City of Saints & Thieves(62)

Sister Dorothy doesn’t act shocked or scold me, like I expect her to. Instead she studies me. “You were a child when you left. What do you remember about living here?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

I shrug helplessly and avoid her eye. “Bits and pieces. I remember running away.”

For a while she doesn’t move, just looks off at the wall past my shoulder, but I know she’s on the verge of telling me something. I hold my breath.

When she finally speaks again, it’s as if her words are stones that she has to find and carefully push out of her mouth. “After twenty years of girls, children, being brought here for me to try and put back together, I cannot pretend anymore that I understand why bad things happen, or that there is some purpose to them, or that God would want . . .” She stops herself, purses her lips, then goes on. “I cannot act like there is not true evil in the world, walking among us. I am going to tell you something so that you can be vigilant.” Her eyes flash to me. “Do you understand?”

I nod my head slowly. I’m not sure I do, but I don’t want her to stop talking.

She nods with me. Then her eyes wander back up the wall. “Your mother was one of my favorites. We’re not supposed to have favorites, but there you have it. She came here when she was eighteen to train as a nurse. She was very smart. Always curious, tremendous energy. She would have made a beautiful sister.”

I see the skin around Sister Dorothy’s mouth begin to quaver.

“The attack came while we were sleeping. It was the dry season, the raiding season, and the rebels had been attacking one village after another. We thought we would be safe here. The government soldiers were supposed to protect us, but none were around. None came when we called.”

She takes a second to breathe deeply before going on. When she speaks again, her voice sounds odd, detached, like she is reciting something from memory. “They took five women: four nurses in training and a teacher.”

My mouth goes dry.

“They were gone for three months. Two of them never returned. Of the three that did, one was the teacher, and she left immediately; I don’t know what happened to her. One was a good friend of your mother’s, another nurse in training.” Sister Dorothy finally looks up at me. “And one was your mother. She came back barely alive, carrying you in her womb.”





TWENTY-EIGHT


For a few seconds I don’t move. Sister Dorothy watches me closely, but doesn’t say anything, just waits. The room slips sideways.

“My father was one of them? One of the men that took her?”

“Yes.”

I can barely force out my words. “Do you know who he was?”

“No. There must have been several who . . .” Sister Dorothy winces, looks away.

I start to breathe again, but I feel like I’m going to pass out. Not even an hour ago I’d been thinking about my father and now . . . but I assumed he had been a boyfriend, someone my mother just didn’t want to talk about. I’d never imagined that my father was a man who had . . . had . . . I can’t even think the words. I suddenly feel very hot, like I’m about to be sick. I bend and put my forehead against my fists.

For a while I just let the waves of nausea wash over me. When I lift my head, Sister Dorothy is reaching back to a shelf behind her. She pulls a bottle of Communion wine from the spiderwebs, and two little glasses. She pours for us both. It’s silent as a tomb, and then a roll of thunder reaches us, and my ears stop ringing. I hear the muted rasp of rain.

“I thought nuns weren’t supposed to drink,” I say, numbly staring at the glass in front of me.

“All fall short of the glory of God. I think He will forgive an old woman.” She brings the glass to her lips.

The thought of the wine curdles my stomach, but then I reach out and grab the glass and take it all down in one gulp. The wine is sour-sweet and thick, but it warms me. It occurs to me that this is what the Goondas do when they talk about death too. When one of them dies, they bring out a bottle and drink until no one can think about anything anymore. Goondas and nuns, drinking to the dead. A crazy giggle almost escapes my lips, but I catch it. I take a deep breath to try to steady myself.

Sister Dorothy’s words echo: Two of them never returned. Of the three that did . . . I look up. “The other nurse in training they took, is she still here in Kasisi?”

“Yes,” Sister Dorothy says. Her brow furrows. “Catherine is here.”

The name sends a chill through me. Catherine—like Kiki, I think. Like Saint Catherine.

“Sister Dorothy,” I say, pulling out the crumpled photo from my pocket. “Is this her?” I point to the girl beside my mother, the one who looks like she has the world on a string.

The sister’s eyes soften. “Yes,” she says. “That’s Catherine.”

My heart pounds. “I want to talk to her. Do you know where she lives?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea . . .”

“Why?”

Sister Dorothy refills my glass, and then her own. “Catherine . . . struggles.”

“What do you mean?”

She speaks slowly, carefully. “If a girl is taken by the militias, and then found again, it is a joyous thing. It is as if she has come back from the dead. However, the joy eventually fades, and then everyone wants the girl to forget. But it isn’t possible. Some of the women have medical problems. They are in pain, or can’t bear children. They are a constant reminder of how the family and the village were not strong enough to keep this sort of thing from happening. Sometimes people blame the women, or say that they have joined the rebels and have been sent back as spies. If they have children, some people say they are ghosts, or witches—that they carry evil inside them.”