“You didn’t hear anything that night you were on watch, did you?” the sisters asked her.
“No, of course not,” Sister Margaret Jean said, and they believed her, because who would lie about such a thing? Poor girl, the nuns all said. Poor thing, she mustn’t be in her right mind.
Sister Margaret Jean immediately knew that was true: the young woman was indeed out of her mind, with grief. And, in this new incarnation of herself, as helper, as redeemer, as someone different from the woman she had been before—someone who had bilked people out of their money and then hidden herself away so she wouldn’t have to pay for her crimes—she was going to help her.
When she reached the steps, the young woman was at the bottom, walking slowly, shoulders sloped downward, a portrait of dejection. Her hair was red, like a flame, so she was easy to follow. Sister Margaret Jean walked along behind her, trying to think of what to say. Finally she was close enough that she could reach forward and touch the young woman’s shoulder.
“Get your hands o—”
“No, no, I don’t want to hurt you,” said Sister Margaret Jean. “I want to help. Please, come with me.”
There was hope in the young woman’s eyes—eyes that were an unusual green, like emeralds, or the lime-flavored hard candies Margaret Jean used to buy for pennies as a child.
“Do you know where my baby is?” the girl said.
“Let me buy you breakfast. Let’s talk.”
They went to a café Sister Margaret Jean remembered from her life before the parish, when she had spent her time befriending people who were sick or old and lived alone. She would work her way into their lives, and then into their wills. It was systematic, and became an addiction. She got more money than she knew what to do with. She had told herself the harm she was doing wasn’t real, that she was in fact making people’s final days happy. But if there was one thing she had learned at the parish with all that Bible reading, it was that stealing was stealing was stealing.
The young woman was silent, her eyes haunted and wide, so Sister Margaret Jean ordered for both of them: pancakes, eggs, potatoes, fruit, coffee, orange juice. The young woman was obviously famished. Sister Margaret Jean watched her eat, then finally asked her name.
“Valerie Mann.”
Sister Margaret Jean noticed that the front of the girl’s shirt was wet, and she took off her cardigan and gave it to her to cover the leaking milk. She wanted to ask her who she was, where she came from, and why she had left her child on the steps of the parish—but asking her this would give Sister Margaret Jean away; the girl would know she had seen the baby and allowed her to be carried off by some stranger. She wanted redemption—but she did not want to get caught. So she did something she was good at: she made up a story.
“I…” Sister Margaret Jean paused, then began again. “I am known for my holy visions. And I had one about your baby. I saw her in a long and vivid dream. She is a beautiful baby, with hair like yours, and a determined, hearty cry.”
Valerie put down her fork. “You saw her,” she said, her green eyes now laser intense.
“In my mind,” corrected Sister Margaret Jean. “In a dream.”
“So you believe me, that I brought my baby to your parish?”
“I do. I know she was there.”
“So, what else? Do you know where she is now?”
“She is safe,” Sister Margaret Jean said. “She is loved.” She closed her eyes, as if seeing the child. The only way to get people to believe the things you said was to really believe in them yourself. “She is with a family. They found her on the steps, and because they had prayed for a baby they thought she was a miracle. So they took her home. You don’t need to worry about her. She is safe, and she is taken care of. I know this for a fact.”
Valerie sat still, her fork now abandoned. “So someone just took her?”
“A family. She is safe.”
“Do they live in a nice home? My parents threw me out when they found out I was pregnant. My boyfriend moved to Texas.”
“She is healthy, well, and loved, I promise.”
“Could we call the police? Could we try to find them?”
“Is that what you want? To find her?” Sister Margaret Jean watched the girl, watched her look away, afraid.
“Abandoning a child is a crime. If I try to find her, I’ll have to admit what I did.” One of the young woman’s tears plopped down onto the Formica table.
Sister Margaret Jean despised herself. But she was too deep into this now.
“Where do you live, girl?”