Page 35

Sister Bernadette prayed long and hard for Mairin O’Hara—or Ruth, the Magdalene name that had been assigned to the girl. She

truly didn’t seem like a Ruth—a symbol of loyalty and devotion. She was definitely more of a Máirín. The name meant “star of the sea,” bold and fearless. It would take more than a name change to rein in her spirit.

Bernadette had been spending extra time in the chapel, murmuring urgent supplications and seeking guidance on behalf of the

girl, because despite all her flaws, there was something about her that sparked a glimmer of sympathy. Bernadette prayed that

Ruth would come to accept her place at the Good Shepherd. The girl wasn’t just wayward. She was incorrigible. She kept trying

to leave the holy refuge as though this place was some kind of prison.

Her dogged persistence was troubling, as it highlighted a flagrant disrespect for the rules. Mairin didn’t seem to be deterred

by the usual methods—Sister Rotrude’s leather-tipped baton or heavy wooden rosary beads, a day of bread and water, or hours

in the closet or basement. The dark isolation of the closet was the most feared and effective punishment, but even that didn’t

keep Mairin from scheming about escape and hurling herself from one reckless attempt to the next.

After the fiasco with the PA system, Bernadette had every right to be cross with Mairin, but that would be uncharitable. Besides, it was like being cross with a puppy. The girl was irrepressible and unapologetic. She simply could not resist the impulse to flee.

One night at bedtime, Bernadette was concluding her prayers when she heard urgent whispers sweeping through the hallway. She

opened the door to her spare, painstakingly neat chamber, and immediately sensed a stir in the air. A flurry of excitement.

Mairin again? Another escape attempt?

Clutching a shawl around her, Bernadette stepped into the hallway to see Sister Rotrude and Sister Gerard rushing toward the

dormitory wing. “Is something the matter?” Bernadette whispered. “Can I help?”

Sister Gerard paused. “Thank you, Sister. All will be well. Agnes’s baby is coming. We’ll be taking her to St. Francis.”

“How exciting,” Sister Theresa whispered, joining them in the hallway. “Please wish her godspeed.”

“Say a prayer for the little one,” Sister Rotrude said. Then she and Mother Superior were gone, their tunics swishing as they

hastened down the hallway.

Bernadette whispered a string of prayers for Agnes and the baby, hoping they would be all right. Although most of the unwed

mothers went to Father Baker’s, and the babies to Our Lady of Victory, there were a few births each year right here among

the girls of the Good Shepherd. Mother Superior was diligent in arranging just the right match, making certain the couple

was prepared—not just spiritually, but financially. Sister Gerard was adamant that Angela should stay here, getting the care

she needed and guarding the privacy her grandmother insisted on. Whenever a girl arrived who was expecting, the prioress had

many private meetings with married couples who yearned for a child. Childless mothers, their hearts aching for a babe of their

own, placed all their hopes and dreams in the process.

For Bernadette, pregnancy was a deeply mysterious process, and childbirth, a miracle.

Of course, when she was very young and living in the big city with her drunken, sin-stained mother, she had not been shielded from the mechanics of copulation.

But she knew virtually nothing about how a birth actually happened.

And a special mystery surrounded Agnes, because she’d been a resident here for a year, which meant she had fallen pregnant while under the care of the Good Shepherd.

Bernadette believed Sister Gerard was particularly protective of Agnes due to the unanswered questions that shrouded her pregnancy.

In the manner of the Holy Virgin herself, Agnes refused to speak of the mysterious conception. After the tumultuous meeting

with Agnes’s grandmother, no one had mentioned it. Some of the nuns speculated that she had slipped away on high mass Sunday

in the city. Others suspected that Agnes, with her angelic looks, had tempted one of the delivery truck drivers. Yet in her

heart of hearts, Bernadette yearned for the birth to be an actual miracle. A gift from God. Agnes was exceptionally beautiful,

and would surely produce an equally beautiful infant.

Bernadette had heard many times that a girl would be better off saying she’d murdered someone than admitting she was unmarried

and pregnant. Sister Gerard insisted that the only way for such a girl to find redemption and a future for herself was absolute

secrecy, because it was a well-known fact that no decent man would ever have her if he knew what she’d done.

For the fallen girls here, the birth was a bittersweet event—the sweetness of a new babe taking its first breath on God’s

green earth contrasted with the bitterness of the young woman whose shame could never be washed off or prayed away. Still,

that didn’t keep Bernadette from praying the Lord would lead Agnes to redemption and the baby to a proper family. Adoption

would be mandatory, of course. A girl who tried to keep her own baby was told in no uncertain terms that she was being selfish.

She would be heaping a lifelong stigma on an innocent babe. Every child had the right to grow up with two parents.

Some girls—including Agnes—claimed they wanted to keep their baby, but that was impossible. A teenage girl with no education

or job skills, whose character would be in question because of her sin, had no way to earn a living and care for a child.

For an unmarried girl with a baby, the world was a grim and dangerous place. She might find herself having to wander the dark

tenements of the waterfront, doing unspeakable things just to keep food in her belly.

It was a blessing, then, that Agnes’s ordeal would soon be over, and the babe placed with a family that could give it a better

life.

The next day, however, the news came back, and it was not good. A somber Sister Rotrude reported that Agnes’s baby had been declared stillborn.

On hearing this, Bernadette felt a shudder of pure shock, and then she wept real tears. The babe—a wee, perfect girl, as pretty

as her mother, according to Sister Rotrude—was gone even before she’d been shriven, which made the situation even more tragic.

In the office, Sister Gerard handed Bernadette a packet of papers to file in the special safe that was used only for the most

sensitive and important documents, such as birth, death, and adoption records. To protect the records from being destroyed

or lost, they were kept in a large, immovable safe behind a bookcase that swung outward like a door. Sister Gerard claimed

the hidden safe was meant to protect the records from the elements and from prying eyes. “People’s private lives are at stake

and we must guard their privacy with all vigilance,” she’d told Bernadette.

The safe was a relic from the last century, with ornate flourishes on the corners and a combination lock. There was a verse

from the first book of Samuel, chapter one, verse twenty-seven, engraved on the top of the metal safe: I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of Him .

The verse seemed so poignant now, in the face of such a heartbreaking tragedy. Bernadette knew better than to question the

mysterious ways of the Lord, but this situation brought more tears to her eyes. She clutched the thick folder to her chest

as Sister Gerard spun the lock. No one but the Mother Superior had the combination.

Now Bernadette stood back while the prioress dialed the combination. She inadvertently saw the first digit—a seven—before

looking guiltily away.

A page slipped from the folder and wafted to the floor. Bernadette picked it up. A glance revealed an official-looking document

with the heading New York State Department of Health Office of Vital Statistics Certificate of Birth Registration.

There were two tiny footprint stamps, like parentheses around a phrase, at the bottom of the page.

Was it common to make a footprint impression of a stillborn child?

She knew better than to ask. But she also wondered if such a document was needed for a stillbirth.

She quickly replaced the page and put it out of her mind.

“Mother, I was wondering,” Bernadette said as she helped move the bookcase back in place. “Regarding poor Agnes’s baby.”

Sister Gerard eyed her sharply enough to make Bernadette wince. “How’s that?”

“Have arrangements been made for the little one?” asked Sister Bernadette. “Will we attend services?”

“Under the circumstances, that would not be called for,” said Sister Gerard. “The arrangements are the purview of the family,

and not for us to decide.”

“Oh my goodness.” Bernadette felt a beat of distress. “Surely we must go to Agnes, and to her grandmother, Mrs. Denny.”

“Agnes is to stay in the hospital on complete bedrest until she’s better. Mrs. Denny has the support of her community over

at Our Lady of Victory. You’ll recall that Mrs. Denny’s greatest wish is for this never to have happened.”

“But—”

“We’ll not torment the poor woman further over her granddaughter’s shame. We shall offer our prayers right here in our own

community. Let us light a special candle at prayers today.” The mother superior’s reply was swift and firm. “In some ways,

it’s a blessing altogether,” Sister Gerard said. “The poor girl can now lay the past to rest. She won’t spend the rest of

her life fretting over what’s become of the babe. You’ll recall the girl last year who was so desperate over the fate of her

baby that she had to be taken to the State Asylum.”

Bernadette nodded, staring at the floor. She could still hear the poor girl’s screams as the ambulance crew escorted her out.

She was transported to the terrifying fortress in the north of the city where not even prayers could save her.