Chapter Five

THERE WAS ONLY ONE SMALL WINDOW in the infirmary, and the December afternoon light was already weak and fading. Votive candles flickered on stands at each corner of the bed where Sister Philomena lay dying, but they could not dispel the gloom. The room was chill, the fire in the grate meagre, as coal was apportioned out carefully even in the infirmary. The order was an austere one.

The three o’clock bell sounded, and Sister Genevieve, the infirmarian, knelt and kissed the floor then touched her crucifix to her lips as she had done at this hour every day for the past fifty years. She said a brief prayer and got stiffly to her feet. Sister Philomena opened her eyes. The bell had wakened her, or perhaps she wasn’t sleeping, just lying as still as she could to withstand the pain. She raised her hand, indicating she wanted the crucifix that was on the pillow beside her. Sister Genevieve picked it up and held it for her to kiss. In the infirmary the rule of silence was waived if necessary, but there was no conversation between the two nuns. In the last weeks of her illness, Sister Philomena had reverted to her own language, and she seemed to have difficulty understanding the Quebec patois of her nurse. Sister Genevieve had no English.

Sister Philomena of the Sacred Heart of Jesus had been in the infirmary for almost a month now, each day weaker. Dr. Corneille, a good pious man who ministered to the sisters, was appalled when he saw the nun’s condition. It was far too late, he said in his brusque way; he should have been called months ago. Mother St. Raphael had taken the rebuke as her due. The younger nun was in her charge. However, Sister Genevieve knew all too well that Sister Philomena had hidden her illness until the tumour was starting to break through the skin. She had gone about her duties, never complaining, although she was suffering terribly. Even now, in spite of the entreaties of the infirmarían, she also refused to take morphine or opium to alleviate her pain. Her response was unchanging. “I must bear my pain as Our Lord bore His.”

Sister Genevieve had asked Mother St. Raphael whether or not Sister Philomena of the Sacred Heart was perilously close to the sin of pride. However, the prioress was adamant. Their sister was withstanding the ravages of the cancer with the fortitude of the saints. They must all pray for her.

The infirmarian took the silver aspergillum from the bowl that was on the bedside table and sprinkled holy water on the bed. Sister Philomena opened her eyes and smiled at her.

“Thank you, Sister. I am so hot. Hell can hardly be worse than this.”

Fortunately, Sister Genevieve, who lacked humour, did not understand these words. She picked up the clean linen bandages from the bedside table, preparing to change the dressing at the nun’s breast. Sister Philomena could not keep back a moan of pain. As gently as she could, Sister Genevieve removed the soiled cloth, biting back her exclamation of pity. She had grown up on a farm before she entered the convent. Her father had hunted animals to provide the family with food, and she had seen these carcases dumped on the kitchen floor. The breast of the dying nun looked as if it had been destroyed by a blast of shot.

She bathed the wound with more of the holy water. Sister Philomena was hardly breathing, holding her lips pressed tightly together to hold back her moan of pain. Finally Sister Genevieve replaced the bandage and pulled up the thin blanket. Even its light weight seemed to cause pain, and she removed it at once.

Sister Philomena looked up at her. “Has my brother arrived yet?”

“Comment?”

“My brother” - she searched for the word - “mon frere? Est-il arrive?”

Sister Genevieve shook her head. This was at least the fourth time the other nun had asked this question. She seemed to have forgotten that according to his telegram, her brother was catching the first train from Toronto, and he wouldn’t be arriving until early evening.

Sister Philomena was not yet of middle age, and although her face and limbs were emaciated, her brown eyes still had beauty. She was looking beseechingly at the older nun. In French, she said, “Please bring Mother St. Raphael to me.” She brought her hands together on her chest. “There is something I must confess.”

The nun pursed her lips. Sister Philomena had received the sacrament of Extreme Unction this morning with all of the little community present. Fr. Hiebert had heard her confession then. Surely she had not contaminated her soul in such a short space of time. Sister Genevieve did not want to fetch the prioress unnecessarily. She turned away, pretending not to understand. The other nun spoke again, her voice suddenly stronger.

“Please, I must talk to our Mother.”

Genevieve was rescued from her dilemma by the entrance of the prioress herself.

Mother St. Raphael was a tall woman, rather harsh of feature, except for a mouth that outside of the cloister would have been considered sensuous. She went straight to the bedside and placed her hand on the sick woman’s forehead.

“I am here, my child.”

Sister Philomena licked her dry, chapped lips. “I am so thirsty, Mother.”

Mother St. Raphael signalled to Sister Genevieve to hand her the sponge, and she squeezed some moisture into Sister Philomena’s mouth then wiped her face gently.

She was eased a little. “When will my brother be here?”

The prioress sighed. “Monsieur Lavalle is meeting him at the train station, and he will bring him here at once. Not more than two or three hours from now.” She spoke English that had only the slightest of French accent.

“Perhaps I will be in the arms of Our Lord by then.”

“It is not for us to predict when we are garnered,” said the prioress, but her reproof was soft.

Sister Philomena struggled to raise herself in the bed, but she couldn’t and was forced to lie back.

“Shall we help you to sit up?”

“No, I cannot bear it. But there is something I must tell you. Will you come closer?”

Mother St. Raphael pulled the chair up against the bed and leaned her head toward the other nun. Sister Genevieve was busy folding the linen bandages.

“Mother, I have been wrestling with such dark thoughts. They are blotting out the light of Our Lord’s face.”

“These are mere scruples, my dear little sister. You have been absolved of all your sins. You are going on the journey to Our God with a soul that has been cleansed of sin.” She stroked Sister Philomena’s cheek.

The nun pressed the prioress’s hand against her face.

“I know that my heart is still full of anger …”

“For whom, my child? You have been ever one of our most loving sisters. What is this anger?”

Sister Philomena became more agitated. “For the past three days, I have looked up at the corner of the room, there where the ceiling and the wall join. There, do you see it? A spider. Oh, it is so big. I asked Sister Genevieve to chase it away, but it always returns. It does not move.”

Involuntarily, Mother St. Raphael glanced up at the ceiling. The wall was whitewashed; and even though the light was dim, she could see nothing.

“Does this frighten you, my child?”

“At first yes, but now I see that our Saviour has sent it to me as a sign. There is a dark place in my soul. I must cleanse it before I die.”

She shifted restlessly, but the movement made her whimper. Mother St. Raphael waited patiently. When she spoke next, Sister Philomena’s voice was so low she was almost inaudible.

“I have hidden it even from my confessor. The Lord our God commands us to love and honour our father and our mother, but I do not.”

The prioress was surprised at what she heard. Sister Philomena had said so little about her life before she entered the convent as a postulant. She’d understood she had no family except for the one brother, older than she was. He had visited two times in the beginning but not for many years now.

“I led you to believe that both of my parents were dead, but that was not true.” She licked at her lips. “My mother was deceased, but my father was alive when I became a postulant.” She stopped. “It is he whom I reject in my heart. In spite of the words of Our Saviour, I can find no love for my father. I must not go to Our Lord’s house with such uncharitable thoughts.”

She was almost exhausted with the effort of talking, and Mother St. Raphael had to lean closer to hear what she said.

“What is your father’s sin that you cannot honour him?”

But the nun was distracted. She glanced upward. “Perhaps the spider has come to remind me of my shame.”

Mother St. Raphael stood up. “I will send for our father confessor once more if it will bring you peace. But you must not fret so. We are all only frail mortals. Our Lord sees everything and is ever merciful.”

She could not tell if her words had reached Sister Philomena because she had closed her eyes again. The prioress turned to the infirmarian and spoke to her in French. “Sister Genevieve, burn another stick of incense if you please and bring it close to the bedside. It will give her strength.”

She left the room with a soft rustling of her habit on the wooden floorboards.

Sister Genevieve took a strip of the linen and carefully wiped away the moisture from Sister Philomena’s forehead. She wrapped that piece in a separate strip and put it on the table. If Sister Philomena of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was truly a saint, this cloth would be a holy relic.