Nathaniel and pats his back. “Deep breaths,” he tells him. “Deep breaths.”
His breaths don’t deepen. They come out ragged. He opens his mouth to speak; however, any words he wanted to say are cut short when the ragged breaths turn to loud gasps that make me think he’s choking.
I bend down in front of Nathaniel and look into his eyes. “Nat? Nat!” His eyes are not focused on me. They are focused on some point above my head. I want to follow his eyes to see where he is looking, but Nathaniel twitches, and then just collapses in Oliver’s arms, his head lolling to the side. “Nathaniel!”
Chapter Nine
In the infirmary, Sister Lila removes the thermometer from Nathaniel’s mouth and confirms he doesn’t have a fever. “It’s likely shock,” she says, dipping the implement in a cup of boiling water and then gathering her various other doctor tools. “From what, I don’t know, but I’ll keep him in here for the rest of the day and overnight for observation. If his condition improves by tomorrow, he’ll be released with strict orders to not overdo anything.”
Sister Lila bundles her instruments in her apron, and with a warm smile, exits the infirmary, leaving Oliver and I alone.
I touch Nathaniel’s soft cheek. It’s warm, but not fever warm.
“Shock, is that right?” Oliver says with narrowed eyes. “I suppose it shouldn’t be too surprising. Maybe it was Ann’s accusation.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it could be enough to do this though.”
“Maybe it’s those cigarettes. You said it’s obvious he’s smoked more than one. What did you do with the tin?”
“I still have it,” I say. “I’ll discard it later. Perhaps it was the smoking. He’s too young to be doing that. His body can’t handle it. He was coughing when I pulled that thing out of his hand. He was gasping before he fainted.”
Oliver shrugs. “Then maybe not shock, but an inability to breathe at the time?”
I run the back of my hand along Nathaniel’s cheek, hoping the touch will pull him from this temporary sleep. I don’t want to assume what happened without being able to ask Nathaniel what he thinks happened to him. “He was looking at something before he fainted.”
“I wouldn’t say he was looking at anything,” Oliver says. “He was spacing out.”
“That look didn’t appear spacey to me.”
There is an answer for Nathaniel’s condition, rubbing at the folds of my brain, but to speak the possibility out loud is too harrowing. Sister Marie began to have such fits before her final undoing, where the nuns discovered her one morning, coated in her own blood after she took a pair of scissors and dug into her flesh. No one understood what pushed Sister Marie to the brink of insanity, to the most frightening pits that spoke the terrifying words she etched into her skin: abuse, hurt, pain, fear, blood, suicide. The letters were jagged, almost incomprehensible, but they were there. I think I’m beginning to understand though. There are things that go on at Cathedral Reims that no one wants to talk about because others who have been here before us just accepted things as they were.
The nuns are allowed to beat us. Most don’t, but some do. I have been lucky enough in my time here to avoid the ones who do. Sister Marie wasn’t. Nathaniel doesn’t seem like he is lucky either. I should have listened when he told me about the nu n who hit his hand. That is just the start. The older one gets, the worse the beatings.
Sometimes Sister Marie would have bruises on her arms that she covered with worn habits she’d steal from the laundry room. Sometimes she would have chafe marks marred into her skin, from the backboards used during deportment lessons--not because this is a common occurrence when one is strapped to a backboard, but because a certain nun may pull it too taut if she is not happy with the way a sister is carrying herself. And then sometimes sisters would blame Sister Marie,
His breaths don’t deepen. They come out ragged. He opens his mouth to speak; however, any words he wanted to say are cut short when the ragged breaths turn to loud gasps that make me think he’s choking.
I bend down in front of Nathaniel and look into his eyes. “Nat? Nat!” His eyes are not focused on me. They are focused on some point above my head. I want to follow his eyes to see where he is looking, but Nathaniel twitches, and then just collapses in Oliver’s arms, his head lolling to the side. “Nathaniel!”
Chapter Nine
In the infirmary, Sister Lila removes the thermometer from Nathaniel’s mouth and confirms he doesn’t have a fever. “It’s likely shock,” she says, dipping the implement in a cup of boiling water and then gathering her various other doctor tools. “From what, I don’t know, but I’ll keep him in here for the rest of the day and overnight for observation. If his condition improves by tomorrow, he’ll be released with strict orders to not overdo anything.”
Sister Lila bundles her instruments in her apron, and with a warm smile, exits the infirmary, leaving Oliver and I alone.
I touch Nathaniel’s soft cheek. It’s warm, but not fever warm.
“Shock, is that right?” Oliver says with narrowed eyes. “I suppose it shouldn’t be too surprising. Maybe it was Ann’s accusation.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it could be enough to do this though.”
“Maybe it’s those cigarettes. You said it’s obvious he’s smoked more than one. What did you do with the tin?”
“I still have it,” I say. “I’ll discard it later. Perhaps it was the smoking. He’s too young to be doing that. His body can’t handle it. He was coughing when I pulled that thing out of his hand. He was gasping before he fainted.”
Oliver shrugs. “Then maybe not shock, but an inability to breathe at the time?”
I run the back of my hand along Nathaniel’s cheek, hoping the touch will pull him from this temporary sleep. I don’t want to assume what happened without being able to ask Nathaniel what he thinks happened to him. “He was looking at something before he fainted.”
“I wouldn’t say he was looking at anything,” Oliver says. “He was spacing out.”
“That look didn’t appear spacey to me.”
There is an answer for Nathaniel’s condition, rubbing at the folds of my brain, but to speak the possibility out loud is too harrowing. Sister Marie began to have such fits before her final undoing, where the nuns discovered her one morning, coated in her own blood after she took a pair of scissors and dug into her flesh. No one understood what pushed Sister Marie to the brink of insanity, to the most frightening pits that spoke the terrifying words she etched into her skin: abuse, hurt, pain, fear, blood, suicide. The letters were jagged, almost incomprehensible, but they were there. I think I’m beginning to understand though. There are things that go on at Cathedral Reims that no one wants to talk about because others who have been here before us just accepted things as they were.
The nuns are allowed to beat us. Most don’t, but some do. I have been lucky enough in my time here to avoid the ones who do. Sister Marie wasn’t. Nathaniel doesn’t seem like he is lucky either. I should have listened when he told me about the nu n who hit his hand. That is just the start. The older one gets, the worse the beatings.
Sometimes Sister Marie would have bruises on her arms that she covered with worn habits she’d steal from the laundry room. Sometimes she would have chafe marks marred into her skin, from the backboards used during deportment lessons--not because this is a common occurrence when one is strapped to a backboard, but because a certain nun may pull it too taut if she is not happy with the way a sister is carrying herself. And then sometimes sisters would blame Sister Marie,
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