THE REPLACEMENT
Short story for Creative Writing Class. 2.5k.
Silence was unfamiliar to their ears. It seemed like it had been days for them, watching helplessly as screams and wails ripped themselves out of Matthew’s throat. Sister Amélie sat with his head in her lap, holding his one remaining hand. He was asleep now, the stump of his hand laid bandaged and bloodied across his chest. She softly sang a French lullaby and caressed his face. He had woken in a fit of thrashing screams, cursing at Amélie and Sister Jeanette and calling them the devil. Amélie had already forgiven him for his curses and actions earlier without an apology. Jeanette was not as kind to the man. She leaned against the stone walls of the church and watched the kinder Sister soothe the man. Her heart ached and she blamed it on guilt.
James found Sister Jeanette later, in their secured sleeping area, at the back of the church. James led the weekly excursions to find food and necessities and he next outing was nearing. Matthew was compromised; They needed a replacement. Annabeth, the older widow, volunteered to go, but her bum leg had only worsened with the surprise bombing that had taken Matthew’s hand. James refused Jeanette since she was the only one in the group that had medical knowledge.
“I’ll go,” Amélie said and Jeanette’s throat was too dry to heave out her refusal. The nun slipped out of her habit and James smiled in agreement. Jeanette’s hands shook and she blamed it on the lack of sleep.
“It’s alright,” the other nun said, holding Jeanette’s face in her hands, “God is watching over me.”
Jeanette kissed the forehead of the younger woman. Her lips resting a little longer than necessary. Her throat was hot and tight. She traced the cheekbone, taking in all that she could of her gentle face. Jeanette grabbed Amélie’s hand and squeezed it tight. She choked back the tears that were mirrored in the other woman’s eyes and put her forehead against hers.
“May God protect you in your travels and bring you safely home,” she said.
Jeanette placed a gentle hand on the side of James face, praying for him as well. She stood in front of the altar, watching as James and Amélie left; the echoing thud of the doors closing felt final.
“They’ll be alright,” Annabeth said, resting her hand on her shoulder.
It had been two days since James and Amélie left. Annabeth found Jeanette sitting on a splintered and charred stump of a large oak tree. A single cigarette dangled precariously between her shaking fingers. She stared off, taking in the sight of the rubble.
“This was my favorite place to get tea,” Jeanette said. Annabeth hummed in consolation, but dare not utter a word.
“This oak was my favorite spot” she said, continuing, “It was my favorite place to sit. I’d read here and come here to think. This was the first place I took Amélie, the first place I showed her when she had joined the abbey after fleeing France. She liked it when I read my books out loud to her. I'd always read her mother's favorite story to her when she missed home to soothe her."
The nun was silent for a moment. If she wiped a tear, Annabeth didn’t notice.
“She has to come back,” she said to herself and Annabeth felt like she was listening in on a secret. Jeanette lifted the mostly ash cigarette to her lips and shuddered out the exhale. Annabeth left without a word.
On the night of the fourth day, they awoke to shouting. At the other side of the nave, propping open the heavy doors, was James. He shouted again, his bellowing voice cutting off at the end into a wail. He sank to his knees and in his arms they now could see a familiar body, crumpled and frail.
Amélie’s name was barely a whisper under Jeanette’s breath. She knew she was running, but couldn’t feel the ground under her feet. Her head was swaying and everything seemed to be moving. She collapsed in front of James. She crawled forward, all energy and life leaving her. She clutched the bloodied cloth body, using it as a lifeline to hoist herself up, to get a glimpse.
There was her sweet Amélie, broken and battered in the strong arms of James. Her face that was always lit with a smile, even in the worst of times, was blank; her once lively and beautiful green eyes stared off into the distance. Blood and dirt marred her soft, freckled skin.
She didn’t feel the arms wrap around her waist until she was yanked back, feeling a hard chest against her back. Blood stained her hands. Each wail that erupted from her throat clawed its way up and out of her body. James clutched the girl’s dead body tighter to him. Matthew’s arms wrapped tight around Jeanette, shackling her body in as she contorted in grief. Matthew rubbed the arm of Jeanette with his one hand until she stopped wailing.
“The boys are going to go out tonight to find a place good enough for Amélie,” Annabeth said and Jeanette didn’t reply. "I just hope those boys don’t get more bombs thrown on them, God help them.”
“God?,” Jeanette laughed, her eyes red with anger, “God won’t help you. God is dead.”
Later, when the boys were securing the dressings of Amélie’s body, Jeanette appeared, stripped of her habit and veil.
“Here,” she said, “Under the oak is fine.”
Together, they dug the hole. They finished with their bones and joints aching, with dirt in places they didn’t think dirt could get to, and then the sirens went off. James and Matthew ran inside, begging Jeanette to join, but she remained, sitting next to her Amélie.
The ex-nun was unfazed by the rumbling of the bombs a couple miles away. She took a tired copy of The Little Prince out of the band of her skirt. She flipped open to where they left off and continued to read the story she had read over and over again to Amélie.
