Read Online A Season for the Dead by David Hewson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Hewson
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was impossible to believe one would ever escape its morbid clutches. One would ask—and this was quite normal, Sister Annette said, this happened to everyone—whether a loving God could allow such things to happen at all. This was the Devil talking, whispering in our ears at the moment of our greatest weakness. God’s grace, though sometimes incomprehensible, was there to make us free. We made our own prisons. We—not He—sent ourselves to Hell. He loved us through our agonies and would, in the end, redeem us with His kindness. Once we had walked the path toward Him. Once we had found our own particular path to Paradise.
Life was a mystery, the nun said, a gift. And like all gifts it could be taken away. When that moment happened, the faithful didn’t complain. They thanked God that the gift was there at all. They acceded to His greater wisdom. They loved Him all the more and found, in that love, solace.
Sara had looked up into the sharp blue eyes, struggling to understand. She adored this woman with all her heart. For as long as Sara had been in the school—and that predated even the haziest of distant memories—Sister Annette had been like a parent. Her own mother and father were infrequent visitors, tall, stern figures, not staying long when they did arrive. They were busy people. When they came they would kiss her on the cheek, leave endless gifts and promises. Sara felt fortunate they had the time to come at all. Sister Annette had agreed on this point too, and Sara knew she would never lie. This was not an absence of affection on their part. They lived in a different world, one where a quiet five-year-old child who spoke so little, who spent her time in daydreams she never revealed to another living soul, would never be happy. They did this for her own good and she would one day be grateful.
“God works constantly,” the sister said, “beyond our understanding.”
She hesitated. There was, the child thought, something wrong with her. A cold. Flu perhaps. Sister Annette was ill and the thought made Sara clasp the nun’s hand to the Bible all the more tightly. It was impossible for the child to imagine a world without this woman in it.
“Sara,” the nun said finally. “God has taken your mother and your father to Him. Yesterday. In America. There was an accident.”
Sara recalled—would always recall—how this made her mouth go dry, made something hard and painful begin to grow in her throat, like a cancer coming from nowhere.
“They live with God now. They’re in His Heaven, where you’ll see them one day too, provided you are a good girl, as you are now. God loves you, Sara. We all love you. We will love you every day till He calls us to go to Him too and we’ll wait for you patiently there until we’re reunited. Your parents. All of us.”
Sister Annette paused again. Her eyes were glassy. “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” she said in a voice that abruptly took a practical tone. “We’ll look after you, forever if you like. You can go out into the world too if you choose. You’ll have the means to do whatever you want.”
At this point the nun hugged her. Sara could still remember the smell. The stink of death sat upon her, an old, dry stink, like something going bad. Within the year, Annette would join God in Heaven. She would become part of the great procession to His door, willingly, smiling perhaps, as she died.
“Be sad,” Sister Annette said. “But be happy and wise too. And be grateful. You’ve much to be grateful for.”
“I will,” the child answered, wondering if she had the courage to make good her promise.
The sister smiled. “I know you will. You’re a good girl, my little Sara. You always will be. And one day—on this earth—you’ll be rewarded. One day you’ll know some great joy in your life.”
Those last words were so fixed in Sara’s memory, she was convinced they were accurate, the very ones Sister Annette had used. Yet there was
Life was a mystery, the nun said, a gift. And like all gifts it could be taken away. When that moment happened, the faithful didn’t complain. They thanked God that the gift was there at all. They acceded to His greater wisdom. They loved Him all the more and found, in that love, solace.
Sara had looked up into the sharp blue eyes, struggling to understand. She adored this woman with all her heart. For as long as Sara had been in the school—and that predated even the haziest of distant memories—Sister Annette had been like a parent. Her own mother and father were infrequent visitors, tall, stern figures, not staying long when they did arrive. They were busy people. When they came they would kiss her on the cheek, leave endless gifts and promises. Sara felt fortunate they had the time to come at all. Sister Annette had agreed on this point too, and Sara knew she would never lie. This was not an absence of affection on their part. They lived in a different world, one where a quiet five-year-old child who spoke so little, who spent her time in daydreams she never revealed to another living soul, would never be happy. They did this for her own good and she would one day be grateful.
“God works constantly,” the sister said, “beyond our understanding.”
She hesitated. There was, the child thought, something wrong with her. A cold. Flu perhaps. Sister Annette was ill and the thought made Sara clasp the nun’s hand to the Bible all the more tightly. It was impossible for the child to imagine a world without this woman in it.
“Sara,” the nun said finally. “God has taken your mother and your father to Him. Yesterday. In America. There was an accident.”
Sara recalled—would always recall—how this made her mouth go dry, made something hard and painful begin to grow in her throat, like a cancer coming from nowhere.
“They live with God now. They’re in His Heaven, where you’ll see them one day too, provided you are a good girl, as you are now. God loves you, Sara. We all love you. We will love you every day till He calls us to go to Him too and we’ll wait for you patiently there until we’re reunited. Your parents. All of us.”
Sister Annette paused again. Her eyes were glassy. “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” she said in a voice that abruptly took a practical tone. “We’ll look after you, forever if you like. You can go out into the world too if you choose. You’ll have the means to do whatever you want.”
At this point the nun hugged her. Sara could still remember the smell. The stink of death sat upon her, an old, dry stink, like something going bad. Within the year, Annette would join God in Heaven. She would become part of the great procession to His door, willingly, smiling perhaps, as she died.
“Be sad,” Sister Annette said. “But be happy and wise too. And be grateful. You’ve much to be grateful for.”
“I will,” the child answered, wondering if she had the courage to make good her promise.
The sister smiled. “I know you will. You’re a good girl, my little Sara. You always will be. And one day—on this earth—you’ll be rewarded. One day you’ll know some great joy in your life.”
Those last words were so fixed in Sara’s memory, she was convinced they were accurate, the very ones Sister Annette had used. Yet there was
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