The 39-Year-Old Virgin

Her mother turned away from her. When she spoke again, Claire thought her heart was going to break from just hearing the sorrow in her mother’s voice. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with acute leukemia.”

All she could do was give her mother the benefit of her own faith. “Mother, I don’t have a clue why some things happen, why some people have everything go right for them even if they don’t seem to deserve it and why other people have so many bad things happen, even if they are good, decent people—”

“Maybe if you’d paid more attention at the convent, you’d have some of those answers.”

She continued as if her mother hadn’t interrupted. Her mother wasn’t being fair, but she couldn’t fault her. Staring at the face of your own possible mortality could frighten anyone. “But I do know that God doesn’t sit around keeping score and threatening people with sores and pestilence if they get out of line.”

A hopelessness descended over Margaret. “Then why am I sick?” she demanded.

Claire hugged her mother, trying desperately to comfort her. “I wish I knew, Mother. But I do know that you were diagnosed long before I ever left the order.”

“He knew you were going to leave. He knows everything.”

Rather than become annoyed or defensive, Claire felt nothing but compassion for what her mother was going through. But at the same time, she wanted her mother to be aware of how convoluted her thinking was.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re being punished for something I was going to do.”

“Yes,” Margaret declared with feeling, then relented. “No.” She could feel an enormous headache building as the tension inside her increased. “Oh, I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together, looking at her only child. She did, in a selfish way, appreciate her being here but at the same time, she felt in her heart it was wrong. Claire belonged in the convent. And she had taken her away from that, no matter what Claire said to the contrary. “Everything was so much clearer a year ago,” Margaret lamented.

Since she couldn’t seem to help her mother, maybe someone else could. The woman had always been partial to priests. “Mother, I’m going to see if I can get Father Ryan to stop by later today.”

Margaret’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, no, I couldn’t face him.”

Claire slipped into her black pumps. The moment isolated itself. These were her first pair of non-sensible shoes in twenty-two years. She’d worn them the other night to Saturday’s. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed wearing high heels.

The next moment, she forced herself to concentrate on what her mother was saying. “Why?”

They were back on opposite ends of the discussion again. “You know why.”

Walking out of her bedroom, Claire turned and took her mother’s hands in hers. “Mother, you’re going to have to get used to it. I’ve left the order, I’m not Sister Michael anymore. But I will always, always be your daughter. And I am going to take care of you, to be there for you whenever you need me—and even if you don’t,” she added with a smile. She dropped her hands and headed toward the stairs. “But right now, if I don’t get going, I’m going to be late for my first day and you know what you’ve always said about first impressions—you never get a second chance to make one.”