Black Apple (19 page)

Anataki, on her lightning horse, leapt into the sun.

  *  *  *  

When Rose Marie awoke, Sister Joan had not yet snatched up her brass bell and marched down the nuns’ hallway, clanging it to signal the start of another day. The dorm was dark and silent. She knew it was very early.

A first-year girl whimpered in her sleep from the back of the dorm, but other than that, it was quiet. Rose Marie glanced at Anataki beside her, one arm reaching out to the cold wall, her head slumped on a hollowed shoulder, and her mouth open, revealing a row of shiny teeth. In the thin winter light, she looked peaceful, no longer burning, coughing, and wheezing. God had answered her prayers. Taki’s fever had broken! She reached over to touch her forehead.

“Sister Cilla!” she cried, springing out of bed. “Sister Cilla!” She pushed through the door to the hall. Gripping the rail, she hung over the banister. “Sister Cillaaa!” she screamed.

Behind her, sheets shuffled and mattresses creaked. “Who’s yelling?” a sleepy voice complained.

“Sister Cillaaa!”

She raced back to the bed. Gazing down, she slid one arm deftly under Anataki’s head and her beautiful face fell towards her. With the other hand, she made the sign of the cross on Taki’s forehead. “I claim you for Jesus,” she whispered. She could hear Sister Cilla’s big feet pounding the stairs, and she threw herself across her Taki.

From Thine anger, O Lord, deliver her. From the peril of death, from an evil death, from the pains of hell, from all evil, from the power of the Devil, by Thy Nativity, by Thy cross and passion, by Thy death and burial, by Thy glorious resurrection, by the grace of the Holy Ghost the Comforter . . .

She felt Sister Cilla’s hand on her arm, but she shook it off. Someone close by started wailing in her ears, the sound of broken wings and suffering animals.

“She’s gone,” Sister Cilla whispered. “There’s nothing we can do. Stop, Rose Marie, please stop making that noise.”

  *  *  *  

The day thickened to clay. She tried to move her limbs through it, but she couldn’t. She was hardening to stone. At night, she lay petrified between cold grey sheets. Time shifted around her and compressed.

“Rose Marie,” Sister Cilla said, kneeling by her bed. “All the other girls have gone to class. You must get up.”

Oh God, what have You done?

  *  *  *  

“Rose Marie,” Sister Margaret barked, “I won’t have this!” She grabbed a handful of hair and yanked, dragging her from the bed. Head wrenched back, Rose Marie hung by her hair until Sister Margaret let go. She dropped to the floor.

Grant that I may die in Thy love and Thy grace. Grant that I may die.

  *  *  *  

“You have to eat, Rose Marie.”

She pried her eyes open a crack and saw an angel in black standing over her, a bowl in her hands. The angel of death.
Let me die too.

“Try a little food, Rose Marie. Please.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, assist me in my last agony.

The Virgin took one hand and Joseph held the other. They led her away from the dark angel and her bowl of oblivion.

No. Grant me death!

  *  *  *  

“Rose Marie, I brought you a little supper.” Mother Grace slid a hand over her head of stone. “Wake up,
chérie
. Just mashed potatoes. You can eat that.”

Oh Lord, make no delay.

  *  *  *  

“
Rosie?” Susanna perched her bony bum on the bed. “Are you gunna be okay?”

Don’t call me “Rosie.” Don’t say the name Taki called me.

May the body and soul of Anataki be made flesh again. May she rise from the dead as Lazarus did. Raise her up. Or else take me too.

“She said something!” Susanna yelled across the dormitory.

  *  *  *  

Kneeling on the floor by her bed, the shadow sister raised her head.

Sweet Jesus, make sure you take Taki to heaven. Don’t leave her here with the shadow nun!

Taki came to her. She smiled, sun glowing through her skin, her brimming spirit flowing. Behind her, the
ii-nii
grazed and faded into night.

  *  *  *  

The release started with Rose Marie’s fingers. The top joint curled. Then the second joint. Her fingers folded into her palms. She could wiggle her wrists and turn her forearms. She struggled against the stone until it freed her shoulders, her back, vertebra by vertebra, her hips. Then her legs, ankles, and feet. The slate around her face cracked, and she opened her eyes. She was in the dormitory, and it was empty.

She would do one last thing for her friend.

Stiffly, she climbed out of bed and tottered to the bathroom. The stone in her belly was shattering, water rushing through, a hot river. She sat on the toilet and pissed while the world trembled and slowly began to turn again. She pissed forever, it seemed.

One foot in her stocking. The next foot. Pull them up, over her knees, her thighs. Dress over her head. Arms in. Shoes on. Walk. Then run to the chapel.

“For the repose of the soul of Anne Two Persons, we ask you,”
Father William sang, stretching one hand out to the congregation.

“
Lord, hear our prayer
,” the first-years, the juniors, the intermediates, the senior girls, Brother Abraham, Mother Grace, and all the sisters chorused. Rose Marie joined them.

  *  *  *  

The next morning, Rose Marie got up with other students and went downstairs to the dining hall. She stood in line for breakfast and sat where she always did, the space beside her, Taki’s seat, empty.

“Heartsick,” Mama had said when she told her the story of Auntie Constance, how she hurt and moaned, clutching her sides, and Father Alphonses had to drive her to the hospital in Fort Macleod so she wouldn’t die.

The problem was a baby growing in the wrong place. “The doctors gutted Connie like a fish, took everything out,” Mama said. “No more babies. She was heartsick.”

Rose Marie felt like she had been gutted. She was heartsick too.

A hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Sister Cilla gazing down at her. “How’s Rose Marie?”

She couldn’t speak.

After roll call, Sister Joan ordered the class to the sewing room. The girls stood up, filed through the door and down the hall. Rose Marie’s body moved with them. Air leaked into her lungs, seeped back out. In, out. One foot, two feet. As she neared the front entrance, two people pushed through the door, cold spilling in behind them.

Anataki’s parents. She knew them from her dreams. Someone must have told them. She heard Sister Joan walking behind her, so she turned the corner and pressed herself up against the wall.

“May I help you?” Sister Joan demanded, her words breaking from the stale biscuit of her voice.

“We’ve come for our girl’s body,” Taki’s father said.

So they weren’t going to let her be buried out back with the others, the dead ones whose names were forgotten as soon as they were in the ground with a wooden cross planted by Brother Abe. A cross that got buried by snow and splintered by drought, that fell apart and blew away. But if they took Taki’s body, she wouldn’t be able to sneak out to her grave. She wouldn’t ever be able to visit her.

“Yes, the Two Persons.” Sister Joan’s voice softened in pretend sympathy. “Come with me.” She started off towards Mother Grace’s office.

As Taki’s mama took a step forward, her eyes found Rose Marie flattened against the wall. For a fraction of a second, they traded looks like arrows, each shuddering into the other’s heart with piercing pain. Then Rose Marie slipped down the wall and crumpled on the floor.

A
T MEALTIME, SITTING
at the table she had once shared with Taki, Rose Marie tried to eat. Porridge, bread, peanut butter, mashed potatoes—everything stuck to the roof of her mouth and wouldn’t go down. In class, her mind floated and refused to light on any of the lessons. Her eyes stung, full of grit.

“Rose Marie, stop daydreaming!” Sister Joan yelled. “Wake up. Snip, snap.”

At night, she tossed and turned.

“Rose Marie, I’m going to speak to Sister Cilla about putting you to bed at the same time as the first-years, since you’re so dozy.”

When all the girls were asleep, the shadow sister slunk through the dormitory, and behind her crept a shadow man. Goose pimples and ice danced up and down Rose Marie’s arms. She pulled the covers over her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and bit her lip to stop from crying or screaming or jumping up and running for the door. Slowly, she climbed out of bed and crept over to the empty bed where Anataki used to sleep. No one had removed the sheets, so she slid inside Taki’s smell of sweat and sick. As she closed her eyes, she finally felt the grey river of sleep lap the shore of her body. She tried to plunge in, to sink to the bottom, but the river withdrew, and she was left awake and aching. She tasted blood on her lip and sucked, trying to shift the pain from her head and guts and bones to that one small cut. No dreams. No Taki.

  *  *  *  

In class, her eyes watered. She yawned.

Sister Joan smacked her across the head with the rolled-up student roster. “What’s wrong with you? I asked you a question, missy!”

In advanced catechism, Mother Grace told her about the imperfect sacrifices of the Old Testament and God’s desire for one clean sacrifice to be offered throughout the world. Rose Marie wriggled.

“Have you no respect for what our Lord endured?” Mother Grace demanded.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes filled.

“Anne is now with God, dear child.” Mother Grace’s papery hand folded over hers. “Pray for her soul. You can do no more.” She straightened in her chair. “I don’t think either of our hearts is in the lesson today.
Va t’en
, and take the Bible with you. Read the book of Malachias for your next lesson. God willing, it will put you to sleep.”

  *  *  *  

That night, Rose Marie watched the stocky man break from the darkness and trail the shadow sister. As he crept by her bed, his odour of mould and charcoal made her stomach lurch. She pulled a blanket over her nose but could not shut her eyes or look away. He wore black with a white stripe at his throat. A priest’s collar.

His meaty hand leapt to the sister’s shoulder, and turning, she gasped. His hand moved to her neck, and a ray of moonlight from one of the high windows caught a ring on his finger—gold, engraved with an
X
—making it flare. The sister opened her mouth to scream, but his thumb pressed her throat and only a gurgle spilled out. His other hand fumbled with her long skirt. Her fingers tore at his wrist. He pushed her hard, and she crashed into the wall.

“Stop!” Rose Marie cried. She shoved her fist in her mouth as the two fell against each other and plummeted to the floor, the sister flailing under the thump of his body, the priest grunting. She would suck her fist down her throat. She would suffocate.

A flash of metal. It was the kind of knife Sisters Joan and Lucy used for cutting out paper crosses, stars, and lambs to tape on classroom windows. Rose Marie saw it clearly, pulled from the sister’s skirt pocket and clutched in her hand. She saw the blade tear into the priest’s face, heard him bellow.

Lights flashed on, then off again. Abby First Eagle snorted, and a mattress creaked. Someone came through the entrance and strode towards her. The angel of death.
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

“Rose Marie, is that you? Are you awake?” Sister Cilla bent over her bed. “What was that noise? Are you crying?”

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, Rose Marie couldn’t stop the flood of tears and snot and sobs. Sister Cilla stroked her shoulder. Two rows ahead, Abby was making piggy snorts.

“It’s Anne, isn’t it, Rose Marie? You miss her.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.” Then she nodded, choking. “It is, but it’s so much more!” Everything was terrible, the school, the whole, wide world. Sobs shook her body. The more she tried to stop, the harder she cried.

Sister Cilla’s hand patted her back. “There, there,” she comforted, now drawing circles as she made soft, reassuring sounds. Just like Mama used to do.

One of the junior girls sat up, said, “Oh,” and sank back to sleep.

As her sobs subsided, Rose Marie was overcome by embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Sister,” she muttered. As she looked up at Sister Cilla, she noticed her nightcap was askew.

“Sister,” she whispered. “Your hair. It’s almost long.”

R
OSE MARIE SAT
in Mother Grace’s office. They were about to start her catechism lesson when Father Alphonses knocked on the door. Mother Grace struggled to her feet.

“I’ll be right with you, Father.” Turning to Rose Marie, she told her to read ahead. “I won’t be long.”

Rose Marie pushed her chair closer to Mother Grace’s desk and leaned heavily on her elbows. She knew Mother Grace would pester Father Alphonses with a million questions, as usual.
“What’s new in the parish, Father? Tell me everything. Did you bring a newspaper?”

Rose Marie pressed her palms to each side of her head, trying to squeeze out the ache and grief and ghosts. All morning in class, she had worked hard to concentrate.

“I see you’re with us today,” Sister Joan had announced. “How nice.”

She picked up
A Child’s First Confession: Its Fruitful Practice
, but the book slipped from her fingers and tumbled back on Mother Grace’s desk, pages splayed. Folding her arms on the top of the desk, she laid her heavy head on it. She had been nine at the time of her first confession, she recalled.

  *  *  *  

“Remember when I put a tack on Sister Joan’s chair?” Beth had asked as they huddled around her in the dorm just before lights-out.

“Yeah, Sister never even noticed,” Taki quipped.

“So much the better,” Beth retorted. “I never got caught
and
I’ve got something to confess now.”