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in the mist and hike the river isles. Mairin recalled the feel of the soft grass tickling her bare feet as they lay beneath

the shade of an old maple tree, gazing up at the cotton candy clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Her dad would point out

the shapes they formed, creating stories that only the two of them could understand.

It was on a blustery November day, five years ago, when Patrick O’Hara went to work the way he did every day. As she sat there

in the closet, Mairin could still see him in his crisp, gray uniform and waterproof parka with his name stitched above the

badge with the New York Power Authority insignia, his steel-toed boots polished to a sheen. As he did each day, he told his

wife and kids goodbye in his big, jovial voice. He always said See you when I come back around with the same grin on his face, and his lunch bucket in his hand.

It was Thanksgiving week in 1963. Mairin was a ten-year-old girl full of dreams and innocence. On that particular day her life changed forever. Everything changed. The universe changed.

And not because President Kennedy had just been assassinated. While the entire world was reeling from that event, something

worse happened to Mairin.

That afternoon, the phone rang. Liam scrambled for it, because he had recently discovered girls, and sometimes a girl named

Dodie Watson called him and made him blush scarlet. That day, the call was not from Dodie.

“Mam,” Liam called. “Dad says don’t wait dinner tonight.”

“Whyever not?” asked Mam. She and Mairin were snapping the green beans for supper.

Liam had shrugged and relayed the question into the receiver. “He says there’s an Ontario hydro boat caught in the fog on

the upper Niagara. They’re taking an icebreaker out to haul it to safety.”

“Sure the Canadians ought to be hauling their own boats to safety,” Mam said, annoyed. “I’ve a roast in the oven that’ll be

dry as shoe leather if he’s late.”

“Says they might be awhile,” Liam related. “He doesn’t know when he’ll be home.”

“Tell him to get back in time for Dobie Gillis ,” Mairin had yelled. It was her favorite show to watch with her dad, even in reruns.

Mairin got busy on her homework—a letter of condolence to the First Lady and her two tiny children. The nuns at school said

such letters might bring them comfort after their terrible loss. Mairin couldn’t find the words, because she couldn’t imagine

how it would feel for a family to suddenly lose their dad.

She dawdled through the homework, stealing glances at the clock and the darkening skies outside the window. She ended up watching

the program by herself—Dobie and Maynard playing the bongos and serenading a girl outside her window—but it wasn’t as funny

without Dad.

The show was over by the time she heard a car door slam.

.. and then another. Maybe her dad was bringing someone home.

She remembered noticing her mother’s brow quirked in a frown as she went to the door.

Mairin looked outside to see a strange car parked out front.

The car door bore the insignia of the power authority, same as the one on Dad’s uniform.

Two men in heavy, somber overcoats and hats and skinny ties came to the door.

“ I’m Leaving It Up to You ” by Dale and Grace was playing on the radio.

To this day, Mairin couldn’t stand to hear that song.

She closed her eyes, trying to turn off the memory, but here, in the closet, memories were like a ride she couldn’t get off.

The story made the front page of the Buffalo Evening News . The Ontario hydro boat got caught in a blinding fog on a shoal near Tower Island. In order to rescue the boat and its crew,

a helicopter was brought in to drop a lifeline to the stranded vessel. It was then able to be towed to safety by an American

icebreaker employed by the New York Power Authority. During this phase of the rescue, a wall of water crashed over the deck

of the vessel.

Patrick Michael O’Hara, age thirty-nine, was swept by a torrent of water, mud, and rock into the wild, churning waters of

the Whirlpool Rapids, which attained a speed of approximately thirty miles per hour. He was the only fatality among the forty

men who had been swept up in the maelstrom. The somber recovery crew had found his broken body caught in a snare of rocks

and fallen trees.

The darkness in the closet didn’t care if Mairin’s eyes were open or closed. The news that day had shattered her young heart

beyond repair. Nothing would ever fill the void her father’s absence had left behind. Now she was trapped here like some kind

of criminal, where work and punishment replaced the warmth and love she had once known.

As tears welled up in Mairin’s eyes, she knew that even though her dad was gone, his love would forever be engraved in her

heart. The pain of his loss was still fresh, but it was also a reminder of the deep connection they had shared. Mairin whispered,

I’ll always love you, Dad, her words evaporating into the darkness. In that fleeting moment, she felt a gentle presence, as if her father was there,

watching over her.

Now, with an impatient swipe of her hand, Mairin wiped away her tears and vowed to honor her father’s memory.

Though separated by eternity, the bond between father and daughter would never be broken.

She would find the strength to endure the hardships of the present and carry his love with her into the future.

She vowed to be a dandelion, not an artichoke.

The scent of musty old wood filled her nostrils, mingling with the lingering fear that clung to her like a second skin. She

must have dozed off, and somehow managed to sleep in the small, dark space. Yes, she must have slept, because a noise awakened

her. Voices, and the acrid reek of cigarette smoke, trickling in through the vent she’d opened earlier. It was coming from

Sister Gerard’s office. The prioress, and some of the other nuns, loved smoking and somehow rationalized that it wasn’t a

sin.

Mairin clenched her fist in readiness to pound on the door of her dark prison, demanding to be let out, but something stopped

her. There was a certain tone in Mother Superior’s voice that made Mairin hesitate.

“...must show better judgment in the future,” Sister Gerard said. Her harshness made Mairin flinch.

“And I shall, Mother,” said the other voice, pitched high with contrition. Sister Bernadette. Mairin recognized the young

nun’s plaintive tone. “I am heartily sorry for the mistake. I am covered in shame.”

Shame? What in the world could Bernadette be ashamed about? She was a mouse whose entire purpose was to serve the order.

“...make amends immediately,” Bernadette was saying. “I shall prepare a written apology to the diocese to explain—”

A slapping sound interrupted her, and she fell silent.

Whoa, thought Mairin. She shouldn’t be surprised that even when you try to be the perfect nun, you get walloped.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, you foolish creature.” Sister Gerard’s voice cut like a knife. “I thought you understood that

all cash donations are to be recorded separately and kept right here in this office.”

“Understood, Mother. But I’m confused. The code of canon law requires that all revenues are the Temporal Goods of the Church,” Sister Bernadette said, her voice shaking.

“And so they are,” snapped Sister Gerard. “That’s why we separate the payments made in cash and silver certificates, to make

sure the Good Shepherd can be self-sustaining, instead of being a drain on the resources of the diocese. I thought you understood

that.”

According to some of the other girls, the prioress was obsessed with money. Supposedly she had some kind of cozy arrangement with certain judges, encouraging them to place girls here and pay for their keeping. But hiding cash transactions didn’t sound quite right.

When Colm was treasurer of the Eagles Lodge, he had pulled a stunt like that. Instead of reporting all the revenue to the

club, he undercounted the cash money and kept it for himself. For a couple of years, there had been nice things for Mam and

even a trip to Montreal last summer to see Expo 67, the World’s Fair. Then Colm’s scheme was discovered. He would have gone

to jail, except that he promised to pay back every last cent.

Mairin wondered if Sister Gerard might be up to something like that. She pressed her ear against the closet door, straining

to hear more.

Sister Bernadette’s voice, filled with uncertainty, trembled as she asked, “But Mother Superior, is it right to withhold this

information from the diocese?”

“There’s no need to burden the diocese with the petty revenues and expenses generated by our hard work and devotion, Sister

Bernadette.” Something about Sister Gerard’s false piety sent a shiver down Mairin’s spine. “We’re responsible for so much—charitable

work, support for the local community, and the betterment of the Good Shepherd itself. The diocese is so vast and complicated,

our work is too often overlooked.”

“Of course you’re right, but according to my reading of canon law—”

“Enough!” A scoff echoed through the air, followed by the sound of papers rustling. “The diocese has enough money, but we

must provide for the needs of our charges, and for that matter, our own needs. If we fail to secure our future, what will

become of us? Of our elderly sisters who depend on us to care for them in their old age? Do you think they should live in

poverty just because they are nuns?”

“I should hope not, Mother.” Bernadette sounded contrite.

“Exactly. When we’re old, no one will take care of us unless we act now to plan for our future. And consider the girls who

depend on us—those who seek to wash their sins away, the unwed mothers, the wayward souls, and those poor babies who need

homes. How do you imagine we pay for all the good we do?”

As she stood in the darkness, Mairin was pretty sure she had stumbled upon something sinister.