“You're a strong girl” the Mother Superior said to her mysteriously, and Gabriella shook her head in answer. She wasn't, she knew she wasn't, and she wondered why people always said that to her. Her father had said the same thing the night before he left. He told her how strong she was. She didn't feel strong. She felt very lonely, and much of the time, very frightened. Even now, it was scary. What if she couldn't stay here? Where would she go? Who would take care of her? All she wanted to know was that she had a place to be forever, a place where she didn't have to hide, where she was safe, and no one would ever hurt her, or leave her. And Mother Gregoria understood that. She came around her desk, as she had once before, and silently put her arms around the child who was so brave, so strong, so dignified as she stood there, but the nun could feel her tremble as she held her. Gabriella didn't sob this time, she didn't beg, she didn't rage against her fate, but she clung tightly to the only person who had ever offered her love and comfort, and a lone tear rolled slowly down her face, as she looked up into the older woman's eyes with something so terrible and so powerful there that the wise old nun nearly shuddered.

“Don't leave me,” Gabriella whispered, so softly she almost couldn't hear her… “Don't make me go away…” The single tear was slowly joined by another, and then two more, but she maintained her dignity as she stood with her arms around the woman who offered her all she had now.

“I won't leave you, Gabbie,” she said softly, longing to give her something more, but not even sure how to do it. “You will never have to leave here. This is your home now.”

Gabriella nodded silently, burying her face in the black habit that had already become so familiar. “I love you,” she whispered, and Mother Gregoria held her as tears filled her own eyes.

“I love you too, Gabbie… we all do.”

They sat together that afternoon for a while, quietly holding hands, talking about Gabriella's mother, and why she had decided to leave Gabriella there. But it didn't make sense to either of them, no matter how reasonable the words, and in the end, they both decided it didn't matter. She had done it. And Gabbie had a home here. Mother Gregoria walked her slowly back to her room then. It was too late for school, and she left Gabriella there with her own thoughts, her memories, and her visions of her mother… the places she had hidden from her… the times she had been unable to hide… the brutality… the pain… the bruises… she remembered all of it, and she was glad it would never happen again. But it was hard to believe it was over. What she would have loved most was another chance, a chance to be better than she had been, to do it right this time, and win her love. She would have loved to make her mother happy instead of angry. But she had made her so angry, and been so bad, that her mother had had to leave her. They both had. Gabriella couldn't say that to Mother Gregoria, she didn't want her ever to know how bad she was, how terrible, how much she deserved this. And knowing how bad she had been, and how much they had hated her, it was impossible to believe anyone would ever want her. The nuns did. Maybe God. But He knew how bad she was, how wrong she had been, and how much at times she hated her parents… but he also knew, as she lay on her bed alone in the room for once, as she began to sob, how much she missed them… she would never see either of them again… and she knew it. She had driven both of them away… with her badness. And there was no hiding from the truth now. There was no hiding from the fact that they had never loved her. How could they, she asked herself, as she lay there and cried… how could they… how could anyone? It was her destiny, her fate, her life sentence… her punishment for having been so bad for so long… her curse, and she believed in it to her very core. She knew as she lay on her bed that day that not only had they not loved her, but no one ever could, not if they really knew her. And no amount of Hail Marys and confessions and rosaries could change that.

She went through the motions for the rest of the day, thinking of what Mother Gregoria had said… and about her mother in California. She was quiet at dinner that night, went to confession afterward as usual, and went to her room with Natalie and Julie. She was in bed before either of them, and she burrowed down to the bottom of the bed, as she always did, and lay there thinking about all of it. Her parents were both marrying other people, her father had “new” children to replace her… her mother didn't want any children at all, or maybe she would now… good ones… not bad ones this time… They had new lives, new husbands and wives… and Gabriella had to live with knowing why they had left her… and knowing that if she'd been better, things might have been different. She had a lifetime to make up for it, to give herself to God, and other people, to atone for her sins, regret all that she had done, and forgive all that had been done to her. The priest had told her in the confessional later that night that the responsibility was hers now, and what she had to strive for, for the rest of her life, was forgiveness. She repeated it over and over to herself that night as she fell asleep… forgiveness… forgiveness… she had to forgive them… it was all her fault… she had to forgive them… forgive them… and halfway through the night, they heard her screaming… her screams resounded down the long, dark halls, echoing off the walls… It took three of them to wake her, and they finally had to call Mother Gregoria to calm her… the memories of the beatings had been too clear, too real, she could feel the blood on her head again, the blinding pain in her ear, the shattering of her ribs, the aching in her limbs where she had been kicked so often… and she knew she would never forget it. And as she lay sobbing in the Mother Superior's arms that night, all she could say again and again was, “I have to forgive them… I have to forgive them…” Mother Gregoria held her until she slept again, and watched her silently until she saw peace on the small face at last, and she understood better than anyone, or thought she did, how much Gabriella had to forgive them. And she knew, as Gabriella did, that it would take her a lifetime to do it.





Chapter 7




THE NEXT FOUR years were peaceful ones for Gabriella, living in the quiet safety of St. Matthew's. She continued studying with the nuns who taught her there. Julie became a novice, and her sister Natalie left on a scholarship to college. By then she was not only fascinated by Elvis, but passionately in love with all four of the Beatles. She wrote to the Sisters often from upstate New York, where she was happy in school, dating boys, and doing all, or at least most, of the things she had dreamed of while she was at St. Matthew's.

Two new boarders had arrived at the convent by then, two little girls from Laos, sent there by one of their missionary Sisters. They were much younger than Gabriella, but shared a room with her, just as she had shared hers with Natalie and Julie.

For four years Gabriella never heard from her mother, but she still thought of her from time to time, as she did her father. All she knew of him was that he had gone to Boston and had been planning to get married, to a woman with two daughters. She had no idea what had happened to him after that, and had no way to pursue it. Her mother, she knew, still lived in San Francisco, and a check came to Mother Gregoria once a month, precisely on time, paying for her room and board, but there was never a letter with it, a note, an inquiry as to how Gabriella was, or if she was well and happy. There were no cards or gifts on Christmas or birthdays. Gabriella's life centered now entirely around life at St. Matthew's, and everyone there loved her. She worked harder than almost anyone, would scrub any floor, any table, any bathroom, she would do chores even the other nuns would balk at. And she did brilliantly at her schoolwork. She still wrote stories and poetry, and all of her teachers agreed that she had real talent.

She still slept at the bottom of the bed, still had nightmares at night far too frequently, and never explained them. And Mother Gregoria still watched her from afar, concerned at some of what she saw there. The pain in Gabriella's eyes was dimmer now, she had grown even more beautiful, though she herself had no sense of it, nor any interest in what she looked like. She lived in a world without vanity. There were no mirrors in the convent, and she still wore the cast-off clothes of the girls who came in as postulants, and never seemed to think anything of it. As she had set herself the goal at ten, her life was one of sacrifice, and doing for others. But she still insisted, when they talked about it from time to time, that she had no vocation. When she compared herself to girls like Julie, or the ones who came in from elsewhere, she could see the difference between them. They were so sure, so certain, so unfailing in their devotion to their calling. All Gabriella could see in herself were the faults, the failings, the mistakes she made, or the times she insisted she had thoughtlessly hurt others. In truth, her humility was far greater than those who held up their vocations like so many trophies. And Mother Gregoria tried year after year to make her see it. But she was so intent on denying her virtues and pointing to her flaws that she couldn't imagine herself becoming a nun at St. Matthew's, nor could she see herself ever leaving. Hers was a completely sequestered life, living among the love and protection of the nuns, and she knew without a doubt that she would die without that.

“I guess I'll just have to stay here and scrub floors for the rest of my life,” she joked with Sister Lizzie on her fifteenth birthday. “No one else wants to do it. And I like it. It gives me time to think about my stories while I'm scrubbing.”

“You could still write your stories if you join the Order, Gabbie,” Sister Lizzie insisted, as they all did. Everyone in the convent knew how strong her vocation was. Gabriella was the only one who didn't know it. And sometimes they just smiled at her, and ignored the silly things she said. They knew that eventually she'd hear the calling. It was impossible to think that she wouldn't, and she still had a lot of growing up to do in the meantime.

At sixteen, she had completed all her high school work, and in spite of all their efforts to keep her with them, they had to admit she was ready for college. She insisted that she didn't want to go. She was happy here, with them, doing small things for the nuns, errands and chores, and thoughtful gestures for which she took no credit. But with the writing talent she had, Mother Gregoria refused to allow her to neglect her education. The poignant stories she wrote showed extraordinary talent, perception, and insight. They were filled with pathos, and a tenderness that tore at the heart just to read them, but there was a strength about them too. Her writing style was that of a much older person, and certainly not one who had spent their entire adolescence in a convent.

“So what are we going to do about school?” Mother Gregoria asked her when she turned sixteen, after speaking to all of her teachers. They had agreed in unison that Gabriella was entirely ready for college and it was a crime not to send her.

“We're going to ignore it,” Gabriella said firmly. She was terrified of the outside world by then, and had no interest in venturing back into a life that had so desperately hurt her. She never wanted to leave the safe haven of St. Matthew's, not for a single moment. And they teased her about being like the old nuns who complained every time they had to leave the convent to go to the doctor or the dentist. The younger ones still enjoyed going out from time to time, to see relatives, or go to the library, or a movie. But not Gabbie. She preferred to sit in her room and write stories.

“Being here is not for the purpose of shunning the world, Gabriella,” Mother Gregoria said firmly. “We are here to serve God by giving Him our talents, by bringing them to a world that needs what we have to give, not depriving it of ourselves because we are too frightened to venture out of the convent. Think of the Sisters who work at Mercy Hospital every day. What if they chose to sit in their rooms and daydream, because they were too afraid to take care of the male patients? Ours is not a life of cowardice, Gabriella, but of service.” She was met by eyes filled with fear, and silent resistance. Gabrielia had no intention of leaving the convent to go to college. Natalie was a junior at Ithaca by then, but even her enthusiastic letters, or the prospect of joining her, did nothing to sway Gabrielia.