And finally, there was the sign of death itself, a sister placing the tip of her right thumb under her chin and raising it slightly.
When the last prayers had been said, the body was left alone for an hour so that the soul could go in peace. At the foot of the bed the great Paschal candle, the Christian symbol of eternal light, burned in its wooden holder.
The infirmarian washed the body and clothed the dead nun in her habit, black scapular over white cowl, rough stockings, and handmade sandals. From the garden one of the nuns brought fresh flowers woven into a crown. When the dead woman was dressed, six of the nuns in a procession carried her to the church and placed her on the white-sheeted bier facing the altar. She would not be left alone before God, and in their stalls by her side, two nuns stayed through the rest of the day and night praying, while the Paschal candle flickered at her side.
The next afternoon, after the Requiem mass, she was carried through the cloister by the nuns to the private, walled cemetery where even in death the nuns kept their enclosure. The sisters, three and three, lowered her carefully into the grave, supported on white bands of linen. It was the Cistercian custom for the dead to lie uncovered in the earth, buried without a coffin. As the last service they performed for their sister, two nuns started to drop soil softly onto her still body before they all returned to the church to say the psalms of penance. Three times they begged that God have mercy on her soul:
Domine miserere super peccatrice.
Domine miserere super peccatrice.
Domine miserere super peccatrice.
There were often times when young Megan was filled with melancholy. The convent gave her serenity, and yet she was not completely at peace. It was as though a part of her were missing. She felt longings that she should have long ago forgotten. She found herself thinking about the friends she had left behind in the orphanage, and wondering what had happened to them. And she wondered what was happening in the outside world, the world that she had renounced, a world where there was music and dancing and laughter.
Megan went to Sister Betina.
"It happens to all of us from time to time," she assured Megan. "The church calls it acedia. It is a spiritual malaise, an instrument of Satan. Do not worry about it, child. It will pass."
And it did.
But what did not pass was the bone-deep longing to know who her parents were. I'll never know, Megan thought despairingly. Not as long as I live.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
New York City
1976
The reporters gathered outside the gray façade of New York's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel watched the parade of celebrities in evening dress alight from their limousines, enter the revolving doors, and head for the Grand Ballroom on the third floor. The guests had come from around the world.
Cameras flashed as reporters called out, "Mr. Vice-President, would you look this way, please?"
"Governor Adams, could I have one more picture, please?"
There were senators and representatives from several foreign countries, business tycoons, and celebrities. And they were all there to celebrate Ellen Scott's sixtieth birthday. In truth, it was not so much Ellen Scott that they were honoring as the philanthropy of Scott Industries, one of the most powerful conglomerates in the world. The huge, sprawling empire included oil companies and steel mills, communications systems and banks. All the money raised this evening would go to international charities.
Scott Industries had interests in every part of the world. Twenty-seven years earlier, its president, Milo Scott, had died unexpectedly of a heart attack, and his wife, Ellen, had taken over the management of the huge conglomerate. In the ensuing years she proved to be a brilliant executive, more than tripling the assets of the company.
The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria was an enormous room decorated in beige and gold, with a red-carpeted stage at one end. A balcony holding thirty-three boxes with a chandelier over each one curved around the entire room.
In the center of the balcony sat the guest of honor. There were at least six hundred men and women present, dining at tables gleaming with silver.
When dinner was finished, the governor of New York strode onto the stage.
"Mr. Vice-President, ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, we are all here tonight for one purpose: to pay tribute to a remarkable woman and to her unselfish generosity over the years. Ellen Scott is the kind of person who could have made a success in any field. She would have been a great scientist or doctor. She would also have made a great politician, and I must tell you that if Ellen Scott decides to run for president of the United States, I'll be the first one to vote for her. Not in the next election, of course, but the one after that."
There was laughter and applause.
"But Ellen Scott is much more than just a brilliant woman. She is a charitable, compassionate human being who never hesitates to get involved in the problems that face the world today..."
The speech went on for ten more minutes, but Ellen Scott was no longer listening. How wrong he is, she thought wryly. How wrong they all are. Scott Industries isn't even my company. Milo and I stole it And I'm guilty of a far greater crime than that It doesn't matter any longer. Not now. Because I'll be dead soon.
She remembered the doctor's exact words as he read the lab report that was her death sentence.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Scott, but I'm afraid there's no way to break this to you gently. The cancer has spread throughout your lymphatic system. It's inoperable."
She had felt the sudden leaden weight in her stomach.
"How...how long do I have?"
He hesitated. "A year - maybe."
Not enough time. Not with so much still to do. "You will say nothing of this, of course." Her voice was steady.