Hidden Voices by Pat Lowery Collins Page B

the saints, things that I cannot remember in the light of morning.
    This morning I have awakened from a very deep sleep, which came upon me only as the windows were beginning to change from midnight blue to gray streaked with pink and yellow. My first thought is of Catina and how she has fared after another troubled night. But when I glance at her bed, it is untidy and slightly soiled and entirely empty.
    She has left us, too,
I tell myself, and the thought is so unbelievably sad that I curl into a ball and make a shrill wild sound that I have never made before or heard uttered by a single soul.
    “What is this keening?” asks Sofia. “Are you in pain?”
    “Catina has left us,” I cry into my chest. “Little Catina, good little Catina, is gone.”
    When Sofia laughs, I find it cruel beyond belief.
    “Only to another room,” she assures me, “so that you and the others can get some rest.”
    “Is it true?” I ask, uncoiling slowly from my ball of misery. Can it possibly be true?
    “Of course it is,” says Sofia. “And we are watching her even more carefully. And,” she adds, “seeing some slight improvement. Nothing is easy for that child, but she has a center of hard gold that cannot be cracked. You will see.”
    Catina has been so terribly sick and she is so young, it is difficult to believe that she has not lost her fight. But remembering our conversation in the infirmary that night that seems so long ago, I realize what Sofia has said about Catina’s hard center is right, and that I should have suspected her amazing will may actually be able to transcend things that would take the life of someone physically stronger.
    I continue to ask about her, however, even as my own strength does indeed begin to eke back into my limbs and mind. My throat cannot be trusted just yet, however. I can speak well enough but am afraid to test my singing voice, stricken by panic at times when I think how it might have simply disappeared.
    When Sofia tells me that I may move back into the chamber shared with other girls from the
coro,
it seems like a huge step for which I am unprepared.
    “You cannot stay in the infirmary forever,” she tells me. “You are one of the last to leave.”
    “It is only this one bed I occupy. There are many ones empty now.”
    “Because some of the girls who were in them have returned to their lives in the Ospedale. As you should. As you must.”
    She begins packing up the few things I have accumulated here — a small bone-handled brush for my teeth, a comb for my hair, and an extra chemise — and she hands me the nightdress I wore to the infirmary that first awful night. She has fetched my everyday clothing and lays it upon the rumpled bed. When she gently pulls me to my feet, the room spins less than in the past and soon rights itself. Still, it takes a great effort to dress myself. With the apron, it is all I can manage to tie it properly behind my back. What good fortune that the cap covers this head of hair matted with body oil and sweat, for until one is entirely well, we are told not to wash overmuch for fear of a chill.
    Our chamber is empty when I return there — not surprising since it is the middle of morning and classes are in session. My bed has been made neatly by someone, probably Anetta. The things in my trunk seem undisturbed. I was, of course, certain they would be, for the students here are taught honesty above any other virtue. My guitar, an instrument that I rarely play, stands invitingly in the corner, and soon I am sitting by the window, strumming it, my fingers stiff and shaky but warming to the vibrations of the strings and the indescribable feeling of making music again. It is the first time since I was very little and, as Mother has told me, I would sing for her amusement, that I have played or sung with no others to join in. Just melding the notes into a chord, their exact harmonies always the same even when repeated again and again, seems such a perfect thing. It