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St. Margaret’s smells like Lysol.
Not the pine-scented spray—don’t get crazy. No, this place smells like that old-school concentrate in the little brown bottle. The kind that burns the shit out of your nose so it’s impossible to name the fragrance other than hospital.
“She’s having a good day today.” Sister Constance wears a plain blue skirt and vest over a long-sleeved white shirt. Her hair is covered in a matching blue habit. “She told me about her first dance. She said it was with Timothy DuPont.”
My aunt is lying in the bed with her eyes closed, and she doesn’t appear to have moved in days.
“I guess it could’ve happened. How would we ever know?”
I came here from the reading of Mack’s will. My heart is heavy, but I’m trying to focus on the good. His long battle with lung cancer is over, he’s no longer gasping for breath, no longer in pain.
He left me the garage, and I came here to check on a woman I barely know before heading south to face the past. My insides are twisting in knots. I’m agitated and impatient with this current errand, but it’s time.
“Even if it didn’t, her eyes lit up with joy. The way you look when you’re in love.”
My brow furrows as I glance at her. I guess it’s possible nuns can be in love before they join an order.
“I brought this.” I hand Constance a bouquet fragrant plants for fall, pine and tea olive.
“How lovely. You’ve been such a gift from God to her. And your uncle. You should be comforted he’s at peace now.”
She makes me sound more charitable than I feel. When I was honorably discharged with a purple heart and a medal of valor, I couldn’t go back to Oakville. I was too broken. I’d wake in the night fighting, yelling, covered in sweat. I’d pass a man on the street and involuntarily recoil as if he’d left a bomb in my path—what they think might have happened on that road.
The road that changed my life.
After the accident, I stayed in the desert while they treated my injuries. I helped identify the men we’d lost. I attempted to recreate what happened. After six months, once everyone was gone and the base had been shut down, I came here to Dover.
My phone was destroyed in the blast. Uncle Mack was never one to use technology anyway. He sent me a letter telling me he’d closed the garage and moved back to take care of his sister. Her husband died, and she had dementia. He didn’t tell me he was in the final stages of lung cancer.
I went from the desert sand to this lush, green city to try and get my head on straight. Then I nursed Mack until he was gone. Now I’m preparing to leave my Aunt Genevieve to the care of these ladies.
The nuns assure me she’ll be fine, she has no idea where she is. I’m not sure she even remembers me. Looking down at my hands, I decide to confess. She is a nun, after all.
“I won’t be coming back for a while. I have to go back…” Is home the right word? “I have to check on my uncle’s business.”
I should say my business now.
Constance nods gently. “I guessed a man of your age would have unfinished business.”
She says it as if she knows something.
“My uncle left his garage in my name. It’s been sitting vacant for two years. I need to check on it and decide whether to keep it or sell it.”
“You owe me no explanations. Do what you need to do.” She goes to the window and slowly rolls up the blinds. “We’ll take good care of your aunt.”
“I’m not abandoning her. I’ll be back. I just need to do this.”
“I’m sure your friends are eager to welcome home a hero.”
I’m not so sure. “I’m not a hero. I did my duty, the same as anyone would’ve done in those circumstances.”
She gives me a placid smile. “I’ve found the greatest heroes are often the ones least interested in accepting the title.”
I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. “Anyway, I’m leaving for the airport now. If you’ll let me know if she needs anything, I’ll take care of it.”
“She will be fine, and I will keep you informed.” She hesitates, lifting a hand toward me. “How about you. Did you find the help you needed here?”
