I waited for the reverend mother to answer, but she didn’t seem to be in any hurry. One of the interview techniques every cop learns is to let the silence build. I was quickly learning that strategy doesn’t work with nuns. They are old friends with silence.
“I need to know if this woman talked to anyone here.”
The reverend mother’s serene face regarded me. For a woman of her apparent age, it was remarkable how unwrinkled she was. Her composed expression would have been at home at a poker table: it gave away nothing.
“And how would that help your case?” she asked.
“The nun with whom she talked might be able to give me information about this girl.”
Her nod showed that she understood, but it wasn’t a nod of agreement. “It is not uncommon for troubled girls to make vocational inquiries. We stress to them that ours is a calling from God and not an escape from the world.”
“Is there one nun in particular who talks to these girls?”
“Usually they are directed to me.”
She didn’t elaborate further. When silence stopped being golden, I decided to be more direct. “Did you talk to this girl?”
Instead of answering, the reverend mother said, “I refer all serious inquiries to the vocational director of our order. I am well aware that there is no one nun-size habit that fits all.”
I thought I saw a little smile on her lips.
“In fact some orders don’t even wear habits,” she said. “There are sisters that go out in the world and there are cloistered nuns. Is the candidate looking for a community of sisters that is evangelical, monastic, or apostolic? Many of the orders require a minimum of a high school education, as well as work experience. Young women are often surprised to learn that in many orders they have to be at least twenty years old before they can take their vows.”
“Did that rule out this candidate?” I asked.
Once again she chose to answer a question I didn’t ask. “It is one thing to be a potential postulant, but it is quite another to arise at four forty-five every morning. That is our daily routine here.”
“Did the thought of those long working hours discourage this girl?”
“What you need to understand, Detective, is that you don’t become a sister merely by knocking at the door of a monastery. There is a demanding system in place.”
“And you need to understand, Reverend Mother, that as far as I know the rules of the confessional don’t apply here. Anything this girl might have said isn’t privileged.”
“I imagine you are right about that.”
“Did you talk to this girl?”
A hardened criminal could have taken pointers from the reverend mother on how to avoid answering questions. “Did you know that last month I had my eighty-ninth birthday, Detective?”
“Congratulations.”
“I am getting worried about my memory. I have heard when you are as old as I am your memory plays tricks on you.”
“I think it’s playing tricks on me.”
With unruffled calm she asked, “Can I be of any other help?”
There was no threat that would make her talk. My rules and laws didn’t concern her. Besides, I was keeping her from praying, and that was something the world could ill afford.
“Apparently not in this matter,” I said.
“Is there another matter you wish to discuss?”
The day before, Dottie had told me the prioress experienced a miracle. Since that time I had been recollecting the media’s reporting on the story of the reverend mother’s miracle. At first her identity had been withheld; she had only been identified as a nun at the Monastery of Angels, but as the beatification process for Mother Serena ran its course, her name and position had been revealed by the press. According to the Vatican, the woman sitting across from me had experienced a miracle.
“My inquiry isn’t a professional one, but I wanted to hear about your miracle.”
With her great calm she asked, “What is it that you wish to know?”
“I seem to remember that you were diagnosed with brain cancer, and that after you and the nuns in the monastery prayed to Mother Serena, you were cured.”
“Your explanation is short on many details, but on the whole it is accurate.”
“How do you know your disease just didn’t have some spontaneous remission?”
“The disease had ravaged my body. I was blind and incontinent, and cranial nerve palsies and seizures had left me in a state where I could not leave my bed unassisted. I remember being frustrated by my inability to do the smallest tasks. I couldn’t even write a note. Muscle twitches and numbness made my handwriting completely illegible. As I understand it, most spontaneous remissions aren’t really spontaneous. They don’t happen all at once.”
“But that’s what happened to you?”
She nodded.
“How long had you been diagnosed with brain cancer?”
“For almost three years. The cancer had metastasized. All the specialists agreed on one thing: the cancer was terminal.”
“And in one fell swoop you were better?”
“I would call it the opposite of a fell swoop, wouldn’t you?”
“How did the other sisters happen to pray to Mother Serena?”
“She had passed away only days before.”
“And you think her spirit healed you?”
“As you see.”
“Were you and the sisters praying for a miracle?”
“No. We were asking for her blessing upon me.”
“Tell me about the moment when you were cured.”
“I felt the hand of God, and Mother Serena, wash over me.”
“And it happened right after the sisters prayed for you?”
She nodded.
“Might your cure have been psychological?”
The reverend mother smiled. “It seems that everyone wants to credit my mind and not my God. My medical records were scrutinized. Every blood test and every X-ray was studied. My disease was well documented.”
“I understand your miracle was approved by the Vatican.”
“The beatification process for Mother Serena is still going forward,” she said, “so it appears that is so.”
Medical miracles approved by the Vatican had to be deemed sudden, conclusive and permanent, and inexplicable to medical authorities.
“Have you ever wondered why God thought you were worthy of a miracle?”
“I cannot pretend to be worthy; I can only think he decided my work here wasn’t done.”
“But why would you be singled out?” I asked, not quite able to hide the frustration in my voice. “Is God running some kind of lottery and you just happened to hit the jackpot on a certain day and at a certain time?”
With a calm I would never have, the reverend mother said, “I can’t tell you why things happened as they did, but I don’t think that God is running a lottery.”
“I suppose He wouldn’t want to compete with Friday night bingo,” I said.
The reverend mother actually smiled. You take small miracles whenever you can get them.
“Thank you for your time,” I told her.
“Go with God,” she said.
I was grateful for her blessing but wished it came with directions.
