Chapter1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

Sister Mary Sebastian drank her fifth cup of the morning at a coffee bar in the Atlanta airport. Her booth sat by the wall—really just a long glass panel looking out over the planes parked in the rain below. The planes reminded her of cartoon dogs: big dogs and little dogs, ears straight out and tails up in the air. Smooth, wet noses. Go dog, go. She had read those words to many small children over the years, the "special needs" children who came to the school as babies and lived with the nuns until someone adopted them or foster families took them in. One little boy, Danny Clift, she'd raised by herself for three years. He was four when he left her. The night before he went to live with his new family, he pushed open her bedroom door, crying.

"Did you have a bad dream, Danny?"

"Yes. There was dogs."

"Do you want me to read you a Psalm?"

"No. Read Stop Dog, Stop."

Later, she'd heard he died in an accident at home. "Maybe it wasn't an accident at all," she told Theresa in tears, but there was no way of knowing. She hated the system, like everything else she couldn't control. She'd have preferred to keep all the children safe with the Sisters of Good Hope forever; she'd have established an old–fashioned orphanage for them, if Florida law had allowed it, or else adopted every child herself (but the order didn't allow that). Only the most exceptional children stayed for any length of time: the lame, the crippled, the blind.

None had stayed longer than Theresa—soon to be "Sister Theresa," if she decided to keep her own name. She had one arm, no left foot, and a mangled ear that she kept hidden under her habit. One night 26 years ago, a frightened woman in flat white shoes appeared at the back door, holding out a bundle. "A little present for you," she'd said, slurring her words as if she'd been drinking for about an hour before she came. She disappeared quickly, her shoes making streaks through the dark. Mary brought the bundle into the light and unwrapped it on the kitchen table, trembling. The last corner of blanket fell away like withered skin: inside was a tiny newborn, horribly injured, quivering and gasping for breath.

Sister Mary wore ordinary clothes today: grey slacks and a 20–year–old green sweater. Some nuns hated the habit, but she felt stangely conspicuous without it. It let people look at you without seeing you: you could hide in a habit, like an almond in a shell. Without it, you were only yourself—the person you'd always been—no longer hidden in the armor of the church.

She smiled at herself—to make such a melodrama out of clothes!—and smoothed her hair behind her ears, noticing the heavy–set blonde woman making circles outside the bar. No need for a second look. The woman had a memorable face: weepy brown eyes, a round jaw and a small mouth. Sister Mary sipped her coffee, nervously. A plane landed. Minutes later, a crowd of travellers swarmed through the concourse. She stood up, stuffed her styrofoam cup through the flap of a trash bin, and stepped gamely out into the walking traffic. Luggage whizzed by: suitcases on wheels, all of them black and exactly the same size. How did these people manage at baggage pick–up? She felt the blond woman hovering about ten feet behind her, but still she didn't look back.

Better to look like a follower than a leader. She chose a youngish Asian man as a pacesetter and walked after him, wheezing with the effort. He was perfect: long–legged and uncatchable. Far down the concourse he slowed and turned for a moment, maybe sensing something. She let her eyes meet his. That slight bow of the head, the one always expected of nuns—she gave him that, tipping her forehead and closed her eyes. The man frowned and flicked his hand over the front of his jacket. He looked back around and sped up. Another hundred yards and he turned off at an Internet station.

Whatever happened, she couldn't miss her connecting flight. Twenty minutes till boarding, but she'd gone too far in the wrong direction now and she didn't want to look hurried on the way back. She checked her watch again, turned into a hallway off the main thoroughfare, and found an empty restroom. It wouldn't be empty long—the quicker she got this over with, the better. She sat down on a toilet at the far side of the room and waited, looking at her watch. Two and a half minutes passed, and then she heard footsteps on the tile.

The door squeaked open in the stall next to hers. She bent down and saw the woman's stubby feet and thick ankles. She'd seen those feet before—just a few days ago, actually—but in different shoes, and from farther away, behind a baby stroller. Today the shoes were white, with rubber soles. There was no stroller. Sister Mary put her head against the metal wall, near the bottom.

"It was a good landing in Washington," she whispered.

"Really?" said the meek voice on the other side.

"Yes. Our prayers were answered."

"This is so hard."

"I know, but you'll be happy in the long run."

"I wish I had more control. I wish I could see how she turns out. I get attached—"

"Shhh."

"I'm sorry." The woman sniffled. "I'm not good at this. I hate this."

"I know you do."

"I'm sorry."

"You're very brave. You can trust everything to us, OK?"

"I know—"

"Have you prayed?"

"Yes."

"Then keep praying. God listens."

"Isn't there any way I could see—you know, again?"

"No. No. Now, do you have anything you wanted to pass along?"

"Is there a name you could give me? A place to write?"

"Don't undo the good you've done."

"I know this one will have unusual needs."

"Please."

There was a slight hesitation, and then a large, thin envelope passed between the stalls. Sister Mary noticed the other woman's hand before it drew back: the fingers looked red and sore. Maybe eczema. She took the envelope and folded it into her purse, then stood up quickly and kicked the flush button on the wall. The toilet roared. She pulled up her tights and left the bathroom quickly, without even washing her hands. She'd forgotten not to look hurried.

* * *

Far outside the tech corridor, away from the bristling trails of cement and steel, sat Sibyl Westford's Maryland farm. The house was 180 years old, set down in a grove of black oaks, with an apple orchard on one side and a grey clapboard chapel on the other. A small crowd of children roamed over the bright green grass like new kittens. Jenny had mentioned kids. Rose wondered about them as she parked her car near the road and crunched down the sandy driveway. Did they all live here?

She'd driven up this morning with the idea that she'd try to come across less strong today, play the sincere truth–seeker. It had been wrong to pretend to Jenny that she'd had an abortion once, but, thinking it over, she'd realized that in a way it was true. As a teenager she'd driven her sister to a clinic and waited all morning in a sterile little room that smelled like plastic furniture. She remembered sitting down in the kitchen that afternoon, trying to explain to her mom why Pat was locked up in her room, crying. Rain poured down outside. The lights flickered on and off.

"We couldn't tell you, Mom," she said.

Her mother crumpled up with her head in her hands, sobbing. "You should have told me. I could have helped her. I wouldn't have stopped her."

"But you take everything so hard. We wanted to protect you from making the decision."

"Protect me? You're a teenager, for God's sake. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Rose walked past the other cars, hearing voices and laughter as she came close to the house. The front door stood open: there were people moving on the other side of the screen. A woman stepped out as she climbed the steps. "Barbara?" she called toward the children on the lawn. She looked tired and tense. Her long hair tumbled down the front of her jumper.

"Yes?" answered a little girl on the lawn.

"I need your help in the kitchen, honey."

"But I'm looking for my ring. I losed it."

"Well I'm sorry, but mommy needs you in the kitchen."

The girl put her hands on her hips and burst into tears. The woman sighed and shook her head at Rose. "She's been like this all morning."

"I know how it is," Rose said, thinking that she didn't really have any idea. She wondered how obviously out–of–place she looked here. She kept one hand on the camera at her side and moved past the woman through the doorway into a large open room with a high ceiling. The room was crowded with people who seemed to know each other. They were chattering here and there in small groups: one group standing around a piano, another sitting on a short flight of steps, another seated at a long table next to an ancient wood stove. Three royal blue tapestries hung along the opposite wall, embroidered with Christian symbols: a fish, a cross, a chalice.

Jenny Lemke had been setting up chairs across the room. "Rose!" she said, holding her hand out as she came open. "You made it!"

Rose moved toward her, relieved to see the familiar face. Yet hadn't Stannie always said she trusted people too easily? It was important to remember what she was here for—not let herself be sucked in. She felt at her side for the camera—for the cool metal, the leather strap—then dropped her eyes and looked back up at Jenny, who was smiling tensely.

"Were my directions hard to follow?"

"Not at all, but this place is way off the beaten path. What is it, anyway? It's not just a house?"

"Yes and no." Jenny nodded, taking a slight breath as she smiled. "Sibyl's brother James is our main attorney. He works out of an office here and takes care of the chapel next door."

"Takes care of it?"

"He and Sibyl. They run the church together. It's a—" Jenny laughed. "One of those Protestant things, I don't quite get it."

Rose smiled, looking around.

"Make yourself at home. There's Sibyl with my priest, Father Myers. Hey Sibyl, come over here. Have you met Rose Merriman? She's the writer I told you about."

Sibyl Westford left the priest and came to Jenny's side. She was both younger and taller than Rose remembered. She towered over Jenny, bouncing a tiny tiny baby on her shoulder.

"Is she yours?" Rose reached for her camera again. "She's beautiful."

"Oh, dear, no," said Sibyl quickly. A strange look came over her face. "She's not mine, no." She laughed, sounding almost embarrassed, and handed the baby off to the same tired–looking woman who'd been calling the little girl outside. "No, she's just one of our precious gift babies. A committee member has her in foster care. We were getting acquainted."

There was an awkward silence, and then Jenny said, lightly, "We do have a lot of children around here, Rose. Always. Some of our own and some foster children, too."

Rose smiled. "That would have made a nice photograph. The light in here is beautiful. Very sharp and clean."

Sibyl's eyes shifted over to Jenny and back to Rose."Well," she said, sounding strained, but smiling, "we're always glad for company, Rose. You're interested in joining the League, are you? Dare I hope that you're a lawyer?"

"No, Sibyl," said Jenny. "I told you. She's writing a book."

"Oh."

"I'm interested in the legal questions, though," said Rose. "I'd like to hear more about that side of your work."

"A book. So you're a literary person?"

"Sort of. a journalist."

"Are you interested in some literature about the Fetal Rights League?"

Rose hesitated, not sure if this was a joke. "Yes, I guess so."

"I'll look around in the basement and see if I can dig some pamphlets up. We're getting started pretty soon, so there won't be much time."

"That's fine—"

"She doesn't need any literature," said Jenny. "She just wants to meet us. She wants our stories."

Sibyl looked uncertain. "Our stories? I don't think I have a story. I'm very boring."

Jenny laughed. "Don't let Sibyl fool you, Rose. She has plenty to say if you just ask the right questions."

"I'm looking forward to talking to all of you," said Rose warmly, but Sibyl didn't return her smile. She turned to Jenny: "Mind if I talk to you alone?"

Jenny nodded and the two women crossed the room, heading for the coffee pot. Rose stood quietly for a moment, wondering why Sibyl Westford hadn't taken to her. Left alone, she was suddenly aware of everything: the priest in the corner with his long face and bald head, a very old woman in a rocking chair, a handsome white man in a tan suit talking to several smart–looking black women, a couple of mangy–looking hippies with bare feet. One of the hippies had a tattoo of a man's face on his forearm. Jesus? Maybe. Or was it Charles Manson? The middle–aged women around the piano looked as though they'd dressed for another century. Two of them wore lace caps—maybe one of these was the very woman Rose had seen in the photo at Tops, the woman who'd given her little boy a poster of a bloody fetus to carry on his shoulder. Rose did better with men and she knew it: she took a deep breath and started toward the handsome man in the tan suit.

* * *

Across the room, Sibyl was talking to Jenny in a small, tight voice. "I know she's pro–abortion, Jenny. I can smell it a mile away."

"She is. But she's interested in us."

"I feel extremely uncomfortable having her here. I mean, why here at the retreat? Can't we leave the media in Washington?"

"Sibyl, she's a nice person. She wants to get to know us."

Sibyl rolled her eyes. "You trust everybody, but I know the media."

"She'll humanize us in the media."

"Don't count on it."

"People have such a bad image of abortion–protestors, Sibyl. They see a doctor shot or a nurse losing an eye in a bombing. People remember that. These days, you have to be a victim to get any attention, and where are the victims? On the other side."

"You don't remember what you used to see in those dumpsters, do you?"

"They're not going to print pictures of the dumpsters."

"Or in my front yard. You want me to show you the doctor's bill for the skin grafts on Clara?"

Jenny frowned, glancing toward the door. "Sibyl, I wouldn't even consider putting that child in front of the world. She's suffered enough. But there are other ways of getting public sympathy on our side. We can just be ourselves and talk to them—"

"We can't be ourselves!" Sibyl said in a shrill whisper. "It's throwing pearls before swine, trying to make friends with them. When will you understand that? We've tried and tried and tried. They twist everything! I'm sick to death of the secular media."

Jenny struggled to keep her voice calm. "OK, but I'm not ready to give up. And you're not the boss, last time I checked, Sibyl. These days, image is everything. Everything. And image is sold through story and through pictures. A writer can kill any cause, or save any cause, according to how she chooses her words. If we had a writer who believed in our cause, she could cast us in a sympathetic light. We need her."

Sibyl stared forward for a moment, her large eyes intense. I can't believe it's true that people are so easily led," she said, after a moment.

"But so many people do hate us. You know it. They don't think of us as the people next door—we're the enemy. We don't have Hollywood on our side, the celebrities. We've got no Susan Sarandon, no Barbra Streisand. We have no one. No one but ourselves to represent us, and we've done such a poor job. We've been labeled as uncaring—"

"But it's all lies," said Sibyl

"It's not all lies." Jenny winced, and looked back at Rose. "I hate saying it, but at least half the time, it's true. Remember Arvin, Sibyl? And what he did? Remember how many people have been hurt or killed in our cause?"

Sibyl stared, and then she said, "Just abortionists." She said it quietly, but with venom in her voice. Her skin looked thin and papery around her eyes.

Jenny drew back and shook her head. "Not just abortionists. And even if they had been … it's not our right. And, frankly, you need to soften up a little, yourself, Sibyl."

Sibyl turned quickly back around to the table, still tense, now looking hurt.

Jenny touched Sibyl's shoulder. "I don't mean to make this a personal thing between you and me. Have I overdone it, pulling rank?"

"No," Sibyl mumbled.

"Are you sure?"

"This is my house, after all."

"I know."

"You Catholics. Your friend can hang around and do research for her book. But make no mistake about it: I have nothing but contempt for the liberal media. They've added to the suffering of millions of children with their selfish propaganda and their money, and when we get the laws changed, they'll pay the price."

Sibyl lurched forward and went out the front door, down the steps to where the children were crawling through the grass, still looking for a lost ring. Jenny watched her go, stunned and sad. Then she made her way back toward Rose, who stood talking to Sibyl's brother James under the banner of the cross.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.