Page 52 of The Lost Husband

Kaatje Janseen, a Catholic woman with a former occupation of a seamstress, now displaced by war. Christoph’s letter of recommendation worked just as he said it would, though I know he had to trade something, and I’m not sure what.

He hasn’t written or visited, which means he hasn’t found any information about Noah, good or bad, leaving me in limbo between grief and a sliver of hope that my eyes had deceived me the day he put himself in the line of fire. For me.

Three, two, one—the second bell echoes between the stone walls, striking my ears as if scolding me to move quicker.

Most of the other women are out of their cots and dressed before the second bell rings, but I’d rather the chamber room be less occupied when I clamber out of my cot. The time I’ve been here has taught me order, but not how to feel at ease.

My feet meet the worn floor as I reach for the gray garb draped over the suitcase that sits at the foot of the cot. It’s the same dress I wear every day, plain, shapeless, and heavy—perfect to hide my truth from the celibate nuns. I won’t be able to hide the baby for much longer and Christoph has not found an alternate plan yet.

The dress is snugger today than it was yesterday, and I tug it into place before reaching for the apron that does most of the disguising. I tie it tightly beneath my chest, so it billows beneath.

The few women left in the chamber move in silence, minding their own space and schedule. Even when we aren’t preparing for our morning routine, words are rare, usually a request or warning. A quiet apology.

I follow the last of the women into the narrow stone corridor. The smells of old rain and soap cloak me as I press forward until reaching the chapel where I flow into the final row of postulants. Though I’ve come to memorize how to behave and when, I still watch the others to stay in time when kneeling, lowering my eyes, and when to speak a prayer.

Our voices rise and fall in tune as my mouth forms the shape of the words, the focus on my breaths, masking the words that trigger grief and pain.

When it’s time to kneel, I adjust my weight to avoid the pressure in my mid-section and my lower back. I use the pew for leverage to ease back up to my feet. Nothing unusual with the various range of age between the postulants. Though someone my age shouldn’t have so much trouble kneeling and standing, no one pays much attention.

My mind tells me otherwise. I can’t help feeling like someone is always watching me—knowing each lie I formulate, and each truth I withhold. Especially here.

After prayers, we disburse to our assigned work, and I follow my familiar path to the laundry room where the sound of running water screams like static. The tiled room is filled with steam, blurring the sunlight pressing against the small windows.

Hours of scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing sheets and uniforms wouldn’t have tired me much before my pregnancy, but now it’s a constant repetitive test of my strength.

I lift the basin of wet clothes, something I’ve done hundreds of times now, but this time, a stabbing pain ripples through my stomach, stealing my breath for a brief second. My heart thunders against my rib cage as my grip tightens along the handles.

“I can get that,” the woman across from me says.

Her expression freezes as her hands wade in soapy water.

“I have it,” I reply quickly.

Concern draws lines along her forehead, a silent question that I can’t answer. She’s older, just old enough to have a few streaks of silver sparkling through her chestnut-brown hair. Likely wiser and more knowing than I’d like to give her credit for.

“As you like.” Her gaze returns to the soapy clothes.

I make it to the table and set the basin down carefully before lowering my hand to my stomach, slightly folding in toward the table. The heat from the room seeps through my limbs and into my face, causing a wave of dizziness.

The pain and lightheadedness pass, and I focus on folding, sorting, and inventory, wishing the tasks would distract me. Especially with Mother Superior standing by the door with a ledger pinched beneath her arm. She won’t correct me or anyone else out loud, but her presence is enough to ensure we’re doingeverything properly. Her lingering stare toward me steals the warmth from my blood, leaving me in a cold sweat.

* * *

By midday, the other postulants and I sit at a table in silence, hands folded on our laps while waiting for the prayer to begin before our meal. The words taper off and I lift my spoon just as a wave of nausea pales me from the inside. I swallow against the acidic burn blazing through my throat, waiting for the feeling to pass, while also being aware of the expression on my face. There should be none.

The young woman across from me leans into the table. “You were a seamstress before, yes?” she whispers, the sound of her voice blending in with the clatter of spoons against bowls.

Say yes, Celina.It’s supposed to be the truth. “Yes—that’s right,” I utter.

“You’re lucky to have such talent,” she says. “I wish I did.”

I don’t have talent when it comes to sewing, other than pricking my fingers more times than the fabric.

“My skills are quite basic,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask me to repair something for her that I certainly won’t be able to mend.

“Still,” she says with a kind smile.

She doesn’t continue the conversation, just continues ladling broth into her mouth until her bowl is empty.