2. Whitney
WHITNEY
“Sister Emiliani?”
I smile at the sound of my name, the one I chose when I became a novitiate. Saint Jerome Emiliani is the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children, and going by that name feels right in a way I’ve never been able to put into words.
Lifting the stack of donated clothing I only finished folding, I turn toward Sister Mary Jane. “Yes?”
She steps into the room, taking in the meager donations we’ve received in the past month. “This isn’t enough,” she comments softly.
“No, it isn’t,” I confirm. “But I believe Sister Beatrice has made some calls, so hopefully, the room will be full again soon.”
Six years have passed since my eighteenth birthday and my declaration that I would become a nun. Six years of rigorous religious study and self-reflection. Six years of sharing meals, prayers, and household duties with the women who raised me and taught me what family means.
“She did,” Sister Mary Jane says as she shakes her head. “But that’s not why I came to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
She sighs. “I’m concerned about Melissa. She’s still refusing to come out of her room, and I don’t seem to be making any progress with her. I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to her.”
My smile falls at the mention of the ten-year-old placed in our care a week ago. Melissa’s parents died in a car accident, and the state was unable to locate any family and didn’t have an available foster home, so they called us. She reminds me so much of myself at her age.
“Of course,” I reply.
“Thank you, Sister.”
I drop the stack of clothes back onto the table and make my way toward the girls’ wing. Most of the children are in the computer lab as that’s where they do their schoolwork, so the building is quiet.
When I reach the room Melissa shares with two other residents, I knock. No one responds, so I try again, getting the same result.
“Melissa,” I call through the door. “It’s Sister Emiliani. May I come in?”
“I don’t care,” a tiny voice says.
My eyes land on the little girl when I enter, and she’s curled up on her bed with the blanket drawn up to her chin. She doesn’t lift her head to look at me, not even when I sit on the edge of the mattress near the foot of the bed.
“You know,” I begin. “It’s okay to be sad.”
Melissa doesn’t speak as she sniffles and wipes her eyes. I don’t know how long we remain in relative silence, but eventually, she scoots up so she’s leaning against the headboard of the twin bed.
“I miss my mom and dad,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“And I miss Stella.”
I try to recall the name Stella from Melissa’s file, but it doesn’t ring a bell. “Who’s that?”
“My dog.”
Oh no.
Several questions are on the tip of my tongue, but Melissa speaks before I have a chance to ask any of them.
“She was in the car, and I was petting her when we crashed. I don’t know what happened to her.”
A knot forms in my stomach at her dejected tone. “That must be really hard. Not knowing what happened to her.”
She nods as she twists the edge of the blanket in her hand, her knuckles almost white from the pressure. Finally, Melissa lifts her head and looks at me. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but there’s something else in her gaze, something deeper than grief.
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” she whispers brokenly. “What if Stella got hurt?”
“If she survived the accident, I’m sure someone helped her,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“But what if they didn’t?”
Children often worry about people they love, as well as animals, but the urgency in her voice makes me think she’s more scared than concerned.
“Melissa, is there something else bothering you?” I ask, shifting a bit closer to her.
“No,” she replies, too quickly.
Silence settles between us, and I let it because I’ve learned that forcing kids to talk before they’re ready rarely, if ever, works. When the quiet stretches, I decide to try another tactic.
“When I first came here,” I begin. “I was afraid all the time, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I thought if I let my guard down, something bad would happen.”
“Did it?” she asks after a moment.
I smile at her. “No.”
Melissa averts her gaze. “I…” She chews on her bottom lip for a second. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
My pulse kicks up. “Talk about what?”
“Nothing.”
“Melissa, if th—”
“It’s nothing,” she snaps, shocking me, before pulling the blanket tighter and rolling over to face the wall.
Doesn’t seem like nothing.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. This isn’t the first time I’ve sat with a hurting child.
It’s not even the first time I’ve sat with a child who’s afraid.
It is, however, the first time I’m with a child who’s displaying disproportionate amounts of each emotion in relation to their circumstance.
I silently pray for the wisdom to handle this appropriately, but then I realize that it doesn’t really matter how I handle it as long as I do it with love and care.
“Well, I’m always here if you want to talk. Or if you don’t.”
She doesn’t turn around, but she does nod after a long few seconds. It’s not much, but it’s enough. I stand and move toward the door.
“Do you want me to see if I can find anything out about Stella?” I ask.
She flips over so quickly that I have to stifle a laugh at the shift. “You can do that?”
“I’ll try.”
Melissa nods frantically. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll let you know what I find,” I say, smiling.
When I step into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me, the uneasy feeling remains. Grief is one thing, and Melissa is experiencing something more. She’s haunted in a way I haven’t witnessed since… Ryan.
I make my way to the chapel, knowing prayer is the only thing that’ll help clear my thoughts. Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, throwing beautiful color across the polished floor. I’m halfway to my destination when Sister Beatrice steps out of a room.
“Sister Emiliani,” she greets. “I was just coming to look for you.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’m actually hoping you’ll join me in the office.”
My stomach flips. I’ve come a long way from the little girl who was left here, but there are times when fear becomes the dominating emotion. “The office?”
Sister Beatrice smiles as she tilts her head like she knows what’s going on in my head, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. “One of our donors showed up unexpectedly. You’ve been working diligently to coordinate the children’s programs, so I thought it would be beneficial for you to meet him.”
My fear melts away. “I’d love to.”
We walk in silence to the office at the front of the building. Sister Beatrice opens the door, motioning for me to go in ahead of her. As soon as I step across the threshold, my eyes are immediately drawn to the man standing inside.
He’s tall, much taller than the men I’m used to at approximately six-foot-four. He’s dressed in jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather vest. Confidence pours off of him, the kind that fills the room with zero effort.
“Sister Beatrice,” he greets. “I’m sorry to show up unannounced.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Jeffries,” she says.
He smirks. “It’s Quake, Sister.”
The name is odd, but I don’t have a chance to give it much thought before introductions begin.
“Sister, this is… Quake.” I stifle a smile at her discomfort.
“Quake, this is Sister Emiliani. She grew up here and now helps manage several of our outreach efforts and children’s programs. And Quake,” she says, glancing back to me.
“He’s been a generous donor and supporter of Sacred Haven for several years. ”
Quake’s eyes cut to mine, assessing. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says.
“You, as well. And thank you for your support.”
“No need to thank me,” he says, extending his hand.
Without thinking, I settle my hand in his, and the moment we touch, electricity shoots through my body. It’s not painful or frightening. It’s just… unexpected.
My breath catches as his expression changes, telling me he felt it too. The handshake lasts a beat longer than appropriate, and then I remember who I am and where we are.
I yank my hand back, clasping it with my other one and clearing my throat.
“So, what brings you here today?”