Sisters in the Wind(10)

Life continued this way for the rest of eighth grade. My dad and I still went to the community pool three times a week, but most days he was too tired to swim with me. In addition, he was concerned about prepping his stoma to maintain a waterproof seal. We invited my stepmother to join us, but she didn’t like the chlorine smell at the community pool. Instead she preferred to go for long walks or run errands by herself. I thanked God for this small miracle every time I’d don my swimsuit.



* * *



That summer, I turned thirteen and didn’t spend much time with my dad and Bridget. Several neighbors hired me to babysit, and many wanted me along to teach their children to swim at the country-club pool. I thought my parents would grow closer in my absence, but they remained like colleagues who happened to live together. Although I hadn’t read many romance books, none depicted anything resembling the way my dad and stepmother interacted.

In August I asked my dad for permission to attend high school in Harbor Springs rather than Petoskey. St. Francis Xavier went only as far as the eighth grade. I didn’t want to ride with my parents to Petoskey every day. I wanted time away from my stepmother. I wanted a high school experience where I wasn’t the weird girl. I wanted friends.

“Would you come straight home after school?” my dad wondered, not immediately turning down the request.

“Yes. Or I could walk to the library downtown and do homework until you and Bridget came home.” I imagined the possibilities. “Or maybe I could join the swim team?” I anxiously smoothed my cowlick, as if flat bangs would sway my dad.

My dad mulled it over in his careful measured way, where he really did look like Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird.

My stepmother weighed in. “She’s only thirteen, Luke. Would it be appropriate for her to be in a swimsuit around high school boys? All of them are older than her.”

My dad decided I could attend the local school. Swim team was out. He brought me to the school office and completed the registration paperwork. We received a tour.

The first day of school, the high school principal sought me out.

“Lucy, I forgot to include a 506 form in your registration packet. This is for your parents to fill out.”

She handed me an orange card. It read:

U.S. Department of Education

Office of Indian Education

Title VII Student Eligibility Certification



“I’m not Native American,” I said, handing the form back to her.

“Oh.” She sounded surprised. “We provide the form to every new student … so, um, well, okay.” Her cheeks turned bright red as she took the card from my outstretched hand.

It seemed wasteful to bring the form home only for my dad to throw it away.

Since after school I would walk to the public library downtown, to do homework until my dad and Bridget returned from Petoskey, I needed a cell phone for emergencies. My classmates showed off their flip phones. I was content with a basic, green-screened Samsung phone that contained exactly two phone numbers.

After a brief flurry of attention that overwhelmed me, my classmates decided that I was either stuck up or socially inept to a debilitating degree. By the second week of my freshman year, I was ignored except when boys would be reminded of my chest.

I never told my parents about the gawkers. It would have given my stepmother a victory in some way, perhaps even prompting her to push my dad to reconsider his decision. Freedom from Bridget was worth the unwanted attention.



* * *



My stepmother continued to be a constant source of curiosity for me. When I asked if she had dated anyone prior to my dad, she was aghast. It was a sin to be a loose woman, she said.

Bridget lamented that mass was no longer said in Latin. My dad agreed, though I’d never heard him speak it outside of the repetitions we all did.

I wondered if my dad hoped I’d grow up to be like her. The thought had me wondering about my birth mother—the woman who had gotten my dad to sleep with her outside of marriage, had gotten pregnant, and had walked away from us.

Curiosity drew me to my dad and Bridget’s bedroom. I hadn’t been there since before my stepmother moved in. She had very few personal effects: a silver-framed photograph of a couple who were most likely her parents, the porcelain ring holder I’d given her as a wedding gift, and a small statue of St. Maria Goretti.

It made no sense. St. Maria Goretti was the patron saint of purity. A virgin saint staring at the marital bed?

The bottom drawer of her nightstand was slightly extended and filled with books. The word sexless caught my attention. Listening out for an early return, I reached for the book: What Would St. Dwynwen Do? A Guide to Finding Fulfillment in a Sexless Marriage.

Stunned, I returned the book to its exact spot. I nearly stumbled rushing downstairs but reached my bedroom before my stepmother came back. My mind raced.

Had my dad married Bridget to provide a mother for me, but not a wife for himself? Was it a noble act for my benefit? Or a selfish one? Maybe he had side effects from the surgery and couldn’t do intercourse. Had he fully disclosed the terms of their marriage beforehand? Or had she been misled?

Was it possible that my dad was as clueless at marriage as he’d been at dating?

I decided to be the best stepdaughter possible.

From then on, if Bridget and my dad disagreed about which movie to watch on Pizza Thursday, I’d vote for her choice. I reminded my dad about her birthday and went with him to a jeweler in Petoskey for an elegant gold necklace and matching earrings. Sometimes I’d spend my allowance at the florist so he could surprise her with flowers.