Sisters in the Wind(8)
My dad arranged for me to stay with my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Sobecki, and her husband during his hospital stay in Petoskey. Before bringing me to their home the day before surgery, my dad measured my wrist. He used a pointy screwdriver called a bradawl to make extra holes in the black leather watchband of the Seiko gold watch he wore every day.
“Keep this safe for me,” he said, helping me put the watch on. He pointed to the cream-colored watch face. “See? It has your middle name on it: Dolce. Dolce Lucy. Sweet Lucy.”
He smoothed my cowlick and smiled. It was the only part of me that was disobedient.
My dad recuperated just as he said he would. He returned to work a month into the new school year, right on schedule. Since he was also my English teacher, I saw even more of him than usual that school year. Everything returned to normal, just as he had promised.
* * *
My classmates turned their attention to our new math teacher, who’d replaced an elderly nun who’d fallen ill and retired early. Miss Mapother had freckles and didn’t wear makeup. Her long strawberry-blond hair was pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her petite frame was dressed simply: black skirts below the knee, gray or beige turtleneck sweaters, pantyhose or opaque tights, and black clogs. Although Miss Mapother looked like a pretty college student, she was stricter than any other teacher at St. Francis Xavier. Her clipped voice was serious; she never joked or talked about her personal life. Most boys got over their initial crushes and called her the “Un-Fun Nun” behind her back.
The math and English classrooms were next to each other. My dad didn’t like any deviations from his daily lesson plan, but he didn’t mind when Miss Mapother knocked on his classroom door with questions. He even left his doorway perch between class periods to chat with her in the hallway.
The Sunday before Christmas, Miss Mapother sat in the church pew with us and whispered her prayers with conviction. My dad invited her to join us for brunch afterward. Sunday brunch at a local restaurant was part of our weekly routine. It was the only time we dined out. He requested a table instead of our usual booth. Miss Mapother silently observed as my dad and I discussed the readings and homily from mass.
She joined us the following Sunday as well.
When school resumed in January, classmates asked if my dad and Miss Mapother were dating. In lieu of words, I shook my head. I’d read a few historical romances, and our Sunday brunches weren’t like the dates depicted in those novels. No flirty banter or pining gazes. I was sure Miss Mapother didn’t have clothes like the women on the covers—firm corsets, dainty gloves, and fine, billowing fabrics that seemed translucent in the moonlight.
In February, Miss Mapother came over for Pizza Thursday. My dad and I changed into our pizza-night outfits. I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt. My dad always wore jeans and his baseball jersey from his time playing for Central Michigan University. Miss Mapother arrived in the same plain skirt and sweater she’d worn to school that day. I remembered a boy in a lower grade saying her chastity belt must be triple-locked. Although I’d been given permission to call her Bridget while she was in our home, I kept forgetting because she looked and acted like the classroom Miss Mapother. She sat in the rarely used rocking chair, instead of joining us on the picnic blanket in front of the sofa. We ate homemade pizza and watched my favorite movie, The Trouble with Angels. It was an old movie about two mischievous girls—Mary Clancy and Rachel Devery—at a Catholic convent school.
I was the “weird kid” in school who had skipped a grade and rarely spoke except to give correct answers. My classmates routinely referred to me as a geek, a nerd, a brainiac, and a humanoid replicant. One boy called me an “awkward turtle,” which thankfully never caught on. But during that first Pizza Thursday with my dad and Miss Mapother, I considered the possibility that I was more socially adept than either of them.
Bridget took me shopping for my first bra. Although I was only eleven and a half, I had experienced a growth spurt that added inches not only to my height but to my bust as well. She selected white, cone-shaped brassieres, and lectured that bras were no longer optional for a girl as developed as me. Chaste young women did not call attention to their breasts.
She left powder-scented deodorant in the main-floor bathroom next to my bedroom, and gave another lecture that it was my responsibility to ensure I didn’t perspire. Boys became sexually aroused by the odor of female sweat. The first day I forgot to use deodorant, Bridget sniffed in an exaggerated manner. I felt my nose tingle as the tears welled up.
Bridget purchased a box of extra-large sanitary napkins, warning that menstrual products would be needed any day now. Once I started menstruating, I requested tampons so I would not miss swimming days. She replied that pure young women didn’t violate themselves by inserting foreign objects into their vaginas. Maybe, because I was growing up, my dad had invited her into our lives to give me an example of what a Catholic woman should be?
Instead it felt like I was living in a convent, minus the hijinks that Mary Clancy and Rachel Devery managed to get into in The Trouble with Angels.
* * *
In March, my dad had surgery to remove more of his colon. Instead of me staying with Mrs. Sobecki, Bridget came over for the week. She wore a ruffled flannel nightgown and slept on the sofa. We had Pop-Tarts for breakfast and went to restaurants for dinner every evening.