To My Dearest Becky,

Or is it Sister Rebecca? I suppose it must be now—no one can be a Novice forever (though God knows I tried). I think about what your life must be like all the time now, in those bare convent rooms with the crucifixes on the wall and the silent meals that I could never get through without a giggle or two. I bet you're able to find joy in every minute of it. You always did.

This letter is long past overdue. But I've been being a coward, afraid that you might not find it in your heart to forgive me for what I did to you all that time ago. I was stupid, and angry, and the words just came out before I knew what I was saying. I can only hope that just like that God you love so much, you too can forgive the people who treat you the worst. Namely, me.

I can picture you reading this letter right now: sitting on your perfectly made bed in your black habit, wooden Rosary beads clacking at your hip, with one hand pressed dramatically against your chest at the thought of me still actually being alive, and what's more, actually writing you a letter.

But my life now allows me to do such luxurious things like sit down and spend a few hours composing a letter to an old friend. And what might be still more surprising is that I actually have the patience to do it. Me, with patience. Can you imagine? Probably not, but the pace here in Charleston is so much more relaxed than New York, and it has changed me.

Yes, you read right, I'm in Charleston. That's South Carolina, in case you forget all those geography lessons with Sister Bernadette. I've been living her for about two years, a guest-turned- permanent -resident in Jimmy Conlon's home. Jimmy, if you have forgotten, was Pete Conlon's older brother. The one who went missing from the streets of Brooklyn all that time ago. Turns out he ended up here, and is doing pretty well for himself. He's got a wife, too, a lovely woman named Anne, and a gorgeous baby daughter called Olivia.

It took me awhile to track him down. New York had hurt him in ways I can't begin to describe to you, and he never wanted to think of it–or the people in it–again. But you know me, stubborn as all hell. And with the help of a few old friends, I finally found an address for Charleston and decided to take the chance. I too had been hurt by New York, and had nothing left there. Well, except you of course. But you know I could have never gone back to the Sisters of Mercy.

And here's where you ask: 'What about Pete?", am I right? Well, his anniversary is coming up in a couple of weeks. Maybe if you're near Saint Mary's cemetery in Brooklyn you could stop by, check on him, leave a flower or two. I'm sure he would have loved you just as much as I do, had you ever met. Don't feel sad for me though, Becky. His face is always in my dreams, his voice constantly whispering in my ear, and every time Olivia cracks a smile I can see the uncle she'll never know. So really, he's still with me. Every moment of the day.

Other than Pete, I try not to think of Brooklyn much. After he died things just fell apart there. I never really did trust the people who succeeded him as leaders in the first place, but when more and more 'accidents' started happening to those who were deeply loyal to my Pete, I knew it was time for me to go. So I packed up the few things I called my own and begged, borrowed, and stole money to buy a train ticket down here to South Carolina, praying that my decision was the right one.

Now, after two years and some odd months later, I think it was the right one. After a long, long time, I'm sort of happy again, though there's always going to be that one little empty place that never stops aching. I can't really complain much about my life now…Jimmy and Anne and Olivia are the closest thing to a family that I'm ever going to have, and I cherish the time I spend with them. I'm going to school, too, and though my attendance record isn't particularly exemplary, I know it's making me a better person. There's this boy, too, named Ben. We've been spending a lot of time together, and I think I'm really starting to like him, Becky. He lives next door, and his bedroom window is directly across from mine and every night he plays me Mozart on the violin, and I swear, it's as close to heaven as I think I'm ever going to get.

I didn't intend for this letter to be so terribly long and sappy, but hopefully it didn't bore you. If good Sister Hades is still with you, please be so kind as to give her a swift kick in the shin for me, for old times sake. I hope you will write me back, because I miss you so much sometimes it hurts, and a letter would be almost as good as seeing you again. But I know you're probably busy, doing all sorts of holy things.

Keep saving those poor lost souls, Becky. God knows Brooklyn's got enough of them.

Your's Always,

Rose Nolan