Love May Fail (22 page)

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she said, pupils opening up quickly. When she saw me, her eyes narrowed. She shook her head. “You—”

“My husband sent me a message in a dream,” I said in a whisper, so we wouldn’t wake up the others.

“What did my husband show you?” she whispered back.

“He showed me a flock of God-loving Catholic people—many of them olive-skinned, maybe Mexican—gathered in front of a big building made of huge—”

“Windows that reflected like mirrors?” She lifted her eyebrows.

“Yes,” I said, and then Mother Superior and I were wearing
the smiles of conspirators.

“The Virgin Mary,” the old Crab said, cocking her head to the side.

“Was reflected in nine panes of glass.”

“Like a gasoline rainbow,” the Crab said.

“Exactly.”

“My husband was showing me the same dream when you rudely woke me up.”

“Then it must mean something.”

Perhaps you will mock this series of events as religious mumbo-jumbo, the phrase you love to use when dismissing my beliefs and passions and dreams, and maybe you will wonder why we were not more amazed. Well, this was not the first time the old Crab and I had been sent the same vision. In fact it had happened dozens of times before—linking us as unlikely twins in Christ. And from experience, we have learned to act quickly when such visions come.

I tell you all of my secrets now, because . . . why not? What use do I have for secrets at this point in time?

And the Crab has big enough claws to scare away any doubting Thomases you might inform of our special talents through Jesus Christ.

Soon we were at the Crab’s desk, using her brand-new, fancy, and terribly expensive computer—Is there anything she will not ask her brother for? Has she no humility?—to search for images on the Internet, which, I admit, I know nothing about. Into a small box on the screen she typed a description of the vision we had seen, hit a button labeled
SEARCH
, and soon we were seeing pictures of our dream, exactly as it had appeared to us.

We found an article in the
St. Petersburg Times
called “For Mary’s Faithful, a Shattering Loss,” and from this we learned
that what we had seen in our dream was once a real place, that Holy Mother Mary had appeared in Clearwater on a giant building, and that pilgrims from all over the world had gone to pray there and light candles. But we also learned that in 2004 someone had deliberately fired buckshot at the panels where
Mary’s head appeared, shattering three glass panes and effectively
“beheading” the Holy Blessed Virgin. Yet faithful people still flock to where she once appeared, albeit in smaller numbers, and pray the prayers of pilgrims.

The old Crab and I shook our heads. The unfaithful can be driven by the cruelest demons, set upon bringing darkness to this world once and for all, and so it is sometimes a great struggle to tend and spread the light.

“What does it mean, this vision?” I asked Mother Superior.

“I’m not sure,” she said, “but maybe you are meant to go on a pilgrimage, Sister Maeve—to this very shrine. Maybe God is setting in motion something that will tie up the loose ends in your life before you go. It is perhaps a great gift waiting to be opened.”

“Loose ends?” I said. “Are you referring to my son? Because he lives in Vermont, not Florida.”

“We must simply trust and obey,” the old Crab said, and I wondered if she hoped to get rid of me once and for all, sending me to Florida so that I might get sick and die there far from her jurisdiction, and then she would once again be the only nun in the convent with such a direct connection to Jesus Christ, the only woman to be blessed with visions. Mother Superior has always viewed me as a threat to her authority, even though I have never once challenged her in front of the other sisters, and believe you me, there have been plenty of opportunities, because Mother Superior is a proud old scuttling Crab whose gigantic
claws are much scarier than her pinch.

But regardless of all that, the old Crab has since booked my trip, finding the money to pay for plane tickets somehow, providing me with a cell phone and maps of Clearwater. I must say she has been surprisingly kind and efficient about this, and when I asked her why, she replied, “I simply do as my husband commands.”

And so, God willing, tomorrow I take a leap of faith and go on a pilgrimage. I fly to Tampa Bay and will go to Clearwater to see the beheaded Virgin Mary and look for a sign.

I am hoping that I may see you there at this sacred place, maybe making a pilgrimage yourself, or maybe you have moved to Florida in search of warmer weather, or perhaps you have conquered the great demons who plague your mind and you are once again doing what you were called to do here on this earth: teaching, changing the lives of young people, inspiring them to do the good work God intended them to do, which is always the harder path and will require the guidance and encouragement of gifted teachers such as yourself.

You are gifted. God told me you were meant for great things when I carried you in my womb, and when I used to hold you in my arms and stare into your wondrous baby eyes, Jesus Christ would whisper into my ears the most beautiful reassurances, saying, “This one has a perfect heart. He will help many. He’s a teacher of the people, just like I was when I walked this earth.”

And then you grew up and became exactly what God told me you were meant to be, which was the greatest gift I have ever received—the most supreme present for which a mother can ever hope, her son fulfilling God’s purpose for him.

Regardless of whether you are teaching again, I would like to
see you before I die, and apparently, according to that child of a doctor, Kristina, I have very limited time to accomplish this last remaining wish—to mend whatever rift has kept us separate for too long, however selfish that may seem to you.

So I send you this letter hoping for the best, and with an ocean of love flowing through my old veins.

Perhaps I will see you in Florida?

If not, I hope you will read these words and decide to break your silence.

My earthly flesh can’t help feeling as though this letter is like throwing a penny in a wishing well and expecting a real miracle to come flying out.

I am an old dying woman, Nathan, and I love you greatly—more than you can even imagine. You come from my flesh, and when I rocked you in my arms back when you were tiny, the two of us became forever yoked by love in its purest form.

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

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.”

“I regret it every day of my life,” Manuel said, and when I looked over, I saw that he was trying very hard not to cry.

“She would be proud of you today, giving an old nun a ride to her hotel,” I said, and reached over to pat his arm.

“It is nothing,” he said. “Any decent man would have done the same.”

When we arrived at my hotel, he told me to wait a moment, and then he ran around to open the door for me, like he was a chauffeur. “I will pray that your son appears to you, Sister. That God reunites your family.”

I stood, and with my bag in my hand I looked into Manuel’s eyes.

As I reached up and touched Manuel’s face, I noticed the tattoos just under his ears, which he had tried to hide by flipping up the collar of his button-down shirt and wearing a faded red bandanna around his neck.

“You were my son today, Manuel,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. “I will pray for you too. And nun prayers are very powerful!”

Tears collected in his eyes as he stood up straight and kept a stoic face.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said and then left me.

Maybe God had sent Manuel to me as a sort of surrogate son?

Or maybe Manuel was an angel?

I thought of Hebrews 13:2: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

Inside the hotel, I found that the Crab had booked me a room with a partial view of the Gulf of Mexico. I had a small balcony from which I could watch almost one-half of the sun set over the greenish blue water, which is exactly what I did as I sipped on a minibar vodka over rocks, thinking that if death was really coming, I might as well have some vodka, because I loved it so much before I became a nun, as you know.

I thought about Manuel and I thought about you, wondering if you might be helping someone else’s mother. I wished that I could let Manuel’s mother know about his act of kindness, rescuing an old dying nun from her own stupidity. I hope to meet her in heaven, which may be sooner rather than later.

The water on the horizon burned orange and yellow and pink until it swallowed the sun and the stars began to pierce the sky above. I was not hungry, but I did empty the minibar of vodka, as there were only a few little bottles. As I sat alone on my balcony, I began to feel strange pains and aches in my chest and stomach. I shook my head and again wondered if that young doctor had made me sick with her tests and science and seriousness. I knew it was a foolish thought, but I had felt fine before she had me stuck into those awful machines and took pictures of my insides, before she gave me her learned opinion.

I tried to enjoy the sound of water lapping up the beach and the smell of the Gulf breezes in my nose—to relish the moment for all it was worth, because it had been a long time since I’d been alone in a hotel room, and I did manage to find some comfort that night.

The high-thread-count sheets and king-size comforter were like the clouds of heaven—I could have rolled over ten times before I found the end of the bed—and I fell asleep just as soon as my head hit the pillow.

In my dreams the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to me in a vision, right in my hotel room. She looked no older than Dr. Kristina.

“My daughter,” Mother Mary said to me, smiling mysteriously. “You must go home immediately.”

“But I’m booked in this hotel for three nights.”

“As soon as possible,” the Virgin Mary said. “Return to the convent.”

Then she blinked out of existence.

When I woke up the next morning, I was somehow sitting on the balcony, with my head resting on the small table and mini-vodka bottles all around my feet!

Did I sleepwalk?

I telephoned the Crab right away and told her what I had seen in my dreams.

Mother Superior said, “The Blessed Virgin visited my dreams last night as well. ‘Confirm Maeve’s message,’ was all She said to me. And then I woke up sleeping in your bed. I don’t even remember walking through the hallways. I prayed thanks that none of our sisters found me there.”

“So what should I do?” I said, looking at the morning sunlight dancing across the distant water like so many lit sparklers.

“Did you discover anything at the broken shrine?”

“Nothing.”

“We cannot disobey the Blessed Virgin. I will call you back in fifteen minutes.”

When the phone rang again, the Crab had booked me a flight home to Philadelphia.

I boarded that night and found that I was in the very last row. Right up until they sealed up the plane for takeoff, I thought that I was going to have the row to myself, but then a drunken woman stumbled back to me and sat down. Her head was wobbly, because she had consumed so much alcohol. I couldn’t believe they let her on the plane.

I was concerned at first, but then I thought maybe this woman had information for me—maybe she was the reason Mother Mary sent me home early—so I said hello and tried to strike up conversation, but she soon passed out.

They could not wake her when we landed, and so I was trapped between this drunk woman and the window as all of the other passengers exited.

After all I had been through, I was very tired. I just wanted to meet the Crab and return to the convent—maybe take a shower.

Finally the drunk woman woke up, and I was free.

I found the Crab outside in our idling car, pretending to read the Word of God in Hebrew and Greek on her iPad, and I got in.

“Well,” she said, shielding the screen from me as she turned the machine off. “Find any clues on the flight?”

“Clues?”

“As to why the Blessed Virgin demanded that you return home early.”

I told the Crab about the drunk woman.

“Disappointing,” the Crab said as she drove. She has such little faith sometimes.

“Maybe I’ve not heard the last of this drunken woman. There was something about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But something.”

“Well, then, you should have exchanged information with her,” the Crab said in a condescending manner, because she is a haughty woman, albeit a sister in Jesus Christ.

“Oh, I did,” I said. “She knows where to find me.”

“Well, then,” the Crab said.

“And the pain has begun.”

“Is it bad?”

“It is getting worse,” I said. “If only you hadn’t sent me to that foolish young doctor!”

“You think our actions—what we do or do not do—are any match for God’s plans, Sister Maeve?”

“I think you’ll be glad to be rid of me when I go,” I said, staring out the window.

“I’ll be jealous.”

“Jealous? Why?”

“You’ll be with my husband, and I’ll be with so many sisters who see no visions. Who have no eyes to see, nor ears to hear—”

“Ah, you’ll be in your own little heaven once I’m gone, and don’t you pretend otherwise,” I said. A few minutes later I sighed and added, “I’m never going to see my son again, am I?”

“I cannot answer for God, but I can see you through until you go to heaven,” the Crab said, and for the first time I felt as though she was being truly sympathetic toward me. “I will help you through your transition, regardless of whether your son comes or not. I will be there for you.”

I was caught so off guard that I didn’t thank the Crab for her kindness, but I will before I die—I have vowed it to myself.

I had no visions last night, and I wonder if I will ever have another vision again. I feel the power draining from me rapidly, and can tell that the young doctor was right, that my work here in this world is done.

And yet I have the strangest feeling about that drunk woman I met on the plane.

She was rude, obnoxious, and quite pathetic, but she was also something else too—something familiar that I just cannot name right now. Maybe because the cancer is eating away my brain. Who knows?

Maybe it was in her eyes—something familiar?

I cannot say.

So now I will have the Crab overnight this letter just as soon as I stick it in the envelope. (And I will ask for a receipt as proof that she paid the higher price, because we are running out of time!)

Will I hear from you, my son?

I hope so.

I’ve lived a good life and can die happy, and I know where I will go when I leave this world, I have my husband’s assurance—but hearing from you would finish things, and allow me to die completely content.

This is my dying wish—to communicate with you just once more.