The Chosen Shell
A Novel of Women’s Fiction
(Inspired by the Lives of Several Nuns)
by Katherine Burns Sartori

  Chapter 1 – The Retreat, March 1968

       The older nun parked the silver Pontiac in front of a rambling, Spanish retreat house by the sea. Celie knew her Superior was waiting for her to open the passenger door, but she wanted only to listen to the soothing rhythm of the surf. She tried to match her breathing with its cadence, a childhood remedy to banish anxieties threatening to make her dizzy. How else could she silence the questions swirling through her mind? Besides, she hadn’t heard the rise and fall of the ocean in years.
       Sister Gerald set the emergency brake then took Celie’s hand. Her fingers felt thin but warm. "Ready?"
       The question cut across Celie's thoughts. Involuntarily, her shoulders quivered.
       “I hope you find your answer here. I'll try to accept your decision, whatever it is.” The nun’s lilting tone calmed Celie.
       Her Superior flashed that engaging smile. So familiar. Her bronze skin and high cheekbones under thick black lashes were captivating too.
       “--You're a natural,” Sister Gerald’s urging went on, “I've seen you in the classroom with the children, and I've seen how the parishioners warm up to you. Sister Celia, you transmit real Christianity.” She stopped. "I do know one thing. Decisions happen. You can't force them. Of course you’re nervous with final vows only three months away. But take it easy,” she squeezed Celie’s hand. “Your decision will come, in its own way, in its own time."
       A seagull took to the sky. Celie watched it circle above, wings spread wide, soaring. Then it glided down, almost floating, to a jagged rock and perched there alone. Safe from the siege of crashing waves.
       She twisted on the hot vinyl seat and pulled her hand away. This Navaho woman’s exotic good looks and mystical ideas intrigued her, yet made Celie feel strangely uncomfortable. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a long moment.
       "Relax?” Celie said. “I don’t even know what it means anymore. That's the trouble. I spend endless hours weighing everything, going over it all, back and forth in my mind. And I feel guilty too, that I'm even considering giving this life up. I try to sleep at night, but I wake up exhausted."
       "I know. Take your time, Sister," she said, as she hugged her.
       Celie welcomed Sister Gerald's embrace. She'd never felt close to her mom. Right now, more than anything, she needed a mother’s comfort.
       "You've been in this life over four years,” Sister Gerald said. “You don't have to leave yet and you don’t have to decide this weekend."
       When the older nun’s arms tightened around her, Celie turned toward the door. "Thanks for your advice, Sister. I've got some serious thinking ahead of me and I’d better get on with it.” She climbed out of the car, suitcase in hand, and managed a weak smile as she waved goodbye, her black veil fluttering in the wind.

                                                               ***
       A bent, wrinkled nun with ivory skin led Celie to her room. Sepia photographs lined the hallway. Celie studied them: turn-of-the century ladies sitting on a broad porch, ribboned pompadours, flowing dresses, parasols trimmed with lace, gazing out at the ocean. Sixty years ago this Santa Cruz retreat house must have been a lavish California hotel.
       Except for a lay woman who glanced her way, then closed her door, the old retreat house seemed empty. Celie found her room; it was restful but spare. A white chenille bedspread covered her single bed and over it hung a crucifix made of driftwood. The mahogany floors gleamed and the white lace curtains that hung from a black wrought iron rod billowed gently. Celie’s gaze converged on the only color in the room, a glass vase filled with orange poppies and deep purple alyssum, wildflowers gathered from the surrounding hills. She’d glimpsed them on either side of Pacific Coast Highway on her ride south from the convent in San Francisco.
       She carefully unpacked her things and undressed. She would be anonymous here, among nuns and priests and Catholic lay people too. It was the only way to free her thoughts, to consider her future.
       Unlacing her black granny shoes, she peeled off her thick ebony nylons, stuffing them into the pockets of her long cotton slip. Then, loosening the white coif that covered her hair, she hung it with her long white Dominican habit and large bulky rosary in the closet. She smoothed out her black muslin veil and folded it away with her shoes and belt in the old chest nearby.
       The sound of waves called to her. She splashed her face with cold water at the sink and quickly dressed in the pair of jeans and a navy top she’d borrowed from the parish rummage sale box. The outfit wasn’t much different from the high school clothes she’d worn a few years ago. Grabbing an old madras jacket she’d brought along too, she left the aging retreat house and climbed down the rocky hills to the beach below.
       No one was around. She ran down to the sparkling surf and slipped her feet into the chill, foamy waves.
       “This is so beautiful! Such a long time,” she whispered. The cool water eddied around her ankles and she watched the blazing sun begin its slow descent into the sea. Way off in the distance, a man walked on the beach. Strange that he’d wear a business suit down here… As she followed him with her eyes, his lanky, muscular frame diminished, then became a speck. Soon the falling shadows erased him from the horizon altogether.
       She took a deep breath, invigorated by the salty air, then began to search for shells, a secret pastime she’d cherished since childhood. But the sands were stripped clean today. Only stray pieces of brown and gold seaweed littered the beach. Disappointed, she sat down on the warm sand, to face her thoughts. So many factors… What should she consider first? She remembered last Christmas. Why had the events of one holiday season affected her so deeply?

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© Copyright 2008 by Katherine Burns Sartori. All rights reserved.