Please answer this letter, if only to spare yourself the remorse of not having closure with me, your only mother. Write back, or even better yet, call, and let me know that you are okay before I die. I will not allow myself to hope for a visit—to hold your beautiful face in my hands one last time. But a letter or a phone call—to put my heart back together again—perhaps we could start there.
Let’s end this horrid silence.
Please.
Love and blessings,
Your mother
CHAPTER 18
February 22, 2012
To My Sweet and Good Son, Nathan,
When I returned from Florida, the Crab informed me that you had not answered my letter. No phone call. No e-mail. Nothing. She assured me she had overnighted my words, but you can never trust the Crab, because she is rather tight with the convent’s money when it is not being spent on things that will benefit Mother Superior. I’ve asked her to provide me with receipts in the future to prove that she has sent my letters in a timely fashion. So I initially held the Crab responsible for your silence. Her back is broad enough to bear it. But days passed, and by now you would have my letter even if the Crab sent it at the lower and slower rate, and she is not quite cruel enough to lie about not sending it at all. Mother Superior may be cheap, but she is not a sadist. So my heart has sunk a little, and will continue to sink with every minute that passes until you contact me.
When I landed in Tampa Bay, with the money Mother Superior had given me I hired a cab to take me directly to the holy shrine, the building on which the Blessed Mother Mary had appeared. In the cab, I rolled down the window and allowed the warm Florida air to wash over my old skin, and I felt healthier than I have in years! Pish posh on that young doctor Kristina, I thought, and allowed myself to fantasize about being reunited with you at this holy place I was about to visit. I wondered if God had let you know I was coming, or would you be taken by surprise? Either way, I saw the tears fill your eyes before you ran to me and then we embraced and agreed to forget about all that had kept us separate for so long. I was practically drunk on Floridian air, with my eyes closed, dreaming about you, when the driver said, “We’re here, Sister,” and then quoted me the fare.
I paid with the Crab’s money, grabbed my small bag, and nervously exited the car, looking for you, but you were nowhere to be seen.
My heart sank, and then I saw the decapitated Mother Mary—they’ve replaced the broken windows with new panes of mirrored glass, so the top half of her bust is gone.
I wept for the Virgin Mary who had given us this great miracle, only to have it thrown back in her face.
There were a few people there praying, again mostly olive-skinned people, and one of them—a young man—walked up to me and said, “For you, Sister,” before handing me wooden rosary beads. “God bless you,” the young man said, nodded, and then turned back to a stand where religious items were being sold.
“Thank you!” I yelled, and he looked back over his shoulder and smiled a holy grin.
I studied the wood in my hands—Jesus carved out of cedar, maybe, on the cross, a two-inch-tall version of him. I felt the strength return to me.
It’s amazing how much power can be manifested through a simple act of kindness.
I prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary, but she did not appear to me, nor did she provide me with any answers.
When it was time to leave, I realized that I had no ride to my hotel. I was so excited to see the shrine that I had forgotten to arrange for a taxi to pick me up. I stood by the edge of the road and hoped a taxi would drive by, but there were none to be seen.
“Do you need a ride, Sister?” I heard, and when I turned around, it was the man who had given me the wooden rosary beads. Before you tell me that I should not get into cars with strangers—and I usually don’t!—this man had a kindness in his eyes.
“I’m an old fool,” I said, explaining why I had no ride.
“I am happy to drive you,” he said. “My name is Manuel.”
I told him the name of my hotel, and he said, “Not far from here.”
And then I was in an old truck, looking at the many strands of rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror—there were so many carvings of my husband twisting and spinning and bouncing up and down.
“How do you carve such tiny crucifixes?” I said.
“With a knife, Sister. As penance.”
“Penance?”
“I am living the good life now.”
What he was doing penance for was none of my business, so I said, “Do you always give lost nuns rides?”
“No, Sister. You are the first. It is truly an honor.”
“Do you have a family?” I asked.
“The Catholic Church is my family.”
“Mine too,” I said.
He nodded.
“I thought I might see my son at the shrine, back there. I had him in my former life, before I took my vows, of course. That’s why I flew down here from Philadelphia. Hoping to see him.”
“Your son was supposed to meet you, Sister?” he said.
“No, he wasn’t.”
“I do not understand.”
“I was hoping for a miracle.”
He nodded again once.
“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked.
“Of course, Sister.”
I smiled and asked, “Is your mother still alive?”
“She died many years ago.”
“Were you there when she died?”
“I wish I could say I was, but I was far away doing shameful things. This was before.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say good-bye to your mother.”