The Virgin

“Elle.”

The Prioress gave her a tight smile. “Elle.”

“Yes?”

“You will do as you are told here. I certainly hope you’re capable of following orders.”

Elle smiled. “Trust me. If I know how to do anything, it’s follow orders.”

Her mother tugged her hand and led her from the room.

“I don’t need the infirmary, Mom,” Elle said.

“You have to call me Sister John or Sister in front of others. And yes, you need the infirmary.”

“It’s bruises and welts. They’ll be gone in a few more days.”

“You look like you were mugged.”

“Nobody gets flogged during a mugging, Mom. And if they did, I’d walk around bad neighborhoods more often.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“It wasn’t even him who did it.” Him. Søren. Although her mother didn’t know that name. She knew him as Father Marcus Stearns. But Elle couldn’t call him Marcus Stearns in case one of the other sisters had heard of him. So “him” it was.

“Do I want to know who did that to you?”

“My friend Kingsley.”

“You have an interesting definition of friend.”

“Maybe a better definition,” Elle said. “It was consensual. You know I like this stuff.”

“And you know I hate that you like it. And I hate him for making you like it.”

“He didn’t make me like it, Mom. And he didn’t rape me. And he didn’t seduce me.”

“You were fifteen when you met him. He groomed you.”

“I was also fifteen when I first tried to get him in bed. I came pre-groomed.” She couldn’t believe they were having this fight again. “If you really thought he was a danger to children, you would have called the bishop. But you know as well as I do that he isn’t.”

“The church has enough scandals. I wasn’t about to create a new one.”

“Two consenting adults shouldn’t be a scandal.”

“Ellie, that man is—”

“Mom, you can hate him if you want to hate him. But at least hate him for the right reasons.”

“Hate him for the right reasons?” Her mother stood up and came over to her. “I thought I was. But you tell me then. What are the right reasons to hate the priest who seduced and beat my daughter?”

“Hate him because I hate him.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Elle asked, meeting her mother’s eyes.

“Because you might stop hating him. And then I would have to stop, too.”

Elle looked away from her mother’s beseeching eyes.

“What did he do to you, baby?” her mother whispered. “What did he do to make you come to me after all this time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Elle said as they neared a bright white room, no doubt the infirmary or whatever passed for it in this aging edifice.

“You should talk to someone. A professional who can help you.”

“I don’t need counseling. I’m as sane as you are.” If not saner. After all, she wasn’t the one walking around in a wedding dress telling the world Jesus was her husband.

“You could talk to someone here. Sister Margaret is a trained psychologist. And once a week, Father Antonio—”

Elle turned her head and stared at her mother. “You think I’m going to talk to a priest about this?”

“Well...” her mother began. “Perhaps Sister Margaret then.”

If she’d had the energy for it, Elle would have laughed. But she didn’t so she didn’t and in silence they walked into the infirmary.

Her mother left her sitting in a chair while she went to fetch another one of the sisters. Twenty minutes later, a nun who looked about her mother’s age—no more than fifty definitely—entered the infirmary and gave Elle a once-over. Her mother introduced the woman as Sister Aquinas. She wore a white apron over her black habit and her sleeves were pinned up to expose her forearms. Sister Aquinas pointed to a bed behind a white curtain and told Elle to wait there.

“I’ll go check on your room and make sure you have everything you need,” her mother said, taking Elle’s duffel bag from her. “I’ll be back. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands with Sister Aquinas.”

“Okay,” Elle said, too relieved to have a place to stay for the time being to worry about anything much at the moment. “I’ll see you soon.”

Her mother kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you.” The two words came out of Elle’s mouth entirely of their own volition.

“You’re thanking me?” Her mother sounded utterly baffled.

“Well, you got them to let me stay here. I know we haven’t gotten along the past few years...ten years.”

“Twenty-six years,” her mother said, but she said it kindly.

She paused to laugh. “Okay, twenty-six years. But yeah, I appreciate it, Mom. Sister John, I mean. Sorry.”

Her mother cupped her face and looked her in the eyes.

“Every morning for the past three years I’ve woken up and prayed the same prayer. Do you want to know what that prayer is?”