Cecelia Ahern - The Book of Tomorrow

I looked at her painting. ‘That’s supposed to be a squirrel? It looks like an elephant with a bushy tail.’

Sister Ignatius looked angry first. Then, as she examined it further, she began to laugh. ‘Oh, Tamara, you really are the perfect dose, you know that.’

‘No,’ I huffed, getting to my feet. ‘Apparently I’m not. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to call a doctor for Mum. I could just fix her all by myself.’ I paced up and down before her.

She turned serious then. ‘You called Dr Gedad?’

‘Yes, and he came this morning. I planned it for when Rosaleen was over at her mum’s stuffing her with food-and by the way, I’ve seen her mum and there’s no way in the world she’s putting away all that food everyday unless she’s got worms. But Rosaleen came home early before Dr Gedad even got up the stairs because-stop the press-she put salt in her apple tart instead of sugar and yes, you’re right to look at me like that because I did it and I don’t care and I’d do it again tomorrow and I’ll know soon enough whether I do or not actually.’ I took a breath. ‘Anyway, she came back to get the apple pie that was supposed to be for me and Arthur, not that I care because all her food makes me fart fifty times a day, and she managed to talk the doctor out of seeing Mum. So he’s gone now and Mum is still in the bedroom, probably drooling right now and drawing on the walls.’

‘How did she send him away?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she said to him. He just said that right now Mum just needed to rest and if I needed him again for an emergency or whatever, I should call.’

‘Well the doctor would know,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Sister, he didn’t even see her. He just listened to whatever Rosaleen said.’

‘So why shouldn’t he trust Rosaleen?’ she asked.

‘Well, why should he? I’m the one that called him, not her. What if I’d seen her try to kill herself and I never told Rosaleen?’

‘Did she try?’

‘No! But that’s not the point.’

‘Hmm.’ Sister Ignatius went silent as she dabbed her brush in a mucky brown colour and applied it to the paper.

‘Now it looks like an inbred animal who’s just eaten a bad nut,’ I said.

She snorted and laughed again.

‘Do you ever, like, pray? All I see you do is make honey, or garden or paint.’

‘I enjoy creating new things, Tamara. I’ve always believed the creative process is a spiritual experience where I cocreate with the Divine Creative Spirit.’

I looked around, wide-eyed. ‘And is the divine creative spirit on his lunch break?’

Sister Ignatius was lost in thought. ‘I could go see her, if you like?’ she asked quietly.

‘Thank you, but she needs more than just a nun. No offence.’

‘Tamara, do you know what it is that I actually do?’

‘Uh, you pray.’

‘Yes, I pray. But I don’t only pray. I have taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience like all Catholic sisters, but on top of that, I vow to help service the poor, sick and uneducated. I can talk to your mother, Tamara. I can help.’

‘Oh. Well I suppose she’s two out of the three.’

‘And besides I’m not “just a nun”, as you say. I’m also trained in midwifery,’ she said, dabbing at the paper again.

‘But that’s ridiculous, she’s not pregnant.’ Then I registered what she’d said. ‘Hold on, you’re a what? Since when?’

‘Oh, I’m not just a pretty face,’ she chuckled. ‘That was my first job. But I always felt that God was calling me to a life of spirituality and service and so I joined the sisters, and with them I travelled the world with the great gift of being able to be both nun and midwife. I spent most of my thirties in Africa. All around. Saw some harsh things but also wonderful things. I met the most special and extraordinary people.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘Did you meet somebody there who gave you that?’ I smiled and nodded at her gold ring with the tiny green emerald. ‘So much for your vow of poverty. If you sold that you could build a well somewhere in Africa. I’ve seen it on the ads.’

‘Tamara,’ she said, shocked. ‘I was given that almost thirty years ago for twenty-five years as a nun.’

‘But it looks like you’re married-why would they give you that?’

‘I am married to God,’ she smiled.

I screwed up my face in disgust. ‘Gross. Well, if you’d married a real man that exists, I mean one that you could actually see and who doesn’t put his socks in the wash basket, then you’d have got a diamond for twenty-five years’ service.’

‘I’m perfectly happy with what I have, thank you very much,’ she smiled. ‘Did your parents never bring you to mass?’

I shook my head and imitated my father. ‘“There’s no money in religion.” Even though Dad’s totally wrong. We were in Rome and saw the Vatican. Those guys are loaded.’

‘That sounds like him all right,’ she chuckled.

‘You met my dad?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘When? Where?’

‘When he was here.’

‘But I don’t remember him ever being here.’

‘Well, he was. So there you go, Miss Know-It-All.’

I smiled. ‘Did you hate him?’

Sister Ignatius shook her head.

‘Go on, you’re allowed to say that you hate him. Most people did. I did too sometimes. We used to row a lot. I was nothing like him and I think he hated me for that.’

‘Tamara.’ She took my hands in hers and I was mildly embarrassed. She was so sweet and so soft, it was like a bit of reality would blow her over, but with all her travels and her daily work, she’d probably seen more of it than I. ‘Your father loved you very much, with all of his heart. He was good to you, blessed you with a wonderful life, was always there for you. You were an extraordinarily lucky girl. Don’t speak of him like that. He was a great man.’

I immediately felt guilty, and with old habits dying hard, I did what I always did. ‘You should have married him then,’ I snapped. ‘You’d have had a gold ring on every finger.’

After a long silence in which I was supposed to apologise, but didn’t, Sister Ignatius went back to her crap painting. She dabbed her brush in the green paint and flattened the bristles on the paper where she embarked on a journey of unusual jerking motions with her wrist, like a music conductor with a paint brush, to make the green blob look like leaves, or something.

‘There’s no tree in front of you.’

‘There’s no squirrel either. I’m using my imagination. Anyway, it’s not a tree, it’s the ambience my poor little squirrel inhabits that I’m trying to depict. Think of it as abstract art; a departure from reality in depiction of imagery,’ she taught. ‘Well, it’s partially abstract, as artwork that takes liberties, for instance altering colour and form in ways that are conspicuous is considered so.’

‘Like your brown elephant having a huge tail instead of a trunk.’

She ignored me. ‘Total abstraction, on the other hand,’ she continued, ‘bears no trace of any reference to anything recognisable.’

I studied her work a little more closely. ‘Yeah, I’d say yours is a little more like total abstraction. Like my life.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, the drama of being seventeen.’

‘Sixteen,’ I corrected her. ‘Hey, I went over to Rosaleen’s mum yesterday.’

‘You did? And how is she?’

‘Well, she gave me this.’ I took the glass tear drop out of my pocket and moved it around in my hand. It was cold and smooth, calming. ‘She has loads of them over there. It’s so weird. In her back garden there’s a shed, that’s like her factory, and behind the shed there’s an entire field of these glass things. Some are totally freaky and pointy but most of them are beautiful. They’re hanging from clothes lines, about ten of them, all tied on with wiry cords, and they catch the light. I think she makes them. She certainly doesn’t grow them. But it’s like a glass farm,’ I laughed.