62. Isabel
Itried, I really tried to replace all this pain with routine and hard work. I refused to let regret and heartache destroy me and yet in the grand scheme of love, it apparently took longer than a week or two or ten for love to extract itself from your heart and soul.
If I thought coming to Abby Chatoise was the cure, I underestimated the severity of my aching heart.
There was no question that love could bring a whole lot of happiness, but boy if it turned on you it could cause a whole lot of pain. Prime example right here. Survive the pain and you might win back your sanity. But fair warning, this is not the kind of pain where you can take an aspirin and call it a night. Oh no, this was a whole different beast. This pain thrived on memories and regrets. It reveled in your failures—and in the hush of night when nothing but darkness seeped through my window, it left me with nothing but my thoughts. And oh God what a jumbled, tragic mess they were.
I realized that dwelling on the heartache would only cause more anguish. Denial was alive and thriving and I was its reigning queen. And for the first few weeks of my life at the abbey I was on autopilot. It required a self-imposed and very meticulous schedule, which I submitted to much like an athlete training for the Olympics:
Breathe in breathe out.
Breathe in breathe out.
Breathe in breathe out.
Breathe in breathe out.
Breathe in breathe out.
Although, sleeping was when the real nightmare started. Because Roman seemed to have a gilded backstage pass to my dreams. Sometimes he was the passionate lover, sometimes the tender one, and other times he ignited flames inside me that could burn down world. I’d usually wake up from those, wondering if anyone had heard my moans. Moans that didn’t really belong in a convent at all.
My life had become that melancholy tune played on a lone violin somewhere in a murky subway late at night. It begged the age-old question, is it better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all? I was beginning to lean toward the latter because it sounded more bearable. Much more bearable.
My small room was above the abbey’s kitchen. My mom lived in this room when she was a nun. It was still the same bed she slept on, the same tiny closet she used, and the same cross hanging on the wall above the bed.
I found the hidden space inside the closet where she used to hide her books from the mother superior back then, who happened to be quite a piece of work. Mother Clara told me how many times she and my mom got into trouble for not abiding by all the severe rules that the old witch had laid down. When Mother Clara became the prioress, she vowed to run an abbey that felt like a home and not like Alcatraz.
And still there in the hidden space was my mom’s dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights. It was filled with her scribbled little notes, and the underlined passages she loved. I cried and cried until I ran out of tears. That night I dreamt of her, and she sang à la claire fontaine, the song she sang to me every night as a child. And I missed her. I missed her so much, I would have given anything for just a little more time with her.
Every day I visited the tiny chapel in the abbey, where incense filled the air and the ever-burning altar candles flickered in the dim light. This had been my mom’s favorite place to find solitude, and I could swear I sensed her presence for the twenty minutes I sat there in the afternoons. It felt like she was sitting there right beside me, holding my hand. And it was the only time I allowed myself to cry.
Mother Clara cornered me one afternoon as I was scrubbing pots.
“Isabel, let’s go for a walk, just you and me.”
She insisted we speak English because she didn’t often have a chance to practice the language.
“I have to start preparing dinner,” I protested. “Could we perhaps do it tomorrow?”
“Now,” she said. There was no arguing with Mother Clara, and I barely had time to dry my hands and grab a woolen shawl before we set out on our walk. Mother Clara was a gentle no-nonsense soul, adapting to the times. And whatever promise she made my mom, I was always going have a home in Abby Chatoise.
“You’re working too hard, Isabel. Sisters Reine and Sabine tell me you’ve insisted on taking their workload and now they have nothing to do.”
“I don’t see anyone complaining about eating better food,” I countered.
Mother Clara laughed. “That’s something your maman would have said. But yes, we are eating very well, thank you. It still doesn’t explain why you’re trying to work yourself to death.”
“It’s just my way of dealing with stuff,” I said.
“And is it working?” she asked curiously.
“Well, it’s been a challenge,” I confessed, not willing to go into detail. I mean how did you tell a nun that this burning desire for one man wasn’t going away. That meeting him in my dreams was all I had left.
“A few of the sisters have also confided in me that sometimes they hear you cry at night.”
At least they thought I was crying and not moaning my pleasure in my convent bed.
“Sometimes I have sad dreams,” I said, glancing sideways to see if Mother Clara was buying what I was selling. Her face was stone. A cold shower before bed might be in order from now on. Not that it would help.
“Monsieur O’Connor is of the belief that perhaps you should see a thérapeute.”
A therapist? And who the hell was Monsieur O’Connor?
My frown probably gave my thoughts away. “Steven O’Connor,” Mother Clara said. “The man who has been kind enough to look after you. He enquires about you often.”
It could have been my goddamn imagination but Mother Clara was blushing. And sure Steven had made a point of checking in a few times so far, but clearly I wasn’t the main reason for his visits. How interesting.
“I know you mean well, but I don’t need a therapist,” I told her. “I just need to forget a man. Maybe I should see a hypnotist.”
Mother Clara threw her head back and laughed. “You are your mother’s child. Somehow I think you will be fine.”
We reached the stone gazebo my mom used to come to every day, where the small initials MLR and FG were carved on one of the stones.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are those my father’s initials next to my mom’s?” It should have been a yes or no answer from the woman who’d been my mother’s best friend back when. But Mother Clara looked away, a little flustered. “We should head back. Didn’t you say you needed to prepare dinner?”
By now I knew Mother Clara well enough not to push. But since the topic distracted me from my own woes, I pushed anyway. “I’m not trying to find my father, because if he knew about me and hasn’t looked for me, I assume he’s not interested. If that’s your worry. But I would like to know something about him.”
As we headed back to the abbey, the usually jovial Mother Clara was staring straight ahead, a tinge of melancholy nagging her features. “He was from America and stayed in Chatoise for four months. He had business to do here. He couldn’t speak French and since your maman was the only one who spoke English, she was appointed his translator for the time he stayed. Other than that, I don’t know much more.”
So my father was an American, and his initials were F.G. I was curious what business he might have had in Chatoise, because look up sleepy hamlet in the dictionary and you’d see a picture of this town.
“By business you mean…?” I asked.
It might have been my imagination but Mother Clara was increasing her pace, as if reaching the abbey was now her only goal. She shook her head. “We shouldn’t be talking about it, Isabel. Please don’t ask me anymore.”
“Why shouldn’t we be talking about it? I don’t understand.”
Suddenly she stopped and faced me, raveled around the edges. “Because I promised your maman that I would never burden you with it. And I can’t break that promise.”
“You won’t burden me. I don’t plan on doing anything about it. I just want to know a little bit about my father. But fine, if it stresses you out I won’t ask again.”
We stood just outside the abbey’s kitchen door. I was about to reach for the door handle when Mother Clara placed her hand on my arm. “Your father doesn’t know about you. Your maman never told him about the pregnancy. She just wanted to protect him…”
“Protect him from what?”
“From the Church finding out.”
“Now I’m confused. The Church did find out, and she left the abbey.”
Mother Clara stared off into the distance, her conscience at war with the decision she needed to make. Now I was really curious.
“It had nothing to do with your maman, Isabel. It had to do with your father. The Church couldn’t find out because he was a priest.”
Everything around us had fallen into a profound stillness. A sudden chill slinked over on a breeze, and I clutched my shawl closer, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. “What do you think he would have done if my mom had told him about me?”
“I don’t know, ma chérie, and I doubt we’ll ever know.”
“Well, if he’s priest, chances are he won’t want to know about me now. C’est la vie.Thanks for telling me. It feels a little better now that I know he didn’t abandon my mom.”
I used my hour on the phone to text Meg. I was tempted to tell her about my father, but decided that some things were best left unsaid. We talked about everything except Roman. Meg updated me on Henry and I gave her a message for Emily. I noted that Meg was bringing up Byron more and more in our conversations.
Me:It seems you and Byron are getting along well.
Meg:He irritates the shit out of me. If that’s your idea of getting along, I feel sorry for you.
Me:For someone who irritates you, you sure talk about him a lot.
Meg:I work with him, so yes he’s gonna come up.
Me:You know the saying right. “For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.”
Meg:Okay, I’ll play… So, missing Roman yet?
Me:Shut up, Meg. I’m not talking about him.
Meg:So maybe we won’t talk about either of the Belmont brothers anymore.
Me:Sounds like a plan.
Meg:You’re not curious how Roman’s doing?
Me:Not really, but if it makes you feel better, why don’t you tell me.
Meg:Never mind. I’d hate to bore you.
That should have been the end of that conversation. But sly monster that Meg was, she waited for me to finally cave.
Me:Okay, just tell me. How is Roman doing?
Meg:Oh, he’s a total wreck. It’s like watching a zombie aimlessly wander the wastelands after an apocalypse. You’ve never seen anyone more tormented than that fool. I’m thinking of sprinkling some Prozac over his food so he’ll stop shuffling the halls and dragging us all down.
Me:Well, he totally brought it on himself.
Meg:Wow, that’s cold. I mean, he did apologize to Sergei. And bought him Anna’s studio. Plus you have since talked to Sergei and it’s all good there, right? How are you still mad at Roman, Isabel?
Meg was right. Roman went out of his way to make things right with Sergei, and in turn, Sergei called me to apologize for the text that sent all this over the cliff. And damned if Sergei didn’t suddenly think the “capitalist” was actually a super nice guy, and a catch for anyone with half a brain. Whatever.
Me:Meg, I’m not mad at Roman anymore. But I don’t have the strength for any of that billionaire hubris bullshit, seriously. I deserve more. I deserve a lot more than playing second fiddle to whatever these people cook up to make themselves even more rich and powerful than they already are.
Meg: I dunno. I’m here every day. It’s not like they sit around all day plotting and planning to take over the world.
Me:Are you seriously taking their side?
Meg:No, but I miss you, EVERYBODY misses you, and I think you miss us too. I’m just saying don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. And that’s all I will say about that.