Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Amsterdam, Netherlands
After more than two months of playing the role of a strict Catholic, the convent is no longer jarringly unfamiliar.
Though I still feel like I’m living someone else’s life.
The papers that were to protect both Noah and me are nothing more than a reminder of what I lost. Christoph’s words ring through my head morning noon and night, a reminder of why I’m here.
“It’s the only way to keep you safe.”
Kaatje Janseen, a Catholic woman with a former occupation of a seamstress, now displaced by war. Christoph’s letter of recommendation worked just as he said it would, though I know he had to trade something, and I’m not sure what.
He hasn’t written or visited, which means he hasn’t found any information about Noah, good or bad, leaving me in limbo between grief and a sliver of hope that my eyes had deceived me the day he put himself in the line of fire. For me.
Three, two, one—the second bell echoes between the stone walls, striking my ears as if scolding me to move quicker.
Most of the other women are out of their cots and dressed before the second bell rings, but I’d rather the chamber room be less occupied when I clamber out of my cot. The time I’ve been here has taught me order, but not how to feel at ease.
My feet meet the worn floor as I reach for the gray garb draped over the suitcase that sits at the foot of the cot.
It’s the same dress I wear every day, plain, shapeless, and heavy—perfect to hide my truth from the celibate nuns.
I won’t be able to hide the baby for much longer and Christoph has not found an alternate plan yet.
The dress is snugger today than it was yesterday, and I tug it into place before reaching for the apron that does most of the disguising. I tie it tightly beneath my chest, so it billows beneath.
The few women left in the chamber move in silence, minding their own space and schedule. Even when we aren’t preparing for our morning routine, words are rare, usually a request or warning. A quiet apology.
I follow the last of the women into the narrow stone corridor.
The smells of old rain and soap cloak me as I press forward until reaching the chapel where I flow into the final row of postulants.
Though I’ve come to memorize how to behave and when, I still watch the others to stay in time when kneeling, lowering my eyes, and when to speak a prayer.
Our voices rise and fall in tune as my mouth forms the shape of the words, the focus on my breaths, masking the words that trigger grief and pain.
When it’s time to kneel, I adjust my weight to avoid the pressure in my mid-section and my lower back.
I use the pew for leverage to ease back up to my feet.
Nothing unusual with the various range of age between the postulants.
Though someone my age shouldn’t have so much trouble kneeling and standing, no one pays much attention.
My mind tells me otherwise. I can’t help feeling like someone is always watching me—knowing each lie I formulate, and each truth I withhold. Especially here.
After prayers, we disburse to our assigned work, and I follow my familiar path to the laundry room where the sound of running water screams like static. The tiled room is filled with steam, blurring the sunlight pressing against the small windows.
Hours of scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing sheets and uniforms wouldn’t have tired me much before my pregnancy, but now it’s a constant repetitive test of my strength.
I lift the basin of wet clothes, something I’ve done hundreds of times now, but this time, a stabbing pain ripples through my stomach, stealing my breath for a brief second. My heart thunders against my rib cage as my grip tightens along the handles.
“I can get that,” the woman across from me says.
Her expression freezes as her hands wade in soapy water.
“I have it,” I reply quickly.
Concern draws lines along her forehead, a silent question that I can’t answer. She’s older, just old enough to have a few streaks of silver sparkling through her chestnut-brown hair. Likely wiser and more knowing than I’d like to give her credit for.
“As you like.” Her gaze returns to the soapy clothes.
I make it to the table and set the basin down carefully before lowering my hand to my stomach, slightly folding in toward the table. The heat from the room seeps through my limbs and into my face, causing a wave of dizziness.
The pain and lightheadedness pass, and I focus on folding, sorting, and inventory, wishing the tasks would distract me.
Especially with Mother Superior standing by the door with a ledger pinched beneath her arm.
She won’t correct me or anyone else out loud, but her presence is enough to ensure we’re doing everything properly.
Her lingering stare toward me steals the warmth from my blood, leaving me in a cold sweat.
* * *
By midday, the other postulants and I sit at a table in silence, hands folded on our laps while waiting for the prayer to begin before our meal.
The words taper off and I lift my spoon just as a wave of nausea pales me from the inside.
I swallow against the acidic burn blazing through my throat, waiting for the feeling to pass, while also being aware of the expression on my face. There should be none.
The young woman across from me leans into the table. “You were a seamstress before, yes?” she whispers, the sound of her voice blending in with the clatter of spoons against bowls.
Say yes, Celina. It’s supposed to be the truth. “Yes—that’s right,” I utter.
“You’re lucky to have such talent,” she says. “I wish I did.”
I don’t have talent when it comes to sewing, other than pricking my fingers more times than the fabric.
“My skills are quite basic,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask me to repair something for her that I certainly won’t be able to mend.
“Still,” she says with a kind smile.
She doesn’t continue the conversation, just continues ladling broth into her mouth until her bowl is empty.
The bells ring again, and everyone stands at once with their bowls and spoons. I’m a half second behind, but not purposely. I wait behind the others until reaching the bin of dirty bowls and place mine on top of the pile and the spoon with the others below.
I head back to the laundry room at once, arriving to an empty space. There are only two others typically here in the afternoon, and they should be here.
With the folding table in front of me, I press my hands on top and arch my back for a small stretch. I’ve been overdoing it with the laundry, and I feel a tightening in my lower stomach. I need a moment to rest.
“You should be at confession,” a woman speaks from the open door. She’s one of the sisters who drifts around, keeping guard of all daily happenings. “Are you coming?”
“I—I’m going to stay here and continue folding.”
I’m not sure if I have the choice to skip confession, but I forgot what day it was, and by the time I make it down to the chapel, it might be too late. And, aside from not having anything I’m able to confess, as usual, my body is demanding a break.
No more than a minute or two after the sister leaves, does Mother Superior appear in the doorway of the laundry room.
She takes slow steps in toward me. My stomach tightens again, in response, maybe for another reason.
An agonizing pain skates across my protruding belly as it turns harder than a rock—a sensation harsher than anything I’ve felt until this point.
It’s the stress. It’s putting a burden on my body, and my poor baby.
But I bite my tongue, ensuring my expression stays neutral, hiding any hint of enduring pain and discomfort.
“I would like you to rest tomorrow,” she says. “In fact, please meet me at the infirmary directly after the second bell.”
I try to clear my throat to respond, but air is trapped when I reply, “Yes, Mother.”
She nods and pivots on her heels. “We’ll speak more later.”
She knows. Or suspects something is wrong with me. I’ve done all I could to hide my pregnancy, but I have a feeling it hasn’t been enough…
* * *
The night carries on like it may never end, each second feeling like an hour.
I can’t find a comfortable position and my heart races without pause.
Dull pain swells across my stomach and all I can do is hold my palms along the curves, wishing the warmth would soothe the growing pains.
A small flutter and nudge beneath my skin tickles my palm, the sensation unmistakable.
The most wonderful feeling in the world.
“Hello, my little love. Mama’s here,” I whisper as a tear slips down my cheek and onto my pillow. “Everything will be all right.”
Yet, I can’t believe my own words because nothing feels right. It all feels very wrong. I shouldn’t be in this level of pain only halfway through my pregnancy.
When morning arrives and my mind unearths from a restless haze, I trudge down the chambers to the infirmary, holding my arms around my stomach as if it needs extra support.
A young nun shows me into a small room and taps the medical table before leaving without a single word.
I’m left staring at circular stained-glass window along the side wall.
Mother Superior enters the room, along with one of the sisters, who closes the door behind them. “You’ve been here some time now,” Mother Superior says, pulling a wooden chair up to the side of the table. “Long enough to follow our ways.”
Is this because I missed confession?
“Yes, Mother,” I reply, sweat beading along the back of my neck.
“You have certainly worked hard.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And yet,” she says, her voice quiet, “your body says you haven’t been completely honest here.”
I nod as if instinctively. “Yes, it’s true. I’m not well.” I’m lying again. I shouldn’t be lying in a house of God. I know better.
Mother Superior clasps her hands tighter over her lap.
“We will tend to your care.” There is no hint of anger or frustration in her words, just an emotionless statement as if her commitment to me is only part of her faith and duty.
“But you’ll stay here in the infirmary now.
Your body is rejecting… your pregnancy. The pregnancy, I suspect, of which you’re aware. ”
Tears are the only response I can offer Mother Superior. That and a silent prayer that she’s just disappointed in me for lying and doesn’t mean what she said about my body rejecting my baby. Would a woman of God play with her words?
The sister by her side hands me a cup of tea before leaving, then returns with a pile of linen—confirmation that I’ll be staying precisely here in this room until they say otherwise.
“Is there anything that can be done?” I ask the sister, not knowing what knowledge she has or if she’s just here to give me tea. Someone must know what’s happening.
The day passes in slow increments of ringing bells. Someone is constantly at my bedside, whether it be a nurse checking on me, or a member of the convent here to pray. My questions continue to come and go to whomever will listen, but there’s no other answer beyond, “We must wait and see.”
* * *
Waves of cramps come and go. Dull at first, now fierce and sudden like bolts of lightning. All I can do is press the side of my face into the pillow, pushing it against my mouth to block out the screams I can’t control.
Nurses, sisters, and Mother Superior move in and out of the room, still without a word. Someone has come to change the sheets or add more bedding beneath me, somehow doing so without asking me to move. It’s because of the blood. There’s too much blood.
My mind detaches from my body. Or it’s my body that’s detaching from my mind.
Even the room looks different. Like a reflection in a mirror, backward, or inside out. No one is here. No one, but me.
Sleep comes and goes. Then again. And again, until I wake to a cold chill. One that has me reaching for a blanket to drape over my shoulder. An emptiness wells within me as I shift around and lower my hand to my stomach, searching…as if a baby—my baby, Noah’s baby—could be misplaced.
Mother Superior steps up to the foot of the bed, her hands folded in front of her waist. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t save her.”
Her.
“It’s the only way to keep you safe,” Christoph had said. He didn’t realize he was only saving me. Not the life inside me—just the shell of what is left.