THE GATE: Things my Mother told me

a novel by Stan I.S. Law

Then, one day, Sister Angelica enlightened me. She came into my room, closed the door, and stood looking at her feet.

"Yes, Sister?" I encouraged.

Throughout my life many people had chosen to use me as their sounding board. During the last World War, dozens of people lined up for me to write them letters to the Gestapo headquarters, in German of course, in the hope of gaining release for a dear one, a husband or a brother. Women too were arrested, almost as often. My letters? Sometimes they worked. At other times....

God, how my mind wonders....

"I think he's lost his faith," the Sister said, her eyes still riveted to her sandals. She spoke quietly not to wake my husband. Luckily, he slept for hours during the day as well as the whole night. Except when he decided to go for a walk in the eerie hours along the sterile corridors.

"Who, Sister?"

"I saw you watching him. The Father," she said.

There was only one Father at the Institute. At least only one resident Father. The others came and went to administer the Last Rites and, of course, to celebrate the Holy Mass. They left as soon as possible after performing their duty. They weren't too comfortable here. It was too close. Too close to the door to the Other Side. Perhaps their consciences were more exacting than those of average men and women.

"Father Mulligan?"

"Yes, Mrs. Kordos. Father Mulligan...." She looked as though she wanted to say more but wasn't sure if she ought to. Hearsay was not encouraged by her Order.

"You must have reasons for saying so, Sister?" I prodded again.

"He told me," Sister Angelica said simply. "He was crying. He said that all his life he was a good priest, he did his duty, he gave up all to gain his peace of mind but that now it eludes him more than ever."

"He told you all that?" Such soul baring wouldn't have come to Father Mulligan easily. Nor to any priest, I imagine. "But why?" I asked trying to read the expression on Sister Angelica's face.

"I don't know. He'd asked me why I am always smiling," she said, her tone embarrassed even as she smiled.

That could explain the flood of words that apparently spewed out from Father Mulligan. His smiles were only perfunctory, sparse and never without a specific reason. It was fairly obvious that he was not a happy man. He must have found Sister Angelica's constant smile, day and night, no matter how tired she must have been on occasion, profoundly disturbing.

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"I told him I would pray for him."

Of course. "And?"

"He just laughed."

For the first time since she came into my room Sister Angelica raised her eyes from the floor. She stood, still just inside the door, in an attentive posture of concern. And now she took a whole step forward as though to accentuate her next observation.

"I'd never heard him laugh before," she said. The next moment her eyes found her shoes again. "It wasn't a happy laugh, Mrs. Kordos."

I didn't say anything. For a while the silence stretched. I had time. That was what you had a great deal of at the Institute. Time. It seemed to follow its own rules, here. Usually, it slowed to fill the long gaps between meals.

"So why are you telling me all this, Sister?"

"I thought you might help," she answered simply.

"Why me?"

"People say that you help everybody learn to smile."

In part this was true. I liked to walk the corridors, on rainy days, and ask people funny questions. About anything. Some stupid questions, also. When I see someone looking particularly miserable I ask him or her things like 'did you break a leg lately?' And then I tell them that if not then they had a great reason to be happy. It worked on some people. Most of them. Although it could be just the fact that someone took the trouble to speak to them. They were lonely. Imprisoned in their own misery ­ self-centred, introverted. They really were sad. Like little children. Perhaps we all do make a full circle.

"I'll try," I said, although I had absolutely no idea what I might do. I'd never consoled, let alone counselled, a priest; nor an ex-priest, for that matter.

As for the elderly being like children, I was wrong. Children may need a mother, but they were fighting to get out of their cosmic eggs. They were on the way out. Expanding. The elderly were inching themselves more and more inwards. Trying to get back the security of the womb they'd left behind so long ago. Only, they didn't even know that that was what they were doing. Still, their private universes seemed to be shrinking at an alarming rate. Like the Big Crunch which must unavoidably follow the Big Bang. One day they would wake up and not be there at all.

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Old age is not as unkind as you might think.

Daily exercise consists of about twenty derelicts, such as myself, sitting in a circle, while a physiotherapist, with a voice to wake the dead, screams enunciating every syllable:

"Now you throw it to me, Miss-iss Dim-wit! Come on . . .THROW THE BALL!"

"Now you Mis-ter Szewc, throw it to me, NO, TO MEEE, Mis-ter Szewc. NO, NOT at Sis-ter Ce-cil-ia. TO MEEE MIS-TER SZEWC! MIS-TER SHEWC!!!"

Every syllable.

The man's name sounded like Mr. Sheftz, which is Polish for cobbler. He may have been a good shoe mender but he sure was a cobbler at throwing the ball which was large and light. And unwieldy. Perhaps that was the objective. To make us try harder.

I never remembered her name. The Physio screamed too loud and also she did all the talking. She did it out of kindness, of course. Not everyone enjoyed half-decent hearing. Half-decent was as good as you could hope for on the second floor. The third floor was worse. That was the Alzheimer's floor. That's where Jan and I used to be. Now, I belonged to the younger generation. Those under ninety-five. I came down, Jan went even higher.

Exercises were all conducted sitting down. I, like apparently all the other residents of the second floor, found it progressively more difficult to get around. I still walked on my own, with just my cane for company. But when it came to climbing the eight steps at Steve's condo, I needed the taxi driver's assistance. Going down was even worse. Steve held on to my right elbow, Annette to the other. It was a question of supporting my whole weight on just one leg at a time. Strength, like memory, is the first to go. I think we are designed to last so many years, and then, if we outstay our welcome, we are left on our own. By nature and, yes, by God. God says come ­ we say not yet. A while longer, we say. What does God know about such things? He's immortal. He has no concept of time. He may be omniscient but with Him it's all theory. To make sure God cannot take us against our will we stuff ourselves with pills, chemicals, support ourselves with walkers, propel ourselves in wheelchairs. And then we surround ourselves with staff who do everything for us. By then it's too late to listen to God's call. By then, we'd have lost all our reasoning power.

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