“Ruby says you’ve become a little overemotional?” she says. “Sharing too much? Losing your temper? As you know, Sasha, I did warn you about the consequences of neglecting your personal reflections. It’s up to you to check in with yourself.”
I can’t speak for a few seconds. My throat feels choked with rage. Is she saying this is my fault?
“It’s not a question of personal reflections,” I manage at last, my voice trembling. “It’s a question of staffing, of management failure—”
“I suggest you bring any specific problems up with Asher, as your department head.” Joanne cuts me off crisply. “But in the meantime, I do have some news, which Asher will be announcing later: Lina is no longer working for the company.” She shoots me an icy smile. “So everyone in marketing will need to pull together! If you could personally take on Lina’s projects, just temporarily, that would be helpful. And, obviously, any other issues you have may need to wait, as Asher is somewhat stretched as a result.”
I stare at Joanne in disbelief.
“Lina’s left?”
“She sent an email this morning indicating that she was not returning.”
“She just left?”
“It was quite a shock for Asher.” Joanne lowers her voice. “Between you and me, I’ve never known such disrespectful treatment. And quite a rude email, I can tell you!”
I can barely hear Joanne, my thoughts are whirling so fast. Lina got out. She’d had enough and she got out. And now I’m supposed to take on her projects? On top of everything else? I’ll collapse. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. But who do I turn to? Who can I talk to? This place is hell. It’s a circular hell with no way out.…
I need to do the same as Lina, it comes to me in a powerful realization. I need to escape. Right now. This minute. But carefully. Warily. No sudden moves, or else Joanne might tackle me to the floor.
“I’ll just pop to the ladies’，” I say in a stilted voice, picking up my bag. “And then I’ll be back. I’ll be back in, like, three minutes. I’m just popping to the ladies’。”
Trying to keep a steady pace, I walk self-consciously toward the ladies’。 At the door, I pause and look around to see if I’m being observed. Then I dodge into the stairwell and start running like lightning down the stone steps, my heart pumping furiously. I emerge onto the street and stand on the pavement for a few seconds, blinking.
I’m out.
But what do I do now? Where will I work? Will they give me a reference? What if they don’t? What if I’m unemployable?
My stomach squeezes in fright. What have I done? Should I go back in? No. I can’t, I just can’t.
For a few moments I’m transfixed. I don’t feel right. Everything seems blurry. Blood is pumping in my ears. All the cars and buses sound like juggernauts. I should go home, I dimly think. But what’s home? A messy, disheveled, depressing flat. What’s my life? A messy, disheveled, depressing nothing.
I can’t do life. The stark truth lands in my brain with a thud. I can’t do life anymore. If I just acknowledged this one fact, everything would be easier. Life is too hard. I want to give up … what, exactly? Working? Being? No, not being. I like being alive. I think. I just can’t be alive like this.
My phone buzzes with a message, and out of habit I open it, to see a text from Joanne.
Sasha, where have you got to??
In a spasm of panic, I glance up at the office windows and move slightly down the street, out of sight. I should go home, but I don’t want to go home. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know.
As I’m standing there, coughing on bus fumes, my eyes focus on the convent opposite, and through my brain fog, I feel a weird, creeping sensation. A kind of yearning.
What do nuns do all day, anyway? What’s the job spec? I bet all they do is pray and knit vests for the poor and go to bed at 6 P.M. every night in their nice basic cells. They have to sing hymns—but I could learn those, couldn’t I? And how to put on a wimple.
It would be a simple, healthy life. A manageable life. Why didn’t I think of this before? Maybe it was all meant to be. There’s a sudden, blissful release inside my mind, so intense I almost feel giddy. This is my calling. At last!
Feeling more serene and purposeful than I have for years, I cross the road. I head to the big wooden door, ring on the bell marked OFFICE, and wait for an answer.
“Hello,” I say simply to the elderly nun who opens the door. “I’d like to join.”
OK. Not to criticize the convent at all, but I will admit I’m disappointed by my reception. You’d think they’d want nuns. You’d think they would have welcomed me in with open arms and a chorus of “Hallelujah!” But instead, a senior sort of nun called Sister Agnes, wearing cords, a sweater, and a bright-blue veil, has sat me down in her office, made me an instant coffee （I was expecting a medieval herbal tincture）， and started inquiring about my background. Who I am and where I work and how I found out about the convent.
Why does any of that matter? It should be like the French Foreign Legion. No questions asked, just put on your headdress and begin.
“So you work for Zoose,” she says now. “Are you not happy there?”
“I used to work for Zoose,” I correct her. “Until about half an hour ago.”
“Half an hour ago!” she exclaims. “What happened half an hour ago?”
“I realized I wanted this life.” I make a telling gesture around the plain little room. “A pared-back existence. Poverty. Celibacy. No emails, no phones, no sex. Especially no sex,” I clarify. “You don’t need to worry about that. I have zero libido right now. I probably have less libido than you do!” I break into a shrill laugh, before realizing that Sister Agnes isn’t joining in. Nor does she look amused.
It’s probably bad form to refer to a nun’s sex drive, I acknowledge belatedly. But never mind. I’ll learn these things.
“We have emails,” says Sister Agnes, giving me an odd look. “We have iPhones. Who’s your parish priest?”
“You have iPhones?” I stare at her, thrown. Nuns have iPhones? That doesn’t seem right.
“Who’s your parish priest?” she repeats. “Do you worship nearby?”
“Well.” I clear my throat awkwardly. “I don’t exactly have a parish priest, because I’m not exactly Catholic. As yet. But I totally can be. Will be,” I correct myself. “When I’m a nun. Obviously.”
Sister Agnes stares at me for so long I start to feel uncomfortable.
“So, when can I start?” I try to move the conversation on. “What’s the procedure?”
Sister Agnes sighs and picks up the landline phone on her desk. She dials a number and murmurs something into the handset which sounds like, We’ve got another one. Then she turns to me.
“If you want to explore the religious life, I suggest you start by going to church. You can find your local Catholic church online. Meanwhile, thank you for your interest and God bless.”
It takes me a moment to realize that this is a dismissal. She’s sending me away? Not even You can try it out for a day or two? Not even Fill out this application form?