Black Apple (15 page)

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Again, a week later, blood seeped onto her sheets, and flowed for five days. Unexpectedly, tears pressed against her eyes, ready to spill.
Mother Mary
, she prayed to the picture on her small bedroom wall,
help me
. But the Virgin was shocked by the appearance of the Holy Ghost, and just like Sister Cilla, was preoccupied, of no help at all.

Washing her face before bed, she peered at herself in the bathroom mirror. Was she pretty? Some of the girls were. Judith Shot One Side, for example. And Maria Running Deer. Holy moly, and Judith’s boobs—her cousin Rachel’s too! She surveyed her own chest in the mirror, turning from side to side. Both Judith and Rachel had arrived at school the previous September with two brassieres each, but by the time they left for the summer, they were spilling out of them. “They got four boobies,” Taki had whispered. “Two little ones pushed up on top of two big ones.” They had jumped up and down, chortling, happy to get back, even secretly, at the smug relatives who frequently referred to her chest and Taki’s as “raisins on a breadboard.”

She squinted at the mirror. She wished her skin was lighter—gold, not copper. But not sunburnt or freckly like the sisters’. Or with those thin red lines that ran across Sister Lucy’s cheeks, cracks in a china cup. She pulled up her bangs and examined the bumps on her forehead. “Pimples,” some of the girls called them
.
Maria, always trying to be ladylike, said, “I wish I didn’t have these
blemishes
.” La-di-dah.

Watching her reflection in the series of small mirrors hung over the sinks, she walked the length of the bathroom, swaying from side to side just like Adele Fox Crown and her friends, chest pushed forward, hips weaving. “Fancy wiggle-walk,” Anataki called it, exaggerating the motion, limp-wristed, lips pouting, making everyone laugh. And yet it felt good; it made her think about dancing in the arms of a handsome man, like the one she’d glimpsed in Maria’s magazine. She glanced around, but no one was there to see her, not even the shadow sister.

That night she wanted dreams, lazy ones of her once-upon-a-time trees and creek, the beaver she had seen one time with Papa, pushing her baby upstream with her nose.
Close your eyes, Sinopaki
, Mama whispered, and she settled under her sheet.

Land burst open. Her legs stretched around a warm, broad back. Pounding hooves, a blur of yellow grass whizzing by, and sunlight, thick as honey, pouring down her back as her horse raced over the prairies. Ahead, two young men rode painted horses, their black hair flying, bare chests slick with sweat. One slowed and turned his horse to face her, his grin red and white and wild, eyes spilling mischief. He stretched a muscular arm towards her. Her horse slowed and sauntered over to his, nuzzling its neck. He reached across his saddle and drew her to him. He held her and his sweat dripped down her breastbone, down her belly, down between her thighs, their bodies bannock-wrapped around a willow branch . . .

A bell clanged. “Time to get up!” Sister Joan yelled from the hall.

Pulling the blanket snugly to her chin, she curled around the moment still singing in her skin. In her nightdress, the shadow sister leaned against the opposite wall, her eyes lazy, her hand falling to her breast. She cupped the flesh, squeezing the tip. Rose Marie felt fingers on her own nipple, a tickle. A spurt of warmth ran down from her stomach, then the static shock of sock feet rubbed along carpet. In her ears, the whimper of an injured animal.

“Rose Marie, is that you in there?” Sister Joan demanded from the hall.

“I just have a charley horse, Sister.” It was all she could think of.

“Well, get dressed. Snip, snap.” The shadow sister melted like candy, but Rose Marie stayed in bed until it drizzled away—her beautiful, sinful dream. Then she pulled on her uniform and ran down for Matins.

I
N THE KITCHEN,
Rose Marie took the cup from Sister Bernadette, dried it, and handed it to Sister Cilla, who placed it on the counter with three other cups.

“Watch this,” Sister Cilla said. Rapidly, one after the other, she threw the cups in the air.

Rose Marie gasped, just as Sister Bernadette pulled her hands from the dishwater, demanding, “What are you doing, Sister?”

“Juggling. You’re juggling!” Rose Marie cried.

With the cups flying through the air, Sister Cilla kicked out her feet in an awkward dance, black skirt flapping.

Rose Marie giggled. “Sister Joan would have a fit if she saw you!”

Sister Cilla blew a raspberry, Rose Marie guffawed, and Sister Bernadette clapped her hands. Face flushed, legs kicking, cups soaring, Sister Cilla kept spinning around, catching and throwing.

As Rose Marie hooted and joined Sister Bernadette in clapping, Sister Cilla’s dance grew wilder, more energetic, cups flying overhead like dizzy doves. The three of them were suddenly caught up, a procession of chaos whirling through the kitchen. Sister Cilla jumped, then lunged again and again, her hands a blur. Around the butcher block all three of them turned and swooped, their whoops rising and falling with the cups.

Off balance, Sister Cilla missed a cup. With a loud crack, it hit the floor. The handle hurtled across the room, and Sister Bernadette shrieked. Laughing so hard she could hardly stay upright, Sister Cilla managed to jerk to the left, plucking the next cup from the air. As Rose Marie and Sister Bernadette clapped, another cup hit Sister Cilla’s knuckle, and she yelped. The cup flew to the counter, smashing on the edge, and white porcelain ricocheted around the kitchen. The three of them doubled over, gasping for air.

“What’s going on in there?” Sister Joan’s voice called from the other side of the kitchen door.

All three froze.

“I said, ‘What’s going on?’ ”

“Nothing to worry about,” Sister Bernadette called.

“Didn’t sound like nothing to me!”

“I dropped a cup,” Rose Marie announced.

“Figures,” snapped Sister Joan. Her exasperated footfalls pounded down the hall.

“Figures,” Rose Marie repeated, drawing her lips in as Sister Joan did. She had seen Taki imitate the sisters so many times she was almost as good at it as her friend.

Sister Bernadette and Sister Cilla looked over at her, eyebrows raised.

“Oops.” She clamped her hand to her mouth, but a giggle erupted through her fingers.

Sister Bernadette snorted, and all three, once again, broke into laughter.

By the time they were able to stop, they were weak-kneed. Propping themselves against the cupboards, they finished the dishes, not daring to look at one another. Rose Marie drained the dish tray in the sink just as Sister Bernadette turned on the tap, and water sprayed them both. Oh my, that started them off again!

“Sister Cilla, where did you learn to juggle?” she was finally able to ask. Her stomach ached, and she felt limp as an old sheet, but happy—as she hadn’t felt since Taki left. “I’ve seen you toss rolls of socks in the air for the first-year girls, but never cups. I didn’t know you could juggle cups!”

“Dear, oh law,” Sister Cilla panted, untying her apron. “My big brother and his friend learned to juggle in high school, from a library book, believe it or not. They practised all the time. Someone gave Sean, my brother, a unicycle, and his friend chopped down an old bike and made his own. They juggled and rode unicycles at the same time. His friend taught himself to walk tightrope too.” She paused. “Bernard.” The name stuck on her tongue as if she didn’t want to let it go. “Six foot four. Wavy hair. I was fond of him, and he of me.” She gazed out the window at the long shafts of light on the horizon. “Or so I thought.” The mood in the kitchen had changed, and
blue
drew like curtains between the three of them. Rose Marie hung her dishtowel on the hook and slipped out the door and down the hall to the sewing room.

Reaching into the fabric cupboard, she pulled out the bag of cotton pads she had sewn the previous week. She crept upstairs and deposited a handful in her bedroom closet. The rest of the bag she took up the next flight of stairs to the dorm. They would be in her wardrobe when she needed them in the fall.

She was turning to go back downstairs when she saw it pulling from a dark corner of the room. Oh, a blunt shadow head and thick, short arms! Not the shadow sister. Slowly, she backed away until her back hit the cold metal of a bedframe. Squeezing her eyes shut, she crossed herself.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
When she opened her eyes, the shape was gone. She dashed out the dormitory and down both flights of stairs, back to the safety of the kitchen.

“Since you’re back, you can help me roll oats for tomorrow’s breakfast,” Sister Bernadette said, turning to her. “Rose Marie,” she exclaimed, holding out a rolling pin. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

M
OTHER GRACE FOUND
Sister Margaret on the back porch instructing Rose Marie on how to shuck corn.

“Not like that,” Sister Margaret objected, her chins jiggling. “Grab it by the top. Pull two or three leaves at once or you won’t get all that silk stuff. No, pull harder! Heavens to Murgatroyd, if my lumbago weren’t so bad, I’d do it myself!”

“I’ve been looking for you, Sister Margaret.” Putting a hand on the woman’s shoulder to distract her from Rose Marie’s half-hearted efforts, Mother Grace wished her a happy birthday. “Rose Marie, did you know it is Sister Margaret’s seventy-fifth birthday today?”

Sister Margaret’s scowl deepened as Rose Marie mumbled an unenthusiastic “Happy birthday, Sister.”

“I’d like to speak to you before we eat,” Mother Grace said, and Sister Margaret turned, giving her such a baleful look, she had to wonder if the woman didn’t know exactly what she was about to say.

“Now, if you’re not busy, Sister. In the dining room.”

As they passed through the kitchen, Sister Margaret looked longingly at the cake Sister Bernadette was icing, and Mother Grace contemplated whether a chunk of it might sweeten Margaret’s mood. But lunch was almost ready, and she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Sister Margaret might very well be relieved to hear what she had to tell her.

Once they had sat down, each of them grunting softly at the effort, she got right to the point. “Sister Margaret, due to your venerable age, I’m going to lessen your workload. Sister Cilla will take over as senior dormitory supervisor. Of course, you’ll still have your duties in the dorm, but you can leave a lot of the running around to Sister Cilla.”

Outrage bubbled across Sister Margaret’s face, and despite herself, Mother Grace felt herself blanch. Sister Cilla, of all people, stepped into the room with a handful of cutlery.

“I guess I’m too old to be useful,” Sister Margaret bawled. Sister Cilla had the good sense to freeze in her tracks. “I’m not the oldest one here, you know. Sister Lucy is. And I’m sure not sick. Just a little lumbago is all. No appreciation. All my hard work, and now I’m not good for anything!” Sister Margaret’s bottom lip quivered. She looked over to Sister Cilla, who was slinking back to the kitchen. “I guess someone less experienced can run things better than me. I guess I’m just too feeble—”

“Nobody thinks you’re feeble,” Mother Grace cut in. Now Sisters Joan and Bernadette were coming into the dining room.
Vieilli
, and Rose Marie right behind them. She raised her voice to include them all. “We more senior women need to allow the younger, more energetic ones to contribute, Sister Margaret. It’s time to take things easy before we wear ourselves out.” She attempted a lighthearted chuckle as she struggled to her feet. “Now let’s eat, everyone. This is a celebration.”

All during supper, Sister Margaret was pouch-eyed and silent, saying nothing, not even to Sister Joan, except “Pass the butter.”

After the meal, Sister Bernadette brought in the birthday cake with a large
75
inscribed in blue icing. Everyone clapped, and Mother Grace led them in “Happy Birthday to You” while Sister Margaret glowered.

Sister Bernadette handed a large corner piece of cake to Sister Margaret. As soon as it was in front of her, Sister Margaret grabbed a fork in her meaty fist and plunged it in, metal tines screeching against the porcelain plate.

R
OSE MARIE HAD
learned how to make the most of summer. Sure, Taki was gone, but Papa visited her Sundays, and sometimes she was able to sneak off during the day and walk to the marsh to see the young ducks diving in the reeds or trying out their wings. She could sleep in once in a while, and the sisters were more relaxed than during the school year. But this summer wasn’t the same as usual. The sisters were different, less fixed somehow. Or was it her? She wasn’t entirely sure anymore what was really happening and what she imagined. Sometimes her dreams seemed completely real. And those awful ghosts. The shadow sister touching herself. That new thick shape. A man.

When she was little and saw the spirits of trapped and snared animals fly out of their bodies, Papa said she had power. Mama said she could see the world in all directions—forwards and backwards. Now, she just wanted to see it the same way everyone else did.

She was sitting at the breakfast table staring at her doughy waffle and pondering all these things when Mother Grace leaned towards her. “There’s still a lot to do before the school year starts, Rose Marie.”

More chores, no doubt. She nodded dully.

“What it means,
chérie
, is that we’ll have to cancel at least two of our catechism classes.”

“Pardon?”

“Preparations have fallen behind. Surely you don’t mind having time off from your studies?”

“But, Mother Grace, you’ve never cancelled catechism before. Ever.”

Mother Grace patted her wrist. “I’m afraid I need you to help Sister Lucy,” she whispered, looking over at the old woman at the table behind them.

Rose Marie turned to see Sister Lucy tilted in her seat, her face as blank as her apron.