Changing Habits (18 page)

SISTER JOANNA

J
oanna sat across from the shocked, grieving husband, wishing there was something she could say or do to ease his pain. She'd come to comfort Richard Dougal after Dr. Tripton had informed him that his wife, Maryanne, had died. This father would have to raise three young children by himself. He'd have to remain strong for their sake and—somehow—survive her loss.

“I'm so very sorry,” she whispered, her heart aching at the unmasked grief she read on the man's face.

Richard Dougal glanced up. “I don't understand. She's only thirty-one. How could this happen? I should've been here. I thought everything was all right after the surgery. Then the hospital called and said there was a…complication.” His voice caught and he paused to compose himself before continuing. “I had to get a baby-sitter. I hurried, but by the time I got here, it was too late.”

Joanna was well aware of the details. The physician had already explained the medical reason for the young woman's death. It was a rare heart condition no one had known about and no one could have anticipated. As a result, she'd gone into cardiac arrest following the hysterectomy.

“Is there someone I can phone for you?” Joanna asked.

As if in a stupor, he shook his head. “My neighbor's watching the kids. My mother-in-law was going to fly out to help once Maryanne got home from the hospital. We don't have any family in the area.” His voice cracked and his shoulders shook with the effort not to break down.

“Would you like me to pray with you?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

Joanna knelt and briefly raised her eyes to heaven, pleading with God to give her the words to comfort this man. As soon as she bowed her head, Mr. Dougal broke into deep, mournful sobs.

Joanna spent an hour with him, until he'd calmed down and the neighbor's husband arrived to drive him home. Richard Dougal thanked her, his voice a monotone, and let his neighbor lead him away. He was numb with grief; Joanna knew that numbness would get him through the next few days, but afterward… All she could do was pray for him and his family.

Returning to the nurses' station, Joanna felt emotionally depleted. She barely noticed when Dr. Murray approached. He took one look at her and said, “You need a cup of coffee.”

She needed something, but she didn't think caffeine would help her any more than it would that poor, grieving husband. To her surprise, Dr. Murray took her into the doctors' lounge on the second floor and then poured coffee for her. She noticed that he'd added a liberal amount of sugar.

“I'm not in shock,” she protested.

“No, but you just might be when I tell you who's here.”

“Someone's here?” she asked in confusion. “But…”

Dr. Murray pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He met her eyes and placed his hand on hers. He waited a moment as they both stared down at their linked hands, then asked, “Do you know a Greg Markham?”

“Greg?” Joanna nearly swallowed her tongue. Was Dr.
Murray telling her that Greg, her one-time fiancé, was at the hospital? That seemed completely improbable. “What's he doing here?” she demanded.

“You'll have to ask him that yourself.”

“But…” Joanna was too flustered to think clearly.

“He's in the staff lounge and he insists on talking to you personally. He won't take no for an answer.”

She stared at Tim Murray, silently begging him for advice.

“This is the man you once mentioned, isn't it? The one who went overseas?”

She nodded. “We were engaged. He met a woman while he was stationed in Vietnam.” She lowered her head, surprised by the flood of memories. They came and went with incredible swiftness, leaving her shaken in their aftermath. He'd been an important part of her life at one time—but now he didn't belong in her life at all.

“Do you still have feelings for him?” Dr. Murray asked. His gentleness rocked her as much as knowing that Greg was down the hall waiting to see her.

“No.” Her response came automatically.

“He wants to talk to you. Are you up to it?”

Joanna wasn't sure that meeting Greg would be right for either of them. With some embarrassment she recalled the hours of torrid passion in the back seat of his car. They hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other. They'd lost their virginity together, shared a time in their lives that would be impossible to recapture.

“Sister?”

Joanna raised her eyes and blinked, not knowing what to say.

“As I said, he insisted that he speak to you personally.” Dr. Murray frowned. “Do you want to do this? Because if you don't, I'll get rid of him.”

Joanna knew that Greg wouldn't leave until he got what he
wanted. She also knew he hadn't found her without help. She was fairly certain that assistance had come from her mother.

“I'll talk to him,” she said, her voice gaining confidence.

Dr. Murray escorted her to the lounge, where Joanna found Greg pacing the room with his hands clenched at his sides. He stopped abruptly when she entered the room.

“Joanna.” He breathed her name as though he were praying.

She felt his look in a physical way. His gaze wandered up and down her body, lingering on her face and then her short veil.

“You're as beautiful as I remember,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “I wondered…” He closed his eyes, perhaps to chase the image of a younger Joanna from his mind. When he opened them again, he seemed to be comparing his memory with reality.

“I'll leave you two alone for a few minutes,” Dr. Murray said, sounding gruff and none too cordial.

“That was one unpleasant fellow,” Greg said, scowling after him. The scowl quickly turned to a smile as he looked back at Joanna. Striding toward her, he reached for her hands. “I don't care, though. He brought you to me and I'm grateful for that.”

Joanna pulled her hands free of Greg's clasp.

“It takes some getting used to seeing you in a habit,” he said.

A habit that had only been modified a short while ago, she wanted to tell him, but didn't. He wasn't here to discuss the changes in convent life. “How are you, Greg?” she asked instead.

“We need to talk.” He gestured for her to sit on the sofa. The coffee table beside it was littered with used cups and old newspapers.

Joanna sat sideways on the very edge, while Greg sat next to her, a little too close for comfort.

He didn't speak for a few minutes, apparently trying to
gather his thoughts. “I assumed that once I saw you, I'd know what to say,” he muttered. “Now that I'm here, it's damn hard not to hold you.”

Joanna stiffened. “You can't do that.”

“I know…” He dragged in a deep breath. “Xuan and I are getting a divorce.”

Although her mother hadn't told her, Joanna had read between the lines. There'd been a letter recently in which her mother had mentioned that she'd seen Greg and his wife having an argument in the grocery store. According to rumors—which Sandra was happy to pass along—the marriage was a troubled one.

“Is Lily with her mother?”

Greg nodded. “She's a beautiful child.” He pulled out his wallet, opened it and removed a picture of his daughter for Joanna to examine.

The child had dark, almond-shaped eyes and a lovely smile as she stared into the camera. Joanna saw nothing of Greg in the little girl. In the blending of two backgrounds, the mother's heritage had clearly been favored. Joanna handed back the photograph. “You're right, she
is
a beautiful child.”

“I miss her a lot,” Greg said, tucking the photo inside his wallet. “Lily's the only good thing to come out of the relationship.”

“I'm sorry to hear about you and Xuan.”

Greg smiled weakly, and when he spoke, his bitterness was obvious. “So am I, but our marriage was doomed from the first. Xuan was looking for a way out of Vietnam and I was a convenient fall guy.”

“I'm sorry, Greg,” she said, noticing that he accepted none of the responsibility for his own actions. She
was
sorry about the divorce; the failure of any marriage was a tragic thing. And although Greg had badly hurt her, Joanna no longer held any ill will toward him—and hadn't in years.

“I'm afraid I'm the one to blame for the divorce,” he said next, surprising her.

“In what way?”

“Xuan knew.” At her questioning gaze, Greg continued. “She realized almost right away that I never stopped loving you.”

“That's all water under the bridge now.”

“Is it, Joanna?”

“It is for me.”

“But not for me. I love you. I've always loved you.”

At one time Joanna would have given anything to hear those words. Now they just seemed too little, too late—an avowal that had nothing to do with her.

“You're going through a divorce, Greg,” she said calmly, her hands neatly folded in her lap. “It's wiped you out emotionally and you're hoping to return to the past. But that's impossible.”

“It isn't, Joanna,” Greg said, moving even closer to her. “We
can
have it all, the way we once did. I screwed up, but I swear to you it'll never happen again.”

“Greg… You don't know what you're asking.”

“I do know,” he said firmly. “I want you to marry me.”

“Marry you?” She bolted upright before sitting back down. “That's out of the question!”

He ignored her protest. “Leave the convent.” He seemed to have everything worked out. To him, it was obviously a simple matter—once she was free, he'd be there to sweep her away. “You shouldn't be here. We both know you're a passionate, loving woman. Closing yourself off from life, from love—it just isn't you.”

Joanna tried hard to hold back her irritation. “You're completely discounting the last six years of my life as if they mean nothing.”

“They mean everything.”

“Not if I listen to what you're suggesting,” she said tartly.

“You kept yourself pure for me.”

“What?”
The man was living in a fantasy. “I kept myself pure for God. I think it's time you left.” She stood, giving him little option but to stand, too.

“Joanna, please listen…”

She'd already heard more than enough. “I can't help you, Greg. I'm sorry, sincerely sorry that your marriage has fallen apart, but it's too late to recapture what we once had.” Six years too late.

His eyes held a look of loss, of loneliness, and she understood why he'd tried to regain something that no longer existed.

Although she'd never said anything to her family, as the years progressed, Joanna realized she'd made a lucky escape by not marrying Greg. If he'd betrayed her once, he would again. She'd been young and naive and ruled by adolescent dreams and raging hormones. Those days were over. She was a woman now, a woman who'd made choices that had taken her life in a completely different direction.

Greg reluctantly left after two more attempts to change her mind. After the door closed, she needed a minute to calm her pounding heart.

She assumed that Dr. Murray had hung around to discover how her conversation with Greg had gone. As suspected, she found him leaning against the nurses' station, chatting with Mrs. Larson.

When Tim saw her, he slowly straightened. He searched her face for signs of what might have happened.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Joanna smiled and nodded.

“He wanted to lure you away, didn't he?”

She neither confirmed nor denied his statement. “He was a good friend at one time.”

“Is he sticking around for a while?”

Joanna laughed. “I certainly hope not.”

“Yeah, me too. You've got enough on your mind without him following you around like a lost puppy.”

The lead nurse's interest was piqued. She glanced at Joanna, her eyebrows raised in question. “What's this all about?”

“I had an old friend stop by to say hello,” she explained.

“An old
boy
friend,” Dr. Murray elaborated.

“The relationship died a painful death a long time ago.”

“It's over?” he asked. “You're sure of that?”

Joanna nodded again.

Their eyes met and a flash of awareness darted through her. Greg, the boy/man she'd once loved, had asked her to leave the convent for him, and she'd turned him down flat. She hadn't needed to think about it, hadn't so much as considered his request.

Joanna wondered what her reaction would be if Dr. Murray were to ask her the same thing.

SISTER KATHLEEN

I
t came as no surprise to Sister Kathleen that there were discrepancies in the bank deposits for the first two Sunday collections in October. The first week it was only twenty dollars, but by the second week it had grown to a hundred and forty, an amount that shocked Kathleen. Father Doyle had made up the difference out of his own pocket, but this couldn't continue and they both knew it.

“Is Father Sanders upstairs?” Father Doyle asked, coming into the rectory late Wednesday afternoon. Kathleen was just getting ready to leave. His eyes met hers and she understood the real question he was asking. He wanted to know if Father Sanders was drinking again.

The truth was, Kathleen hadn't been able to tell. After the drunk-driving incident, the older priest seemed to be making a genuine effort at sobriety. Or perhaps he'd gotten better at hiding his addiction. Kathleen wasn't sure which. However, with money missing from the bank deposit, she realized he was spending that cash on
something.

“You talked to Mrs. O'Malley?” she asked.

Father Doyle nodded. “She swears she's no longer buying him booze.”

“Then he must be getting it himself,” she said.

“Or he's found someone else to pick it up for him.”

Kathleen was certain of one thing: Father Sanders hadn't taken that money to feed the poor.

“He didn't say much,” she told him, meaning she hadn't been able to detect if the other priest was drunk or not. Father Sanders had become very good at avoiding her. It was only in conversation that she was able to hear the slur in his words. And only when she had the opportunity to see him walk for more than a few feet could she observe any flaws in his gait. These days, if he saw her at all, it was briefly and only when absolutely necessary.

“Allow me to walk you back to the convent, Sister,” Father Doyle said. Without giving her an option, he handed Kathleen her jacket, then waited by the front door.

As they left the rectory, Kathleen carefully weighed her words, fearing she might be overstepping her boundaries. “I think perhaps it would be a good idea for us to speak openly, Father.”

“Perhaps we should,” he agreed. It seemed to her that he was relieved to have someone to talk to, someone who shared his concern for the older priest.

Kathleen chewed on her lower lip, a habit she'd had as a child and only reverted to in times of stress. “With you replacing the missing cash, I'm afraid we've created a protective environment for Father Sanders.”

“In other words, I'm giving him permission to drink,” the priest murmured, and it sounded as though this was something he'd battled with more than once.

“It isn't fair to you
or
Father Sanders if you add money to the collection every week,” she blurted out. “Father Sanders doesn't know what you're doing and he obviously assumes I'm so stupid I don't understand what's going on.” She hadn't meant to be so blunt, but it all made sense to her now. This talk about Mrs. Stafford being away on vacation was
wearing thin, too. Thin enough for Kathleen to see through it. No wonder Father Sanders had asked her to deal with the books. And no wonder things had been left in such a mess. He knew she had no practical experience and had figured she wouldn't pick up on what he was doing.

“I phoned Mrs. Stafford's house this afternoon,” Father Doyle announced, his hands clasped behind his back as he matched his pace to hers.

Kathleen knew what was coming. “She isn't on vacation, is she?”

“No,” Father admitted reluctantly.

“She quit,” Kathleen supplied for him.

“I'm sorry to say you're right.”

“Why do you feel you have to protect him?” she asked after an uncomfortable moment.

Father was silent for a long time. “The bishop has placed his trust in me to handle the situation with Father Sanders. He expects me to bring Father back to God and to a serious understanding of his responsibilities within the parish.” He sighed. “I don't want to fail His Excellency—or Father Sanders.”

“Bishop Schmidt told you all this?”

“No,” he said. “But once I got to St. Peter's, I understood the situation and why I'd been transferred here.” Then, as if he'd said more than he wanted, he murmured, “This is my problem, Sister. You shouldn't worry about it.”

But she did worry; she couldn't help it. Kathleen was involved now, and she refused to abandon the younger priest. Her admiration and respect for Father Doyle and her anxiety about the burdens he carried grew stronger every day.

“You're right, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “I have no option but to take the matter to Bishop Schmidt. I've let my pride stand in the way of doing what's right.” His voice fell, and it was clear to Kathleen that he'd agonized over this dilemma for far too long. The bishop obviously knew that
Father Sanders had a problem but exactly how much he knew remained unclear.

“Would you like me to go with you?” she offered.

Father Doyle shook his head. “That isn't necessary.”

Instinctively she recognized that he was protecting her, although she wasn't entirely sure why.

“What about Sister Superior? Perhaps I should mention it to her?” Kathleen felt honor bound to do something, to help in some way. She was convinced that the head of the convent suspected something, but Sister Eloise hadn't pressured her for information.

“I'd prefer if you kept this to yourself, at least for now.”

Feeling the heat of his gaze but not daring to look him in the eye, Kathleen nodded.

“Is that a problem?” he asked at her silence.

“No,” she said quietly. She hadn't decided what she'd do or say if Sister Eloise did ask about Father Sanders; Kathleen didn't want to lie, but at the same time she'd given Father Doyle her word.

“I appreciate that, Sister,” he said.

The distress in his voice gripped her heart. Kathleen knew she'd do anything she could to take this burden from him. Father Sanders's problem was a constant source of anxiety. For her own part, she hadn't slept a full night since discovering Father Sanders drunk behind the wheel of a car. Twice now she'd woken with nightmares about the priest causing an accident. She worried that he might hurt himself or some innocent bystander and she worried about the scandal such an incident would cause. Father Sanders's actions might do irreparable damage to the Church in Minneapolis.

“I'll call and ask for an appointment with the bishop first thing in the morning,” Father Doyle told her as they approached the convent.

“I'll be praying for you,” Kathleen assured him.

“Thank you, Sister. I value those prayers.”

“What will happen to Father Sanders?” She hadn't wanted to ask, but she needed to know.

The priest sighed heavily. “I'm hoping the bishop will send him to a facility that will give Father Sanders the professional help he needs.”

That was Kathleen's hope, too. “Have you known of other such…cases?” she asked.

Father Doyle shook his head. “No. Based on my own admittedly limited experience, I don't believe this is a common problem with priests.”

“Father's drinking has gotten worse in the last six months, hasn't it?”

“I'm afraid so. He's worse than when I first arrived, although he's much cleverer about hiding it. The thing is…” Father Doyle paused and his face twisted with a look of torment as they reached the convent steps. “He tries so hard not to drink.”

“What about Alcoholics Anonymous?” Kathleen couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that sooner.

The priest dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. “I suggested it once and Father wasn't open to attending the meetings.” His shoulders slumped noticeably. “His greatest fear is that someone in the community might recognize him.”

They paused outside the convent door, almost like teenagers saying good-night at the end of a date—lingering, not wanting to end the conversation.

“My prayers go with you, Father,” Kathleen said when she realized she couldn't delay another moment.

“I can't thank you enough, Sister, for all your help and for your friendship.”

Kathleen felt she had done so little, but she was warmed by his gratitude.

“It's such a relief to be able to discuss the problem honestly. I don't know what I would've done if I'd carried this burden alone for even one more day.” He turned to leave, then turned back to say, “Thank you, Sister.”

“God go with you,” she whispered, watching him walk away. Her own heart was oppressed by the weight of their secret.

Kathleen entered the convent and was prepared to hurry into chapel when Sister Eloise stopped her.

“Sister,” the older nun called sharply, “could I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course, Sister.” Kathleen's heart sank as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. She stood motionless with an impassive expression on her face.

“You're still working on the church books, is that correct?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“It was my understanding that the church treasurer was on vacation and would be back within a month. It's been more than that, hasn't it?”

“Yes, Sister.” Kathleen kept her eyes lowered.

“Do you have any idea how much longer this
temporary
situation will last?”

Kathleen swallowed hard and shook her head. “Unfortunately, I don't.”

Sister Eloise narrowed her eyes. “How is Father Sanders?” she asked.

“Father Sanders?” Kathleen repeated. “He…he seems to be doing well.”

Again a lengthy pause, in which the older nun assessed Kathleen's response. “You're sure about that, Sister?”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly—perhaps too quickly, she thought, as soon as the words had left her lips.

The head of the convent considered her answer for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours. “There have
been…rumors about Father Sanders. I wonder if you've seen any evidence proving these rumors?”

“I'm sure I haven't,” Sister Kathleen said in what she hoped was a reassuring voice.

“No evidence of Father Sanders having a…certain weakness?”

“None.” Father Doyle's request that she keep the news of Father Sanders's problems a secret from Sister Eloise rang in her mind. The echo of his words blocked out any other thought, any other consideration.

“You have never seen Father Sanders with a drink in his hand, is that what you're telling me, Sister Kathleen?”

“No, I've never seen that.”

The tightness in her throat almost prevented Kathleen from talking as she forced out the lie. In fact, she'd never actually seen Father Sanders with a drink in his hand. Technically she
wasn't
lying, she told herself, although it was certainly a lie of omission because she'd seen the effects of his drinking.

“Never, Sister,” Kathleen said again, uncomfortable with her superior's long silence.

Sister Eloise's lips thinned. “Very well.”