell me what’s making you cranky? We don’t have all the time in the world, you know.”
    Kacey fed the sheet into the wringer more slowly. “I’m angry,” she said.
    â€œWhat about?”
    Kacey turned to face her friend, the dripping sheet still being fed in. “I’m angry I didn’t get the name I asked for.” Her voice took on strength as she spoke words that had been eating at her for several days.
    â€œYou wanted Joan.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
    â€œYes, I wanted Joan!” Kacey responded sharply.
    â€œMaybe they thought you wanted it too much . Maybe it seemed too important to you.”
    Kacey pulled the last edge of the sheet through the other side of the wringer. “I don’t think so. You’re the only one I told. Why didn’t I get it? You got the name you requested! “
    â€œWell, maybe nobody else wanted to be named after John the Silent!”
    Kacey gave a small laugh. “It was kind of a strange choice. Why’d you pick it?”
    Lisa pulled over the next basket of dirty laundry. “It started out as a joke, because I talked so much as a kid. My youth pastor teased me about it. Said I should strive to be more like St. John the Silent. He spent the last seventy-five years of his life as a solitary in a monastery.”
    â€œWow! You’d go nuts!”
    â€œRight, but Father Kevin thought St. John the Silent might be a good role model for me. You know, think before you speak. That kind of thing. So I decided to go with it. It might