Danielle Steel - Echoes

“Can you write to us?” Beata asked, feeling panicked.

“Of course. Although I'll be busy. But I'll write to you as often as I can.” It was as though she were leaving on a trip, for the rest of her life. Like going to Heaven. Or the first way station to get there. Beata couldn't imagine it, or wanting to do it. She had become a devout Catholic, but she still couldn't imagine wanting to go into religious orders. It seemed like a terribly restrictive life, but Amadea could hardly wait.

Beata and Daphne drove her there on the day she left. She wore a simple navy blue dress, and the hat she wore to church. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and Beata had rarely felt as depressed. Daphne cried all the way to the convent, as Amadea held her hand. When they got out of the car, Beata stood and looked at her for a long time, as though drinking her in for the last time, and carving her memory on her heart. The next time she would see her, she would look different. And be someone else.

“Always know how much I love you. How much you mean to me, and how proud I am of you. You are my gift from God, Amadea. Be happy and safe. And if it isn't right for you, it's all right to change your mind. No one will think less of you for it.” Beata hoped she would.

“Thank you, Mama,” Amadea said quietly, but knew she wouldn't. She knew to her very soul how right this was, and didn't doubt it for a second. She took her mother in her arms then, and held her. She held her like a grown woman, who knew what she was doing, and had no regrets. Just as Beata had done the day she left her mother to join Antoine. “Go with God,” Amadea whispered as she held her, and tears rolled down Beata's cheeks and she nodded. It was Amadea who seemed like the adult now and not the child.

“You too,” Beata said in a whisper, as Amadea kissed her little sister and smiled down at her. Amadea looked sad to leave them, but beyond that there was an overwhelming sense of joy and peace.

She had brought no suitcase with her. She had brought nothing except the clothes she wore, which they would dispose of the moment she took them off. They would give them to the poor. She could bring no possessions, and would eventually take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, all of which suited her. She was not frightened of what she was doing. She had never been happier in her life, and it was written all over her face. It was the same look Beata had worn when she met Antoine at the train station in Lausanne, and their life had been beginning. The same look she had worn the night Amadea was born. This was the beginning for Amadea. Not the end, as her mother feared.

She hugged each of them one more time, and then turned to ring the bell. She was ready. They answered the door quickly, and a young nun opened a tiny peephole, and then the door, without showing herself. And in an instant, Amadea was gone, as she stepped through the door without looking back at them. When it was closed, Beata and Daphne stood on the street alone, looking at each other, and then they clung to each other. This was all that was left now, all they had. Each other. A widow and a little girl. Amadea had her whole life ahead of her, in a life that would be far, far from them.

11

WHEN AMADEA ENTERED THE CONVENT, SHE WAS TAKEN directly to the robing room by the young nun who had let her in. She said not a word to Amadea, but her peaceful smile and her warm eyes greeted her. Amadea understood. There was something deeply soothing about not having to say anything to her. She felt instantly as though she had entered a safe place, and knew it was the right one for her.

The nun looked at her, assessed her tall thin frame, and nodded as she set out a plain black garment that would reach her ankles, and a short white cotton veil that would cover her hair. It was not the habit of the order, but Amadea knew that it would be six months before she would be allowed to wear it, and only then if they felt she had earned it. It could take a lot longer, as the Mother Superior had explained to her before she went in, and the older nuns would have to vote on it. What she would wear in the meantime would identify her as a postulant. She would not receive the black veil of the order, until she took her solemn vows after eight years.

The nun left her alone for a moment to change all her clothes, down to her underwear. She had left a pair of rough sandals for her, which were the only shoes she would wear from now on, with bare feet. The order was discalced, which meant that they did not wear proper shoes, as part of the discomforts which they embraced.

Amadea put on what they left her, with a feeling of excitement. She wouldn't have been happier if she had been putting on her wedding gown, and she had the same feeling her mother had the day she had worn the white linen dress she'd made of lace tablecloths for her wedding. This was the beginning of a new life for Amadea, in some ways it was like being engaged to Christ. The wedding would take eight years to prepare. Even now, she could hardly wait.

The nun came back in a few minutes and everything Amadea had worn coming in disappeared into a basket for the poor, including her good shoes. Her mother was keeping everything else for her, she said, in case she changed her mind. More than that, she was keeping it as one did the clothes and possessions of dead children, out of sentiment, and the inability to part with them. They meant nothing to Amadea now. Her life was here.

Once dressed, she was led into the chapel for prayers, with the other nuns. Afterward, there was a long silence, during which the community examined their consciences, as they did each day, remembering the sins they had committed, the unkind things they'd thought of, the petty jealousies, the longings they had for food or people or comforts they had once thought were important and had to learn to strip themselves of. It was a good place for Amadea to start, as she reproached herself for her attachment to her mother and sister, more even than to Christ. No one explained to her what the silence meant, she had heard of it beforehand and used the time well.

While the other nuns ate lunch, she was taken to the Mother Superior's office. She would not eat until dinnertime that night, which was the first sacrifice she would make. As did the Mother Superior, in order to talk to her.

“All is well, my child?” she asked kindly after greeting her with the words “Peace of Christ,” which Amadea repeated before she spoke.

“Yes, thank you, Mother.”

“We are happy to have you here.” The community was large these days. There was no lack of vocations. Edith Stein joining them two years earlier had not done them any harm either. There had been more talk of it than she liked, but it had awakened others to their vocations, even as it had this young girl. Edith Stein had become Teresa Benedicta a Cruce the year before, and Amadea would eventually meet her, although personal fascinations and admiration were strictly forbidden. They were a community of sisters, not a collection of individuals with separate personalities and their own ideas. They were here to serve Christ and pray for the world, nothing more than that, and nothing less, as the Mother Superior reminded Amadea, and she said she understood.

“You will share a cell with three other sisters. We are silent except at meals and recreation, when you may speak about matters of the community, and nothing else. You will not have personal friends here. We are all friends of Christ.” Amadea nodded again, in awe of her.

The Mother Superior was a tall spare woman with powerful eyes and a kind face. It was impossible to tell her age, and it would have been impertinent to do so. She was the mother who would guide them and guard them, and whom they must obey, as they would the Father who led them there. Entering Carmel brought her into a new family. No other existed now for her. She had been on loan to Beata, her father, and Daphne for eighteen years. Her time with them was done, her ties to them slight, except through prayer and occasional letters, out of kindness to them. She was told that she could write home once a week, as she had promised her mother she would do. But her work and chores must come first.