Page 33 of Aftertaste

The soup’s mere presence was a miracle.

Her hands trembled as she dipped the spoon into the bowl. Everything she was about to do—raise a spirit; defy God’s will; consume this rich, decadent meal—reeked of wickedness. She might be struck down for this. Excommunicated. If not by the Heavenly Father Himself, then by therighteous women and men responsible for her actions. But she hardly cared. She had to see Stacy; she had to know.

Sister Louise tipped the soup into her mouth, the taste of it so potent it brought tears to her eyes.

The spoonful contained multitudes.

The lumps of potato with their skin, rough and brown and starched, were the tunics and stockings they were handed on their first day—Cleanliness is godliness, Sisters!—and the smiles they exchanged, she and the other novitiate, Sister Stacy Ann Robbins, as they donned them for the first time, their itchy, modest, new clothes. The tang and burn of hot sauce—Tabasco, heightened by cayenne—tore through Louise’s throat just like her cough that winter, the only silver lining Sister Stacy’s sweet concern, and the heat of the mustard patches from the medical ward, and the way she had applied them, hot and wet, to Louise’s chest and back—Breathe in now, deeply—and how she kept applying them, long after Louise’s cough had cleared. The chicken cracklings flaked with salt were the translucent pages of their Bibles, their heads bent low over their theology coursework, the crisp, righteous words that consumed their waking days and melted into dark meat, succulent conversation after lights out—What do I miss? Romance novels. French fries. Being seen—and a pause before Louise whispered back,Nuns are supposed to be invisible. But I still see you.And the chowder, smooth and creamy, sweet, the pale flesh of a wrist, a brow, a cheek, until the blue cheese crept in, ruining everything, like that afternoon in the gallery over the narthex, Sister Louise playing a hymn, the organ’s rich, warm, brassy tone stirring life into stale air, Sister Stacy beside her on the bench, listening, humming, leaning close to watch, closer, until there it suddenly was, all those months of pious worship undone by this tacit meeting of their lips, and Louise could feel it again now, risen in this spoon, holy kiss! sacred! divine! a flush of heat in her face, a warm, ecstatic feeling coiling inside of her, cut suddenly short by a sharp, bitter sound that startled them apart, the click of the gallery door, the swift withdrawal of steps, the damning knowledge someoneelse had seen—penicillium, mold, bitter blue cheese—and a fortnight later, whoever it was taking justice into their own hands, agony rising in Louise like bile—Guinness, bitter and black.

The first firefly lights—blinding, electric blue—arrived as Louise swallowed. She saw them, streaky through her tears, and her mouth parted in surprise, her tongue still tingling with Tabasco as the sparks expanded around her, multiplying, pulling themselves into shape.

“Sweet Lord in Heaven,” she whispered as Sister Stacy’s dimpled face appeared, her smile enough to light cathedrals.

KOSTYA WATCHED THEIRreunion through the gap between worlds, his shower curtain severing the kitchen from the dining room, spaces special and distinct as altar and nave. These meetings were sacred. He wouldn’t intrude. He would only observe, try to learn what he could, hone the tools of his craft. Hope that what he picked up would be enough.

Sister Louise ate slowly, and the nuns spoke for a long time.

There was more between them than she had let on. The way they looked at each other, how they laughed, what they said—it was obvious. They’d been in love. A quiet kind. New. A love that never quite got off the ground.

It was a love at odds with the Church, with the vows they’d taken.

“There is no penance I could do,” Sister Louise said, wringing the skirt of her habit in her hands, “to atone for how you died. For my role in it. I’ve tried every prayer. Devoted myself every way I know how. It will never be enough. I—oh, Stacy! Can you ever forgive me? I should have been content to just sit beside you. To focus on my lessons and do God’s work and live a humble, obedient life. If I wasn’t tempted—if I hadn’t deviated—you’d still be here.”

Sister Stacy shook her head. She slid a glittering hand across the table.

“That is just absolute garbage, Louise. Catholic guilt! Listen to me, my darling: I made my choices, same as you. God knows there’s nothing toforgive. Love has never been a sin. At least”—she gave a little eye roll—“not in my eyes.”

Relief melted over Sister Louise’s face. “Nor in mine.”

“Murder, on the other hand,” Sister Stacy continued, her light flickering in warning, “?‘Thou shalt not kill.’Exodus. Deuteronomy. Genesis. It’s all right there. It’s Sister Agnes who should have paid attention to her lessons, not you.”

“Sister Agnes?” Louise gasped, choking on her soup. “But she was next in line for Superior!”

Sister Stacy nodded. “And a scandal—two novices under her charge quitting the Church, running away together—would have ruined her. She couldn’t have it. So she put poison in my water bottle.”

Sister Louise sat shellshocked for a moment, before uttering some choice phrases Kostya was sure didn’t come from the Bible.

“And she’s a Reverend Mother now! Thirty Sisters under her charge!”

“Which is why you should bring her to justice,” Sister Stacy agreed. “If only to protect her order. But then—Louise, you have to let it go! Leave the burden of her judgment to the Afterward. It isn’t yours to carry.”

Sister Louise hesitated a moment, then nodded.

“Can I ask you something?” Sister Stacy studied her. “Why did you stay in? Why not refuse the vows and leave? Just start over, after everything? We were so young. You had your whole life.”

Sister Louise swallowed more soup, then examined her reflection, inverted, in the spoon.

“The Church—the Sisterhood—it was the only thing I had left of you. Leaving it would have meant… putting you away. You were brief, in my life. But you were the truth. Maybe the most honest thing about me.”

“I wish we’d had more time.”

“So do I.” Sister Louise scraped chowder from the bottom of her bowl. “It was difficult, holding two truths inside me all these years. What the faith teaches, and what I know in my own heart—they don’t always reconcile. ButI found peace, eventually. Not in religion so much as in God. It’s a different kind of love, but it sustained me when you couldn’t anymore.” She reached across the table for Sister Stacy’s light-beam hand, their fingers occupying the same space, spirit layering through flesh. Then she smirked. “Can you at least level with me? What happened on the other side? Did you find peace? Did you meet God?”

“Oh, Louise!” Sister Stacy’s eyes twinkled as she spoke. “There’s so much I wish I could tell you! So much that surprised me! I always believed that if there were a Heaven, I’d be a shoo-in. But it wasn’t that simple. Peace requires closure, not only faith or love.” She hesitated. “I trust you’ll do what it takes now, to let me rest?”

Sister Louise looked down at her plate, at the last buffalo wing there, coated in soup.

“I will. Of course I will. I just—will I see you again? After this?”

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