Perfect Grave

Chapter Twenty-Five

P lease God, tell me what to do.

Sister Denise was alone in her room crying.

She’d told no one about what she’d found hidden under the floorboards in the closet of Sister Anne’s room. Of course, her first impulse had been to turn it over to her superior, Sister Vivian, and to tell the others. But for some powerful and inexplicable reason, Denise felt compelled to keep her discovery secret.

To protect it because no one should see it.

Maybe this was God’s way of speaking to her. Denise didn’t know. A moral war was raging in her heart. Should she tell someone, or forget that she’d ever found it?

Throughout the town house she could hear the sisters making last-minute arrangements for the funeral service at the shelter. It would begin in a few hours and they would leave very soon.

Denise had little time.

Drying her tears, she locked her door, knelt by her bed, made the sign of the cross, and prayed. Then she reached under her mattress and retrieved the cardboard box she found under the floor in Anne’s room.

The box had been used to store candles and was about the size of a hardcover book. It was ancient with frayed, deteriorating corners that were held together with adhesive tape yellowed with age. It smelled of wax when she lifted the lid.

She reached inside and removed the red notebook. It was a number 82, plain, four-star line, with a red hardboard cover. The pages crackled when she opened it to the secrets of Sister Anne Braxton’s life. It was fitting that it was raining when I entered the little church in Paris to make my amputation with my past life. The warm water against my skin was my baptism…

So began the first entry of Anne’s journal, dated well over twenty years ago. It was written with a fountain pen in Anne’s elegant hand, the revelations of a young woman at the threshold of devoting her life to God.

In reading on, Denise empathized with how Anne had struggled with the same deep concerns that confront all women who contemplate a religious life. How they must accept that they will never bear children, never marry, never have a family or grandchildren, and are destined to live simply in humility and poverty. Anne seemed resolute in her readiness to embrace the realities of becoming a nun.

But as Denise read the entries again, she was troubled by the undercurrent that accompanied all of Anne’s thoughts.

Guilt.

Although Anne offered no details of past acts, and only alluded to remorse for them, an air of atonement accompanied all of her entries. If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.

Denise knew that one from The First Epistle of John, along with the rest of it, which Anne had written at the outset of her journal and throughout. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

Flipping through the pages and the years of Anne’s life, Denise kept coming back to Anne’s personal torment over something that had happened long ago. Oh heavenly Father, can I ever be forgiven for what I did, for the pain I caused? Although I am not worthy, please forgive me.

It was a consistent theme of Anne’s writing, one she kept returning to even in the last months of her life. I deeply regret the mistakes I have made and will accept your judgment of me.

What was it? What had she done? What could she possibly have done that would account for such mental agony?

It fits now.

Denise suddenly recalled one of her last conversations she’d had with Sister Anne. They’d gone alone for a Sunday walk near the park. Sister Anne seemed to be tormented by something before she had finally confided to Denise.

“I believe with all my heart that I will be judged by the sins of my past life and not the religious one I’ve strived to live.” Anne stopped. “And I believe that my judgment could come soon. In the end, I believe God will determine if my struggle to atone was worthy.”

“Atone for what? I’m not sure I understand, Anne.”

“When I was young, I did the most horrible thing.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“I destroyed lives.”

“Destroyed lives? What do you mean? Did you break a young man’s heart?”

Anne looked off.

“God knows what I did. God, and one other living person. Please, Denise. I’ve said more about this than I’ve ever told anyone. Please, you must keep my confidence. Promise me.”

“Of course, Anne. But I don’t understand.”

“If we’re patient, God will reveal all mysteries. After all, He does work in mysterious ways.” Anne hugged her and never spoke of the subject again.

It was so cryptic. “I destroyed lives.” What did she mean?

A sudden knock on her door, and Denise’s heart leapt.

“Are you almost ready, Denise?”

“See you downstairs in a couple more minutes, Flo.”

Denise was coming to a decision. The journal was not her property. Being aware of it, and given all of the tragic circumstances, she must give it to Vivian. Perhaps Denise had hesitated earlier because she’d been upset with Vivian.

She’d reached a decision.

Closing the journal, putting it in the box, she took it with her down the hall, where she knocked softly on the door to Anne’s, well, Vivian’s room. It was weird how she insisted on staying there. The others had whispered how they thought it was macabre, but no one dared question Vivian.

“Who is it?”

“Denise.”

“I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately.”

“Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come in then, for a moment.”

The room still smelled of ammonia, which Denise would now and forever associate with Anne’s murder. Vivian was a portrait of the imposing leader, writing notes for the memorial service.

“What is it? I have to hurry ahead to meet Father Mercer, he’ll be celebrating the mass today and is going directly to the shelter.”

“I need to show you what I discovered when I was cleaning.”

Denise went to the closet, pried out the floorboards, revealed the hole, then passed the box to Vivian, who was perplexed.

“Anne had hidden this under the floor. It’s her journal.”

“Journal?”

Vivian started flipping through it. Slowly at first, then faster as she absorbed its contents.

“Did you know she’d kept a journal?” Denise asked.

Vivian shook her head without lifting it from the book.

“You knew her longer than the rest of us. Do you know what she’s talking about when she says she regrets the mistakes she made in the past?”

“No, what?” Vivian’s head remained in the book, reading. “No. But what human being doesn’t regret past mistakes?” Finally she lifted her head, her eyes boring into Denise. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

“No.”

“Show it to anyone?”

“No, just you. I thought maybe we might use some of her words at the memorial, then maybe pass it to the detectives.”

“Perhaps later, but not at this time. And you will tell no one, absolutely no one, about this book. Is that understood?”

“But why?”

“This is a very private journal and I’ll need time to study it more carefully before we decide on how to proceed. Is that understood?”

Denise said nothing, watching Vivian slide Anne’s journal into her valise among the files she was taking with her to the shelter.

“Is that clear, Sister Denise?”

“Yes, Sister.”