The Ripper's Wife(98)
Mama had miraculously saved my pearls—her pearls—the ones she had given me on my wedding day. She fastened them around my neck my first night in the convent, when I sat up in bed, in my new white nightgown, hugging my knees and glorying in being able to even temporarily call that starkly simple whitewashed room my own and to actually be able to brush my teeth, undress properly for bed, and have hot water and wash myself whenever I wished. She told me the pearls would help restore my confidence. “Nothing makes a lady feel more like a lady, darlin’, than pearls!” She also cut a lock from my hair and sent it on to London. She’d made inquiries and discovered that the best wig and hairpiece maker was a Frenchman named Armand, and she let it be known she expected to find a selection of fine falls and hairpieces that perfectly matched my hair waiting for us when we arrived.
I went out with Mama at first, clinging to her at every step like a toddling child terrified of falling, despite the pearls hanging like an anchor around my throat vainly trying to steady me. And then, at Sister Patia’s gentle insistence, after the first week, I ventured out on my own. Walking boldly into a drugstore and asking if they stocked the pink rose-scented cold cream I had always liked without turning and running away like a scared rabbit felt like one of the greatest triumphs of my life. The clerk was a very kind young man and apologetically informed me that brand was no longer being manufactured, but, if I would allow him he would be pleased to recommend a substitute many ladies found agreeable. “If you would be so kind . . .” I nodded and soon I left the shop smiling with the pretty pink tub of cold cream in my handbag. Back in my little white room in the convent, I spent hours sitting on the bed in my camisole and drawers slathering it on my parched and hungry skin, soaking it in, basking in its cool, silky pink sweetness. After fifteen years in prison, I doubted I would take any luxury, not even a little thing like cold cream, for granted ever again.
Strolling by the tempestuous gray sea, I had many long, private talks with Sister Patia. We talked about the children and Jim, Michael, and Edwin, and though it shamed me to say his name to a nun, knowing that she knew what we had done, we spoke of Alfred Brierley, and the anger and guilt she could sense, without my even saying it, that I was carrying like a cancer inside me.
“You cannot forget until you forgive.” She spoke these simple words so matter-of-factly I knew that she was right, but I couldn’t stand still and face it; all I wanted to do was run. I had been through so much . . . I just couldn’t let go! “And when I speak of forgiveness,” she continued, “I do not just mean others; I also mean yourself. God has forgiven you, my child, and given you the gift of a new beginning; if He has forgiven you, why should you not forgive yourself as well as those who have judged and trespassed against you? Until you are ready to do that, I am afraid you will never truly know peace.”
“I know, Sister, I know!” I sighed. “I just don’t know if I can do it . . . not yet! Have I not just cause for bitterness? And anger?” I demanded. “Look at all they took from me! They stole fifteen years of my life! My freedom! My children lost to me, their love turned to hate, my reputation. They lied, stood up in court, swore on the Bible, and lied, not even caring if I died for their lies!”
“You are not alone.” Sister Patia reached for my hand. “He died for the sins of others, and yet He rose again, and forgave, as you must do. ‘Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert,’ ” she quoted with the most beautiful, tranquil serenity, it brought tears to my eyes.
“I hear what you say . . .” I started, and stopped, tears streaming from my eyes. I felt torn and tugged in every direction; I knew and yet I didn’t know. My ears heard her, but my heart, I was afraid, was deaf to her wisdom. “I know . . .” I started, to try to explain, if only I could....
Sister Patia smiled gently and patted my hand. “You will,” she said confidently.
When the time came to leave the convent, I found I didn’t want to go. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said suddenly, turning on the steps and reaching back for Sister Patia’s hand. “Maybe I should stay . . . just for a little while longer—”
“You’ll be fine.” She took both my hands in hers and gave them a squeeze that was both comforting and confident. “Sometimes, my child, the only way a person can grow stronger is after they have been knocked down as you have been. Now it’s time for you to get up and go back out into the world again.”
I nodded uncertainly, but I didn’t like to disappoint a nun, especially one who had been so kind to me. “I hope so, Sister Patia; I most sincerely hope so!” I said, and squared my shoulders and started down the steps again to where Mama was already waiting in the cab.
“But what if I fail?” I turned back suddenly and caught desperately at Sister Patia’s hands. “I’m so afraid of failing!”
“You mustn’t be,” she said with the most serene, beatific smile I had ever seen. “Sometimes, my child, failure is a gift from God, though it may not seem so at first glance. Failure is the chance to start again; it is not an end, but a new beginning.”
I nodded and swallowed down the last vestiges of my fear. “A new beginning!” My eyes lit up with longing. “I’d like that more than anything, Sister Patia!”