Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER V: Suspicions and Saints

She and Sister Mary Peter volunteered to tidy up the mass hall every three days though converting it to spotless is beyond unattainable inasmuch as dust and dirt have long made the entire place their conquest.

            The novice turned her gaze to her senior who is sweeping the floor towards the entrance. Sister Mary Peter gave her a lopsided smile. “Although your resolve is admirable, Sister Mary Dymphna, you should prioritize the field observation. You see, you are not tasked to do anything else but that.”

            She wanted to counter a sentiment, yet this won’t count much as a rebuttal. Yes, her senior spoke sensibility. It’s a different ordeal. Two months also wouldn’t be enough. She, furthermore, is startled about the pronouncement of the nun who’s ten years older than her. She also realized that in the couple of days they’ve been in this parish, there has been a noticeable alteration in her senior’s demeanor. She has become serious, and it is eccentric for her to be this way. She does give off a demure air, yet she never remembered her to be this disturbingly quiet like she’s always in deep thought and in a mental predicament.

            Noumenon knows nothing more but the obvious about Sister Mary Peter or Ophelia Manansala. Accounting that she is a Morena with a Nubian nose and squinty eyes, other than that, she is a total stranger to her, and the kind who always speaks of reality.

            She begins to be lost in her thoughts when her senior spoke again, but this time, something cryptic. “Sister, I have a feeling that what we see here is not what we get.”

            Indeed, something felt odd about this place, about the people, and about the Monsignor’s smile. The third one doesn’t consistently look genuine, and it is, sometimes, exaggerated like it is stretched up to his ears that it looks sinister. However, no, this is not what’s bothering her the most; the forecast of old Celeste last time is. If it were to be true, what could be a reason for the angel of death to pay them a visit? 

            I must be out of my mind. She thought. Celeste’s words—she convinced herself—were nonsensical, and there was no smell of death. Her senior might be smelling something different though.

            With both brows raised, Noumenon asked, “What do you mean?”

            Before her senior could answer, the sight of a four-wheeler coming inside and eventually pulling over in the parish’s front yard caused a diversion. The two nuns watched how two men unloaded themselves from the vehicle and how Pablo and Marlon rushed to meet them.

            The visitors are as stocky and clean shaven as Marlon and as Noumenon conjectured, are about the same age as him and Sister Mary Peter. The sacristans motioned for the two nuns to come over to where they are, apparently, to humor them about the complete context.

            “These are Buboy and Carlo.” Marlon introduced. “They’re employees of a non-government organization that donates to us every two months.”

            “Good morning,” the sisters greeted to which they replied likewise.

            Saint Peter the Fisherman Parish has one or two organizations that aid it from time to time. This one in particular which chooses to remain in anonymity is, on the contrary, only one of the zealous few that believe majorly in Monsignor Cabrera’s exertion. As the nuns are informed, the donations the parish gets are routinely scheduled to be imparted to the people of Laurel during their monthly outreach program. Monsignor Cabrera makes it certain that they can give even a little help to them.

            The truck bore a multitude of boxes of goods ranging from food, clothes, footwear and others. The sacristans and the sisters expressed their gratitude to the representatives of the NGO. They’ll surely do a lot of repacking thereafter.

            The novice relived the eventful evening. It was composed of vigorous members of the parish particularly that the Monsignor himself accompanied them. She, as an honorary member, was almost blinded by everyone’s bright smiles, so bright that she nearly lost sight of any recollection of the afflictive past.

            “So, what have you noted so far in your stay here, Sisters?” She remembered the question of the Monsignor who was sitting on a chair just across her. He, the sacristans, and the nuns gathered in an imperfect circle inside the storage room; the congested donated goods were banded around them. Somehow cramped and old, it used to be just an extra quarter. It is the farthest room from the entrance and is only unlocked twice or thrice each month in preparation for their usual outreach program, and overmorrow is scheduled to be a date for one.

            She didn’t have an immediate answer, not because she had nothing to say, but because she had a lot to say but she doesn’t know where to begin. Should she tell him first that the people of the barangay seem to be beyond help? Or that the parish needs major repair? Or about the oddity that she feels in here? Instinctively, she looked towards her senior who met her eyes. They were looking at each other to see who will share her observation first.

            “There are a lot of people who need saving, Monsignor.” Sister Mary Peter briefly said. The answer cemented her reputation as a woman of few words. Accordingly, she didn’t seem that she’ll satisfy them more than what she intended to say.

            There was anticipation in the eyes of the priest as he gazed next at the novice. He has a peculiar interest on what she’s about to say.

            “The people are hopeless, and the parish is wrecked; still, all of you here are nice. If I would be offered the opportunity, I’d stay here and help you restore the integrity of St. Peter the Fisherman Parish. I believe this is a wonderful place and that this will certainly be a refuge to those who wish to seek God once again.”

            There was no need for applause, yet the sacristans applauded her not actually because they were impressed but because she has been serious with her task to do a field observation. She blushed from this gesture.

            "Oh, we will be tremendously glad to have you stay with us for long,” Carlito which turned out to be the naughtiest of the sacristans said. He even placed his left hand on his chest as if to augment how wholeheartedly he meant his sentence.

            “That’s very remarkable of you to have noticed that, Sister; nevertheless, don’t sugarcoat us too much. We’ll start to look like saints.” The Monsignor chuckled and his minions followed suit except Elmer who was silently doing his repacking duty way too seriously.

            There was no sugarcoating, and she spoke from the bottom of her heart. Intramuros may be a determinate storage of agitating memories for her, but if she were offered a choice, she’d definitely come back to this parish to continue a noble cause. Her father, someone whose name and countenance she has forsaken for some reason, along with what he had done, is constantly becoming a figment. There are times that she even distrusts how her memory serves her. Things are starting to go well, and she hopes these will continue.