The Magdalen Girls by V.S. Alexander

Author:V.S. Alexander [Alexander, V.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-10-26T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 10

Sister Anne changed out of her habit and into her nightclothes. Monica continued to surprise her. She had ridden to the convent without saying a word; she had even stepped into the Penitent’s Room without resistance. Perhaps she was learning repentance after all. Perhaps her venture back in the world had softened her to the possibility of a life without sin.

She knelt in front of her bed, her usual location for prayer, and wished she were somewhere else in the convent. The windows were closed against the cold. The radiator rumbled and clacked in the corner. She breathed deeply, the semi-moist air filling her lungs. In the Penitent’s Room all would be black, soundless, now that evening prayers were over in the adjoining chapel. She wished she had the courage to be with Monica, holding her, giving her the comfort and love she needed during her time of penitence. Good Mother Superiors might do that, but her time alone with God was more important than prayers with a Magdalen.

Sister Anne bowed her head and prayed with a reverence and fervor that shocked her. She spit out the words, saying them almost to the point of a scream. Our Father, who art in heaven, hollowed be Thy name! She stopped. Did God hear her prayers? Was He listening?

She looked back to the bureau and thought about the blades, clean, silver gleaming, cold, waiting to slice the soft skin. How many hours had she spent in the Penitent’s Room herself trying to exorcise the pain? Her fellow Sisters never knew she was there. Most of the time it was late at night, long after the others had gone to bed. She had taken the blades with her. No one could see the blood smeared into the wall by her fingers. The ancient rock absorbed it like clay absorbs water.

So many times she had prayed there—the Lord’s Prayer, Hail Mary’s, desolate prayers of absolution. So many times she had sought relief from the despair sluicing through her soul like a rampaging river.

She never understood why her mother hated her so when it wasn’t her fault.

“Why did your sister have to die?” her mother kept asking. “You have conversations with the Lord every day. You are a godly person. Why didn’t He save her? Couldn’t you have saved her with your petitions to God?” Anger scorched her mother’s voice.

The questions kept coming as her mother’s depression deepened. Sister Anne expected her to ask one day, “Why didn’t He take you instead of her?” It wasn’t her fault her sister died in childbirth, but she had been in the room, praying for her, already having assured her mother that she would live, by the grace of God. She prayed so hard her head hurt, but her sister died despite her pleas. The baby lived, but it wasn’t enough. Her mother withered like a dead rose, the red blossom turning to brown, drying to dust. Then there was no family at all.

The guilt, the recrimination,

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