“We used to have a lot of Sisters in this house, every bedroom occupied, so we really needed the space. Now we’re two Sisters and two novices.” I wanted to ask her what happened, why she thought women weren’t doing this anymore, but I was afraid to offend her. “Oh well, God always has a plan,” she continued, as if reading my mind. As she showed me around, I smiled, trying to hide my unease. It felt like a museum, everything silent and placed and old like the books in their library and the 1970s television in the living room, the same kind my grandparents had until my mother and aunts, after years of trying, finally convinced them to replace with a new one. There were none of the aromas of a home like cookies in the oven or fresh-cut flowers on the table, and the kitchen had pastel tiled walls and a dumbwaiter they no longer used.
“This is my favorite room,” she said smiling broadly. “On Sunday mornings, I’m usually the first awake. I get my coffee and the paper and clip my coupons, then I have a second cup. It’s heavenly, the solitude.”
“That sounds nice,” I said, but I thought, How lonely in this big kitchen by herself every Sunday morning.
Afterward we met in her office where two chairs were set up facing each other in the center of the room like confession without the screen. It was an orderly and modest room with short shelves filled with books whose spines read words like Charism, Apostolic, Contemplative and still others that said Praying with Vincent de Paul, Praying with Louise De Marillac, Praying with Elizabeth Ann Seton. There was a picture of St. Elizabeth before she became a nun, with her long, curly brown tresses falling passed her shoulders, and a statue of her afterward in which she’s in her habit looking attentively at two small children. Sister offered me the more comfortable chair and then sat down, her legs so long her knees extended way past the edge of the chair.
“Sister, as I was telling you on the phone, I feel like I’m supposed to be looking into this, religious life, but I don’t wa—,” I said crossing my legs. “I’m just not sure.”
“There’s no pressure. Really,” she said. “But maybe we could talk a little about what makes you feel like you might have a calling.”
I told her about that night in church when I was eight, how drawn I felt to prayer in high school, and that most of the time I didn’t make it to a fourth date. She nodded and asked, “Is there anything going on that’s making you consider religious life now?” I looked at her surprised, Father Infanzi in my head. “No, just that if I don’t explore it, I’ll always have this gnawing feeling.” I wanted to ask her if celibacy would always feel like an interminable longing, but she looked so happy I felt silly, so I asked if it was normal that I didn’t feel drawn to the poor.
“Are there students who come to you seeking more than just a job?”
“Sure.” A male student came to mind whose father shamed him into being a business major when he really wanted to go into the arts. Another student was battling with a severe disability, and there were plenty of students who felt like they’d never be enough. I did my best to listen to all of them and to offer possible solutions when I could.
“In a way you’re already working with the poor. In addition to the materially poor, there are so many people who are spiritually and emotionally poor, and religious Sisters work with them all.”
“But I don’t understand why God would pick me for this. My mother is more selfless than I could ever be, and my friend Silvia is perfect and disciplined. They’d be much more suited for religious life than me.”
“Your mother has had many years to grow in virtue. And God isn’t looking for perfection; after all, look at the motley twelve he chose as his apostles,” she said with a grin. I nodded, but they weren’t the answers I wanted or believed. Besides, if Sister was right and I was already working with the “poor” then I didn’t have to become a nun to continue doing so, but I didn’t say this. Instead, I asked her to tell me more about St. Elizabeth, which she did passionately for the next fifteen minutes, referring to her as “Betty” like they were old friends. Then we made an appointment for a month later, and she walked me to the door.
I couldn’t tell Sister about Father Infanzi. I still hadn’t told him about me, not even when we spoke during Christmas week, and he sounded depressed. He said he’d planned to open the gifts from parishioners and send thank yous, but that he didn’t get around to it. I pictured him surrounded by foil covered boxes filled with scarves and chocolates and bottles of sherry. I knew that they were a reminder of his life and that I should tell him about my calling to help lessen his pain and confusion, but the prospect that I could be more appealing to him than the priesthood, than God, enticed me. I played dumb, “Did something come up that took you away from it?” but he evaded the question. A few days later on New Year’s Eve, I was the one hurting.
My mother and Tom had Janine, Father, and me over for dinner. Phil was working, Nellie was at a party, and Nick and Julie were at the hospital where Julie was waiting to go into labor. My mother was in her glory, her first grandchild hours away from being born and a priest over for the holiday. After she gave him a tour of the house, we spent the next couple of hours talking and eating and laughing, my mother telling Father that her favorite scripture passage was the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, in part because Jesus was practical enough to save the leftovers. As I stood at the sink doing dishes, Father snuck admiring looks at me. Then after coffee and cheesecake, at about ten-thirty or eleven, he abruptly announced that he had to get going, that his sister and brother-in-law were expecting him. I assumed he was staying for midnight, that he’d sip champagne with us, that I wouldn’t be alone as the ball dropped. When he hugged me goodbye, I did my best to hide how crushed I felt. An hour later waiting at the hospital where Julie was seven centimeters, I felt empty. The next day, in the midst of all the excitement—she’d given birth to a healthy baby girl, Nicole—I told Janine how sad I felt that Father left before midnight. “Me too,” she said.
About two weeks later on a Sunday afternoon, Father and I were upstairs visiting Nicole. He’d called Julie to ask if he could stop by to meet her. We stayed less than an hour, long enough for me to instigate Father as I held Nicole who had Nick’s brown eyes and fine, brown hair. My hair was smooth and long with no wave, because I’d had it blown out straight, and I was rocking her gently, breathing in her purity and baby cream, thrilled that Father was seeing me look like a mother. Even though he was dressed in regular clothes and they knew we were going for a burger, they were too dizzy with bliss to suspect anything, at least Julie was. If Nick thought it odd, he didn’t act it or say anything. But on the way out, we ran into his mother who looked at me hesitatingly. I don’t know if she was trying to place Father, or if she immediately remembered him from Janine’s wedding. I nervously said hello and rushed out without introducing him. It was the first time I felt caught. The second time was less than an hour later at TGI Fridays. As Father self-consciously tried to explain football to me as it played on the large screen, I saw a woman look at us, especially me, accusingly. I grew indignant, “Father, Do you know who this woman is?” He glanced at her quickly, loosened his collar, and said he wasn’t sure if he recognized her from the parish. Then he hungrily returned to his burger and me. Fifteen minutes later she left. For the rest of lunch, I pretended her stare hadn’t bothered me.
One night on the phone, he said, “Maria, my friends call me James.” I clutched the receiver and said excitedly, “Okay, James.” Then a few nights later, he said, “I have feelings for you.” I was sitting in my kitchen where the crackling sound of baseboard heat and the ticking of the clock were suddenly amplified. When I finally opened my mouth, the only word that came out was, “Yes.” He hesitated, waiting for me to say more, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to say something I didn’t mean.