Frowning, I examine my image on the screen, seeing the smudge in question near the corner of my mouth. “Um, no.” I reach up, guiltily wiping it with my index finger. “It’s chocolate.”
Silence. “That’s right,” Dad says after a moment, too cheerfully. “You met up with your friends tonight, right? How was it?”
“Great.” There was once a time when my parents were thrilled at my weekly meetings with Matilda and Nina—probably believing that being in such close contact with two other former sisters might remind me of what I’m missing and persuade me to renew my vows. When they slowly began to realize the opposite might be true, their enthusiasm about our weekly meetings dimmed considerably.
My mother changes the topic quickly, not wanting to dredge up the old fight. Actually,fightmakes it sound more like a confrontation. Conversations with my mother are never direct—they are passive-aggressive boxing matches where we dance around each other and mutually agree to pretend we don’t notice she is taking jabs. “Don’t forget we’ll be in town next week for Aunt Linda’s birthday. I’m looking forward to attending mass with you at St. Michael’s.”
Again, I must suppress an eye roll, knowing that my mother can see my face, though it almost feels worth it to chance it. Every time my mother visits me in Chicago, she insists on doing a self-made tour of all the most beautiful Catholic cathedrals in the city, as if this will trick me back into sisterhood.
I still go to church, I do. But I’m happily a once-a-week worshiper these days, and no cathedral, no matter how stunning, is going to convince me to give up my free will. Or my Pizookies.
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally, mostly to avoid an argument, then fake a yawn. “Early shift tomorrow. Better get to bed.”
They let me go, telling me to sleep well and that they love me, and I bid them good night. As I get ready for bed, I wonder how it’s possible for two people to make me feel both smothered by their love and also like I’m a constant disappointment, in practically the same breath. They act like my choice to stop being a sister was the worst thing that’s ever happened to them, as if it’s so outrageous that I should get any say in my own life.
I wonder sometimes if that’s part of why I have such a hard time letting go of some parts of my life from back when I still had a vocation. The baggy clothes, for example. I know in theory that it wouldn’t be a big deal for me to wear normal clothes in which my figure is not just an amorphous blob of fabric. Even Nina, with her shirts always buttoned to the top of her neck and long skirts down to her ankles, at least has a silhouette. I suppose I have a silhouette, too, in my big bulky sweaters—only it resembles the Kool-Aid Man more than a human woman, which is what I should be going for, probably.
Freed from my bra, wearing my sleep shorts and T-shirt, I take stock of myself in the full-length mirror. It isn’t a dislike of my body that keeps me from dressing in a more flattering way. I know I’m not a supermodel or anything, but I don’t think I’m hideous. I’m tall—not Matilda tall, but taller than average—with blonde hair that brightens and darkens with the seasons, depending on how much sun I get. My eyes are bright blue, my nose just slightly crooked, but in a way that gives my face character, I think. Underneath the baggy clothes I wear, I’m not fat or thin, but somewhere in the middle. I like my hourglass figure, my surprisingly small waist, my toned calves and shapely ankles. I don’t like the little pooch just below my belly button, or the cellulite on my thick thighs. I’m coming to terms with my voluminous breasts, which always feel a little bit overpowering and are therefore more comfortably hidden under baggy T-shirts and bulky sweaters.
I think my body is fine, all things considered. Maybe even attractive, on days when I’m in a good mood and I’m not on my period, or about to start my period, or just after my period—so, that one good week out of the entire month. It’s more like I can’t really reconcile putting myself in a position to be seen as an attractive, sexual being. I like being amorphous. It’s safe, and comforting.
It’s also likely why I’m still a thirty-one-year-old virgin.
Deflated by this assessment, I turn out the lights and go to bed. In the dark, I run my hands over my body, not for the sake of arousal, but assessment. If I ever do manage to have sex with a real human man, what will he feel when he touches me? Will he like my softness, my contours? Will he pity me for my lack of experience? Will it be obvious, off-putting?
It’s a pointless hypothetical, since even getting a man this far is unlikely at best.
Chapter 4
Helen
It’s with this same sense of gloom that I go to my appointment with Dr. Sandra the next morning. Her name is actually Dr. Fielding, but she’s not technically my psychologist, although she isapsychiatrist, who lets me talk about my problems problems in exchange for scones.
Let me explain.
Remember that Boston Catholic network I mentioned? One of the only reasons my parents agreed to let me move to Chicago was because of their contacts in the city. And yes, I’m aware that it’s absurd that an adult woman should need permission from her parents. My parents are friends through church with the Sullivans and the O’Malleys, and their sons—Quinn Sullivan and Dan O’Malley—live in Chicago with their respective wives and children. As also previously mentioned, they run a pretty impressive security operation, so my parents were convinced I’d be safe as long as Dan and Quinn kept an eye on me.
I knew Dan and Quinn growing up in Boston, but not well. They were family friends I knew mainly through my parents, too old to be in my group of friends but close enough that I idolized them from afar as part of the cool, handsome, older crowd. They knew me as a kid, an awkward teenager, a sister, and now as a laywoman. We are on the exchanging-Christmas-cards level of friendship but not the hang-out-at-a-weekend-BBQ tier.
So I was surprised how much Quinn—and to a lesser extent Dan, since he had moved back to Boston—took me under their wing when I moved to Chicago. Anything I’ve needed has been provided without question. When I showed up at my apartment for the first time, expecting to spend all morning moving in my boxes, I was met by professional movers who assured me they had everything covered and that I could go relax at a local nail salon, courtesy of Quinn. When I casually mentioned to my mother that my air conditioner was acting up one summer, I had a repairman show up to my house within the hour, his fee already paid.
And when my health insurance wouldn’t cover a therapist, I got a call from Dr. Sandra.
Dr. Sandra is red haired and beautiful, and has a friendly but no-nonsense demeanor that feels somehow softened by her spunky Texas drawl. She has a way of making you feel like you’re talking to a friend, but a friend who will absolutely not let you get away with any horse manure.
Dr. Sandra insists that I can’t pay her since she isn’t my psychologist or psychiatrist, just someone who happens to have a medical degree in psychiatry who meets with me regularly for homemade scones. At first I assumed Dan or Quinn must be subsidizing her fee, but now I’m not so sure. Along with genuinely acting like my friend, Dr. Sandra also seems completely fascinated with my transition out of the order, or my “no-sex cult” as she jokingly likes to call it.
After some gentle prodding in our first “nonsession,” I told her the specifics of my own predicament, surprised at how quickly it all came spilling out. Leaving my community, the path I’d always believed was my life’s calling, reentering the world and not quite knowing how to fit into it anymore. Oh, and the whole issue of being a virgin and trying to date for essentially the first time in my life. (I originally left out the details of having never had a boyfriend or been kissed, not wanting to seem like too much of a loser to Dr. Sandra, though that came out over time. She’s sneaky that way.)
Dr. Sandra listened quietly on that first visit—which I assumed would be our only meeting, a onetime pro bono advice session from a friend of a friend—then recommended that we continue to meet bi-monthly until I “found my footing.” I guessed this was essentially psychotherapy speak for “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” A one-off discussion was not going to cut it for this weirdo.
And now, after almost two years, I’m continuing to see Dr. Sandra, though now only once a month. It’s helpful to have someone to check in with and talk to about my progress. I have Matilda and Nina, and to a lesser extent, my parents, but it’s nice to have someone who doesn’t have a horse in the race, so to speak. Dr. Sandra doesn’t care if I become a sister again or never go back to church or start calling myself Madonna. (Well, that last one might raise at least one well-manicured eyebrow of concern.) She’s simply here to listen.
I spot Dr. Sandra now, waiting on the park bench that’s our spot, unless it’s too cold outside—even by hardy Chicagoan standards. It’s bitterly cold today, as a matter of fact, but we’re both bundled up in hats and gloves and huge puffy coats that make my usual baggy sweaters seem practically skintight in comparison. Plus, I’ve brought along thermoses of my favorite Mexican hot chocolate, along with a flask of whisky in case Dr. Sandra wants to make them a little Irish, too.
Meeting outside is easier unless it’s snowing or gusting with ice-cold wind, since we don’t have to worry about anyone listening in too closely. When we used to regularly meet in a coffee shop, there was one guy who I’m pretty sure was following us so he could write a screenplay about me, until Dr. Sandra got him talking about himself and made him cry in under half an hour. It was impressive, honestly, and a little frightening.
“Helen,” she says today by way of greeting, standing to give me a hug. “Cute shoes. Any sex yet?”
