Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 434 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  A surge of adrenaline came over me as I silently gloated on my defiance. This was my decision to be here on out-of-bounds territory. I was coming to attend Midnight Mass, and she couldn’t stop me. She wouldn’t dare. However, when it came time to join the community in the line to receive Communion, I found myself gripped by that all-too-familiar sense of panic, one I had experienced so many times over the past decade. Should I slip out and return to St. Joseph’s House without taking Communion? The line was forming—I had to decide. What if Father refuses to serve me Communion? The ignominy of that scene would be unbearable. What will Sister Catherine do when she sees me? I resorted to prayer: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I need your help . The line was moving forward, and I was in it. There was no turning back now. A clammy dampness spread across my hands, my neck, and my cheeks, and my knees shook like castanets as I neared the altar. Then I knelt down and waited for my turn to receive Communion. Don’t let Father skip over me, please, I prayed silently as he slowly made his way toward me. I crossed my hands on my chest, feeling the pounding of my heart inside. Then Father laid the host on my tongue. Before I could stand up, I felt his hand on my head, a soft, silent blessing that seemed to say, “God loves you.” My tension evaporated, replaced by an aura of calm. I had come to God, and He had not rejected me. I rose and walked in procession past Sister Catherine and the long pew of Big Sisters, past the spot where I’d been sitting, out of the chapel and into the wintry December air. In the midnight darkness, I made my way to St. Joseph’s House, feeling triumphant. I had conquered my fear. No one would intimidate me again. And ten hours later, when Father celebrated the Christmas morning mass, I was there in the chapel again, this time unafraid, uncowed, emboldened. Returning to St. Joseph’s House for Christmas breakfast, I was astounded to see half a dozen beautifully wrapped and ribboned presents under the tree. “They’re for you,” my mother said as we sat down to a feast she had prepared. For me? I thought. Sister Elizabeth Ann got these for me? Weeks earlier, I had tried to stop thinking about the fact that I wouldn’t get any Christmas presents. Since that first Christmas in Still River when Baby Jesus (whom I never believed in) brought us stockings full of gifts, I had reveled in opening presents—the mere act of untying ribbons and unwrapping paper never ceased to fill me with pleasure. After breakfast, I opened my gifts with Sister Elizabeth Ann—a pink sweater set, blouses, chocolate turtles with a note of Merry Christmas from my grandparents, and a small box in which there was a gold ring set with three small pearls.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Sister Catherine often praised various Big Brothers and Sisters, pointing out their detachment from their children, but it didn’t escape me that my parents were never mentioned. Worrying became part of the daily pattern of my life. I couldn’t help it. The premonition that something terrible might happen to my parents consumed me. I wanted them to be safe, I wanted them to be happy, and I wanted them to be loved by Father and Sister Catherine. But I couldn’t make that happen. Anxiety lay in the bottom of my stomach like a stone. If they were kicked out, it would be my responsibility to look after my three younger sisters and my brother. 31 Visit from a “Stranger” 1960 T he obligatory dinnertime silence was broken by the sound of the front door bell. At first it was a quick chink-like sound. Then it repeated itself, a long incessant buzz. Who could be there? I wondered. No one came to our front door during dinner. Presently Sister Catherine, tall and with an air of command, charged through our refectory and headed toward the front door. She returned shortly. “It’s Betty Sullivan,” she announced, clearly not pleased. And then directing her next comment to the Angels, she added, “She wants to come back.” My heart skipped several beats. Betty Sullivan? The woman I so loved from the time I was a toddler? While I had long gotten over the heartbreak of her being kicked out, I occasionally wondered what her life was like out in the world. The image was always the same—a gentle woman with a soft voice and melancholy eyes. Later that evening, a dark and chilly night, I left St. Therese’s House alone and headed down the flagstone path toward the driveway, which was dimly lit from above by two floodlights. Suddenly, a figure bounded from the direction of the side porch and sped in front of me. It had an almost ghoulish form, the face contorted, the eyes closed, and the lips grotesquely puffy. Terrified, I leapt to the side and hid behind a tall lilac bush, from which I peered out to witness the gnarled form as it loped across the lawn, one leg seeming to drag behind it, with a large cape billowing out into the darkness. In an instant, I realized it must be Betty Sullivan. But she resembled nothing like the beautiful woman in my memory. I stood shaking; fear and repulsion was all I felt. How hideous she had become. I raced home as fast as I could. I never wanted to come that close to her again—not in the dark. That turned out to be only the first of many sightings that materialized like unwanted apparitions. Out of nowhere, mostly in the dark, but sometimes even in broad daylight, Betty Sullivan would scamper across the lawn from the direction of the highway. Her eyes were nearly always shut, and her hair was matted around her head.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “When do you think you might be able to pay me back?” “Soon,” she said, almost dismissively. I got that sick feeling that used to come over me at the Center when I knew I’d lost control. “I’ll have it next week,” another roommate promised, while the third, looking chagrined, mumbled, “I just don’t get paid enough.” I was dumbfounded. Didn’t they know a contract was binding? Or did they take me for a fool? As the third month-end was nearing and I had not been repaid, I suddenly didn’t feel quite so self-assured, so worldly, so ready to take on the world. But where could I turn? I was in pressing need of advice—from someone with experience—but I had no parents to turn to on the spur of the moment, no mentor, no friend ready to offer words of wisdom. I desperately wanted to solve this problem on my own, to prove to myself that I was managing in this new world. To have to cry for help from the Center might give Sister Catherine the upper hand, something I couldn’t countenance. My meager financial resources were all but spent when I did the only thing left to me —I called Still River. As I expected, Brother Pascal, the regular porter, answered the phone. “St. Benedict Center, good afternoon,” he said in his cheerful jaunty way. I took a deep breath and spoke. “Hi, Brother Pascal, it’s Mary Patricia Walsh. Is Sister Elizabeth Ann there?” His tone turned almost paternal. “Yes, dear, hold on one second, I’ll get her for you right away.” When I told my mother my predicament, she snapped into action. “Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock, I’ll arrive with the station wagon. Bring all your things down to the curb, and I’ll pick you up.” True to her word, the next morning she was there in the Center’s green station wagon, a dilapidated vehicle that likely had a few hundred thousand miles under its belt. I had packed my clothes into two suitcases, and the rest of my possessions consisted mostly of my growing record collection, some secondhand pots and pans, as well as a shoe bag stuffed with more shoes than I realized I had accumulated. “You can stay in the car,” I yelled almost frantically as she pulled alongside the curb. “I can put everything into the back.”

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Anastasia, I would like to see you in my office after dinner.” I was startled. Sister Catherine was addressing me in front of all the Little Brothers and Sisters as she stood in the doorway between our refectories. Although her voice was pleasant, my stomach instantly twisted into a knot. Had I done something wrong? I couldn’t fathom what. After dinner, I stood anxiously outside Sister Catherine’s office as I put my ear to the door and heard voices, too muffled to make out the words. When Sister Catherine responded to my timid knock, I entered. She swiveled in her chair and faced me. I looked for a sign of her mood, but I couldn’t judge. Was there the slight hint of a smile, or was that my imagination? I tried to appear relaxed, but inside I was shaking. Father was slouched in his red leather chair, and sitting on the bench across from Sister Catherine was Sister Mary Laurence. I was puzzled. Why was she here? Sister Mary Laurence was one of the Little Brothers’ Angels—the most detested, in fact, with a reputation for giving them endlessly long beatings. The only two Little Brothers who seemed to escape her wrath were her own sons, Adrian and Alexander. “Anastasia, listen to me carefully.” Sister Catherine’s voice was serious. She paused and I thought she must have been able to hear my heart pounding. “From now on you are to have nothing more to do with Leonard. You are not to speak to him or play with him. Do you understand me completely?” I replied automatically, “Yes, Sister Catherine,” but my mind was racing. Leonard? My best friend and playmate? Why?

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  through a dream I had several nights before our wedding. In my dream, I was visiting the Center and excitedly telling the Big Brothers and Sisters about my upcoming nuptials. I was careful to omit the word “Episcopal” from the name of the Church—St. Paul’s—hoping they would think the wedding was to take place at the beautiful church of the same name that was directly across from the original Center in Cambridge. A sense of relief came over me when I realized that I hadn’t slipped up on the “Episcopal” part. After describing the music and telling them that my brother David and my sister Cathy would be singing the Ave Maria—sure signals, I trusted, that this was a Catholic wedding—I offered to show them my wedding dress. As I pulled it carefully out of its garment bag, I choked back a gasp of horror—instead of the crisp white beaded designer dress I had picked out in London, my wedding dress was a lifeless stone gray. My heart sank. This was a dead giveaway, I was sure, that I was not getting married in the Catholic Church. I awoke from my nightmare and realized how strongly I was still tied to my childhood home, how much I wanted to ensure that I did nothing to lose the love of my “uncles and aunts” at the Center. * * * From the time I was a child, I had imagined myself in the role of mother. But real life was unfolding differently. I was thirty-six years old on the day of my wedding and as I neared my fortieth birthday, my career was barreling forward. Not that the trajectory was a straight line up. The journey had been arduous at times—in no small measure on account of the unique circumstances of my childhood. At the age of nineteen, with not a clue as to how to finesse my way in business, much less with any notion of a career path, I had the good fortune to find myself on the bottom rung of a ladder in the world of finance and investing. I’ve sometimes wondered how the course of my career might have been altered had I instead become the receptionist at a car dealership, or a travel agency.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Our books were not sanctioned by the Church, they said, and we should be arrested for trespassing. The members of the Center community, dressed identically in black, were easy to spot. Hardly a week went by without one or more of the men and women, including my father on one occasion, being arrested on their bookselling journeys. Often they were confined in jail until Bill Shea, the Harvard-educated lawyer and Center member, would pay a visit to “friends in high places,” as he described his lawyer friends in Boston. Within a few hours, he had managed to free the booksellers. Bookselling wasn’t the only cause for anxiety in our secluded life. Each Sunday afternoon, regardless of the season or the weather, the adult members of the community drove from Cambridge to the Boston Common, a sprawling public park in downtown Boston. With Father in the lead, and surrounded by his “bodyguards”—half a dozen of the burliest of the Center men—they processed, fifty strong, men and women, and took up their station on the western corner of the Common, where for an hour or more, Father would address the throngs that gathered, haranguing the audience, blaring epithets against the Jews “who killed Jesus,” and the Freemasons, the Protestants, and anyone who didn’t believe in the doctrine of “No Salvation Outside the Catholic Church.” [image file=Image00017.jpg] Leonard Feeney leading the men (followed by the women) on the Boston Common on a Sunday afternoon in the 1950s. The listening public, in particular those who felt under attack, including Jewish students from nearby Brandeis University, would shout back and, on occasion, the confrontation erupted into violence and the police would appear. But rain or shine, winter and summer, Sunday afternoons were dedicated to a confrontational exchange between the Center and the people of Boston. Though none of us children were ever brought to “the Common,” as we referred to those Sunday afternoon sessions, I developed a clear, if perhaps exaggerated, depiction of what had transpired because at dinner that evening the adults would regale themselves with rehashing the most lurid incidents of the afternoon. On more than one occasion, one of the men came home with a gash in his head or a black eye. Despite the lightheartedness with which the Center members treated these Sunday incidents, I was beginning to wish it all would end. Why was it, I wondered, that we were hated by everyone “out in the world”? The stimulating interaction with the many adult members of our community served to offset the lack of communication with the outside world. I devoured every snippet of information I could glean from them. While the Center’s mission was a somber one, the highly intellectual, spirited men and women didn’t shy away from having a good time. Much of their free time was spent in writing and performing skits that covered a broad array of topics, all done with a level of humor and sophistication far beyond my ken.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I 60 Daring Myself 1969 t was a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon in downtown Boston—perfect Indian summer weather two days before Halloween in the fall of 1969. I’d been shopping at Filene’s Basement and with nothing to show for it, I was headed to the Park Street station to catch the subway back to my apartment in Cambridge, just four short stops away. As I walked along Tremont Street, it occurred to me that I might try going home another way. The idea had crossed my mind on occasion in the past, but I’d resisted the temptation. I’ll do it just once, I thought to myself. Hitchhike. I knew I shouldn’t. Sister Catherine’s lurid stories about how the Hells Angels would beat up hitchhikers remained vivid in my memory. In addition, she had warned us Little Sisters of the dangers—unspecified, perhaps to frighten us all the more—of being alone with a man. But I had been out in the world for more than three years now, and I had yet to witness the evil to which she alluded. With an air of confidence, I faced the oncoming traffic and stuck my thumb out. Within a minute, a green car slowed down and pulled over to the curb. The driver was a man who looked to be in his thirties, wearing a red and blue plaid shirt and jeans. His hair was longish, the style of the day. The car looked respectable—not fancy, but not dilapidated either. “Hop in,” he said and I did, after sizing him up and deciding he looked safe. “I’d like to go to Harvard Square,” I said calmly. “It’s just over the bridge; I can show you the way.”

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  On impulse, I blurted out the question I’d been pondering for months. “Sister Elizabeth Ann,” I whispered, “do you think it would be possible for me to meet my grandparents?” Her eyes lit up and her demeanor, normally reserved, switched into a take-charge mode. “Of course, dear,” she said, in a low voice. “I’ll call them right away.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she walked to the porter’s desk and picked up the telephone. I watched from the refectory as she began a conversation, which continued for about ten minutes. She knows the number by heart , I noted. When she hung up, she motioned for me to join her and spoke in a hushed tone. “We’ve been invited to have lunch with your grandparents at their home tomorrow. Don’t say a word to anyone about it.” I was elated but, at the same time, apprehensive. In bed that night, a torrent of questions kept me awake for hours. Has Sister Elizabeth Ann told Sister Catherine what we’re doing? What do my grandparents look like? How old are they? I hope they’ll be happy to see us. At eleven o’clock the next morning, Sister Elizabeth Ann (her traveling hat pinned on her head) and I headed out of the driveway for the forty-five-minute ride to Cambridge, the first time I could remember taking a trip alone with her. It was a unique opportunity to talk to her, uninhibited by the presence of any authority figures—to share my anxiety about leaving the Center, and to ask her questions about the outside world. But at seventeen, I didn’t know how to confide in her. It had been Sister Maria Crucis, not she, who’d played the role of mother for the last eight years. I was tongue-tied, scarcely knowing how to engage her in casual conversation. Sister Elizabeth Ann, on the other hand, seemed uncharacteristically excited, which helped to ease my nervousness as she told me about her family, both in Cambridge and in Maryland and Virginia, relatives whom she promised I would meet one day. I reveled in her happiness and managed to slip in a few questions. “Do you think my grandparents will be happy to see us?” I asked. “They are dying to see you, dahling,” she replied. “Do they live in the same house you grew up in?” “The very same one.” That provided a bonus, the opportunity to see where my mother had once lived. As we wended our way through Cambridge, I was astonished to realize how close my grandparents lived to our original home behind the red fence. My mother made a right turn from Broadway onto Ellery Street and stopped in front of a large three-family house with the number 54 on the door. “Here we are,” she said. “This is my home.” My home—I loved the sound of those words. But as we exited the car, a wave of embarrassment overcame me.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  The chauffeured limousine was awaiting me at LaGuardia, and for the next few hours, I went from office to office. The last appointment of the day was at the country estate of an elderly man, Mr. Rosenberg. He greeted me at the door, his butler supporting his frail frame as he reached his hand out to me. “Come in,” he said, “please join me for tea.” “Thank you,” I replied instinctively, “I’d love to.” I was brought back to the days in Still River when I was nine years old and the Thursday afternoon tea parties over which Sister Catherine presided. I noted the difference—on this occasion, I was being served rather than serving. Mr. Rosenberg inquired about my interests, and I felt that stab of panic grip my stomach. Dear God, please don’t let him ask me about where I grew up. What would a Jewish man say if he knew I was a Feeneyite? God was on my side, and we found a way to engage in innocuous topics that focused on the cultural scene in Boston, and as I was ready to leave, he handed me a check for $1 million. “Now don’t lose it, honey,” he said with a chuckle. “I promise I won’t,” I replied as I tucked the precious cargo into the inside pocket of my handbag, along with the rest of the treasure trove I had collected. Two hours later, I landed at Logan Airport, took a taxi to the office, and handed over the $5 million. The partners celebrated by taking me to dinner at the Ritz Carlton. As I lay in bed that night, I felt inspired. I saw a life beyond being a receptionist. I can go far, I thought.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  worldly things during my interview. Her words gave me confidence that I was ready. Arriving at the front door of a brownstone on a tree-lined street in Worcester, I waited as the door swung open to reveal two white-haired ladies, easily in their late seventies or early eighties. They led me into the living room, where we sat and conversed at a small table set out with a tea service. What was my favorite subject? “Latin,” I responded. Should I tell them that I had aced the national exam with a 753? No, that would be boasting. “Yes, such an important one, isn’t it, and not taught nearly enough these days.” “What kind of music do you like?” That was easy. “Mozart is my favorite. And I love Chopin, too.” It was going well as we sipped tea and ate vanilla cookies. “And what do you think of the Beatles?” My heart stopped, and I brought my cup down to the table as I tried to keep my hands from shaking. Grateful for that morning when Father had shared a few seconds of their “music of the devil,” as he had called it, I smiled and replied in my most ladylike voice. “It’s not music that I very much enjoy.” “Nor do we,” replied one of the ladies. I exhaled in relief, certain I’d made a good impression. After more social small talk, our tea was over. Thanking my hostesses, I returned to the car, and Sister Ann Mary and I drove home. Over the next few weeks, the pressure of waiting to hear from Vassar was tortuous. Hundreds of times each day I thought, What if I don’t get in? I will have let the whole community down. I dreaded the thought of failing the Center in its time of need.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  tended to be quiet when I was in social circumstances such as this one. I smiled politely and asked and answered impersonal questions, but there was a perpetual queasiness rumbling in my stomach. As the late afternoon sun spilled warm light across the room, we talked about where we bought our clothes and what stores had the best bargains. Filene’s Basement was the unanimous favorite. I feigned interest in the subject but would have preferred to be discussing politics and the growing furor over the war in Vietnam. During a lull in the conversation, the hostess turned to one of the girls and asked, “So where did you go to high school?” I nearly dropped my cracker topped with orange cheddar cheese spread, and in a moment of panic, I instinctively bent down as though to retrieve something off the floor, but in truth I wanted to disappear. This was the nightmare scenario I had played over and over in my head. What will I say if someone asks me where I grew up, or what my father does for a living? I could come up with no answer. All I could think to do was to run away. My heart was pounding as I made a hasty retreat to the powder room, where I hid until the conversation changed. As I continued to tiptoe my way into that new world, my roots were deep indeed, but my wings had yet to develop. I was like the fat fledgling robins I had loved to watch in the springtime at the Center. Full of nourishment from weeks of constant feeding, they sat shaking at the edge of their nests, secure in their fat little bodies, but terrified to take to the air, lest they fall. Naïve and uneducated in the ways of the world, I had only my roots, embedded in years of indoctrination, to rely on—that is, until my wings gathered strength and could take me where I needed to go. Those first few months out on my own found me silent and listening, reserved and observing, reticent to engage in conversation. I stuck to what was familiar while I crammed my brain full of mental notes about what was different, new, and fascinating. I made judgments based on the binary prism through which I had been taught to view the world for nearly eighteen years: good and evil, right and wrong, heaven and hell. Despite the agony of being evicted from the Center shortly before my eighteenth birthday, I was wed to my faith and determined to keep it. My first

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Yet I remained haunted by an endless anxiety—what was next for me? What would I do after the summer? My no-nonsense, commonsense aunt seemed flummoxed—how could I have turned down Bates, my father’s alma mater? I had no good response. I wasn’t ready to turn on my upbringing, although I could tell that she, a devout Catholic, disapproved of the whole way of life at the Center. When I suggested that I might go to secretarial school, she guffawed, as though I was too smart for such a career, and I knew deep down she was right. But I was trapped, powerless to make decisions on my own behalf. I had no money, no experience, no knowledge, no mentor, and thus no key to my own future. * * * As the summer neared an end, my mother arrived to take me on a vacation, visiting her family in Maryland. Together we headed on the long road trip, first visiting the sights in Washington, D.C., and then on to the countryside of St. Mary’s County along the Chesapeake Bay, where we celebrated my eighteenth birthday with my mother’s many aunts, uncles, and cousins. Staying at my great aunt and uncle’s house, I felt even more pampered. Uncle Bill and Aunt Laverne had a cook who seemed ever present and a gardener who tended to the orchards that produced the fruits my great uncle turned into wine—peach and cherry, pear and plum—his hobby. During the day, he ran the local bank while she engaged in civic endeavors; together, they were part of the social scene of Leonardtown, a place that seemed fancy and upscale to me. One morning, when I found myself alone at the house, I put on a pair of white trousers, a piece of clothing I was only starting to get used to wearing. Topping it off with a modest, white cotton eyelet, short-sleeved blouse, I wandered through the orchard and found the gardener, dressed in loose-fitting overalls, the sweat dripping down the side of his cheek and falling onto the deep grass in tiny droplets off his chin as he pruned the fruit trees. The August heat was searing, and he occasionally took a swig of water from a thermos bottle. I sat on a bench and chatted with him. A soft-spoken black man, he told me he had worked on the property for decades, and we discussed issues of farming—insects, harvesting, yield—subjects I knew plenty about but learned more about from him. His manner, though deferential, put me at ease. For those few minutes, I was able to share common experiences in an unpressured environment, a relief from the constant feeling of being hopelessly at a loss for what to say or do next. I returned to the house, where the cook was eating at the small square breakfast table that sat in a corner of the kitchen. “Would you like lunch?” she asked me.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I calculated how fast I had to walk to cross his path and the precise route I would have to take to ensure that we met. I could almost guarantee that he would smile at me. I started up from the chicken coop, doing my best to act as though I had nothing in mind, no purpose for my stroll. As I neared the rutted road, he was still a ways off, so I took a detour and came around the other side of the elderberry bushes at just the moment he arrived at the electric gate to the cow pasture. My heartbeat quickened. As he took the plastic handle and opened the single wire gate, he looked up. I smiled at him, and he smiled back at me and we walked on. I was elated. The next day, I received a summons from Sister Catherine to meet her at the Little Sisters’ cubicles at St. Ann’s House. When I entered the corridor, standing alongside Sister Catherine was Sister Nancy, one of the Angels. Sister Catherine came to her point without hesitation, and her words were fiery. “Just where were you going yesterday when you came up from the chicken coop?” she asked, her voice thunderous with accusation. I could see what was unfolding and knew I had to play dumb. “I was coming back up to the house,” I replied in a quiet, subdued voice. She shot back. “And why did you go around the bushes rather than come straight up?” “It was the fastest way,” I responded. “Oh, really?” The sarcasm in her voice was chilling. “Let’s go see for ourselves.” She strode down the corridor, and I followed her. Flinging open the door, she stood on the balcony and glared at me with fury in her green eyes. She thrust her arm out toward the field, pointing to the route I had taken, and said, “Tell me, honestly, do you really think it is shorter to go that way,” pointing to the route I had taken, “than this way?” pointing to what she indicated to be a more direct route. There wasn’t much difference in the length of the two pathways, and I chose to challenge her. “Yes, I think the way I went is about the same.” She looked as though she would strike me, and I waited for a blow. Instead, she thrust her hands behind her back and spoke—enraged. “I know why you walked that way.” Her voice was shaking. “You wanted to meet Brother Basil coming in from the field.” I maintained a steely composure on the outside. I wasn’t going to back down, despite knowing I’d been caught. But inside, my heart sank, painfully aware that I was unable to escape Sister Catherine’s spies. The entire “choir of Angels,” all eight of them, was on a mission to watch my every move and report back to Sister Catherine. I was trapped.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  My mother was wearing her nun’s clothes, with her hair rolled up in a bun that looked like a half-moon and a tiny black hat pinned on her head. I was dressed in my postulant’s attire. What will my grandparents think of our clothes? But my mother seemed unperturbed as she walked up the front steps, turned the brass knob, and opened the heavy brown door without ringing the doorbell, as though it really were her own place. The hallway had mullioned windows at each floor that let in warm sunlight with a pink tinge. In the air was the scent of cooking, a sign of family life behind the closed doors. “Our apartment is on the third floor,” she said. “Follow me.” Together we climbed the broad wooden stairs, Sister Elizabeth Ann leading the way with a brisk and almost impatient stride, while I followed, holding my breath with anxious anticipation. We reached the second-floor landing, then headed up to the third. “Hello,” Sister Elizabeth Ann called out as we neared the top step. In an instant, the door flew open, as though my grandparents had been waiting for us with their ears pressed against the door. My spectacled grandfather, tall, broad chested, and bald, was dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie. He greeted my mother with outstretched arms, unable to speak, as tears streamed down his cheeks. She embraced him, and they hugged, the silence broken only by his sobs. My grandmother stood a bit behind him, dry-eyed but beaming. She was a tiny, white-haired woman, poised and upright, wearing an elegant pink suit and matching pink lipstick. “Betsy,” she said as they kissed. “It’s so good to see you.” I was taken aback at hearing my mother called Betsy. It seemed out of place, almost a mistake. After that first emotional moment passed, my mother turned to introduce me. “And this is my oldest daughter.” “Mary Pat,” said my grandmother, “you are some lovely young lady.” I was flattered, but also caught off-guard. I hadn’t been called Mary Pat since Father had changed my name to Anastasia when I was nearly five years old. It was strange to hear myself called by my real name. My grandmother’s accent was Southern, and she said my name as though it were one word: “Marepat.” Holding my hand and leading me into the living room, she cooed, “Now dearie, you just call us Grandma and Grandpa.” My anxiety evaporated, and I started to relax. A broad bay window poured bright light into the comfortably furnished living room. “Mary Pat, what would you like to drink? Ginger ale?” “Yes, please,” I replied. “Grandpa’s putting lunch on the table. He’s the cook in the family. We’ll soon eat.” And what a feast it was. The circular dining room table was set with elegant china, real silver, linen napkins, and crystal glasses.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  My Catholic wedding was indeed the best fiftieth birthday present. * * * As I entered my fifties, I reminisced on the uniqueness of my childhood experience and felt an urge to record my personal recollections as a legacy for my children and theirs. The Center of my childhood was now extinct, and within a generation or two, there would be no one left who had a firsthand memory of the life we had lived. In one small way, my story was the same as that of thirty-eight other children. But in reality, there were thirty-nine stories that could be told, and I could tell only mine. I was struck by how differently the thirty-nine of us approached life, religion, and relationships after the similarity of our upbringing, defined by the deprivation of parental affection and a regime of rules and punishments. Only two of the thirty-nine remain in religious life. Several others made a commitment to that life but eventually left in their twenties, thirties, and even sixties. Some of the thirty-nine remained resolutely Catholic, while others took a more laissez-faire attitude toward religion and more than a few abandoned religion entirely. There were marriages and divorces, as well as couples who chose to live together unwed. There were Ivy League graduates and those who did not attend college at all; straight and gay; financially successful professionals, with careers in medicine, psychiatry, engineering, and finance; and a few who struggled to face life’s daily challenges. Despite a staunchly conservative upbringing, there was a large contingent of Democrats, as well as some Republicans, Libertarians, and Independents. Some enjoyed gathering at an annual summer reunion in Still River, while others refused to speak to anyone at the Center again. In a way, we represented a microcosm of society in this country, notwithstanding the unusual circumstances of our early life. Thirty-nine children were raised in an experiment—part of the vision of a woman who believed she could supersede the “evil” forces of nature and mold human beings into a cadre of religious zealots who would follow her, in cult-like fashion, embracing a celibate way of life for God. Where was Leonard Feeney’s input in all this? He was the spiritual leader of the Center. Sadly, once we moved to Still River, his role as leader was titular at best. A romantic at heart, he needed to be admired and praised, and he sought the approbation of those who would give it. That weakness gave Catherine Clarke the upper hand, and despite the fact that she could not hold a candle to Feeney on matters of theology, she usurped his role. He was not strong enough to counter her. Was Catherine Clarke’s vision conceived in the moment of crisis that forced the Center into hiding in 1949? It seems more likely it was honed piecemeal as she became increasingly enamored of her own power.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Casting a swift glance up at her window, my heart nearly stopped. There she was, clear as day, looking down at the two of us. Did she see me smile? I gasped to myself, as the familiar knot of anxiety gripped my stomach. In that moment, I realized that simply crossing the yard had become dangerous—except, that is, on Monday and Thursday mornings when Sister Catherine hadn’t yet returned from her overnight stay with her family. On those occasions, Brother James Aloysius grew bolder in his communication, often whispering, “How’s my little princess?” Free of the danger of being seen by Sister Catherine, I too felt emboldened enough to whisper back, “Very well. Thank you.” We were partners in our communication. It was a dance of sorts—silent and outwardly unemotional when we could be viewed from above by Sister Catherine, and cheerfully whispering when the coast was clear. Sister Elizabeth Ann was assigned to be the dessert cook, which meant that most afternoons she was in the cellar of St. Therese’s House making cakes, pies, or, best of all, angel food cake. And because she could sew, she was also put in charge of making all the clothes for the Little Brothers. I watched her one day as she lined up five or six Little Brothers. “Now hold still so I can measure your arm,” she said with a smile as she stretched her tape measure from shoulder to wrist. I wish she were in charge of making the Little Sisters’ clothes . I ached to have that same opportunity for a little time alone with her. Instead, it was Sister Laura, who had no daughters but was the mother of five of the Little Brothers, who was put in charge of making the Little Sisters’ clothes. I wondered about that. Why did Sister Catherine make sure that the parents couldn’t even have a job that let them be with their children? * * * March turned into April, and I began a countdown to the twelfth of the month, the first anniversary of Grandma Walsh’s death. One year before, while we were still in Cambridge, on the morning of Good Friday, we were standing in line in the basement of St. Francis Xavier’s House preparing to cross the yard to go to chapel, when Sister Elizabeth Ann hurried down the stairs. Walking straight up to me, she gently took me by the hand and brought me to a quiet corner of the basement. Kneeling down so that she was at my eye level and holding both my hands, she said, “Darling, I have something to tell you.” She paused for a moment. “Your Grandma Walsh has died.” I was speechless. My grandma, my adored, gentle, soft-spoken grandma was gone. I’d never see her again. My dreams of our next visit were annihilated. As tears rolled down my cheeks, Sister Elizabeth Ann pulled out her handkerchief and wiped them away.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I glanced at Sister Teresa, her Angel, hoping that she might find a way to encourage Mary Catherine to eat. But she remained silent. Instead, Sister Catherine herself swooped onto the scene with fierce energy, her green eyes cold and narrow, her mouth taut and hard. She was like a hawk fixed on its prey. “We’ll have none of this nonsense,” she said in a voice like thunder, glaring down at Mary Catherine. “You will eat everything on your plate now, or you will be punished.” Sister Catherine’s threat, however, did nothing to induce her to eat. At the end of second breakfast, Sister Teresa picked up her plate of uneaten food, brought it to the kitchen, and put it in the refrigerator. I shuddered. The cold French toast would be Mary Catherine’s lunch, and possibly her dinner. This was just as it had been back in Cambridge. For the next few days, Mary Catherine ate nothing at all. At recreation, she played half-heartedly, as though fearful of the next meal. I was tormented. What had I done that my prayers had gone unanswered? Why was no one in heaven listening to me? Then on Sunday morning, Mary Catherine sat down at her table for second breakfast with a cheerfulness that had eluded her for a week. Gone was the hollow-eyed stare as she gobbled down fried eggs, bacon, coffee cake, and milk. “What a good girl you are,” said Sister Catherine in the well-practiced motherly voice she could use when she wanted to. The tension eased in my stomach, and I ate my own breakfast with a relief I hadn’t felt in days. Mary Catherine smiled and seemed to be her old self once more. Maybe this will be the last time, I thought, with a hopeful prayer. But it wasn’t. Mary Catherine’s episodes became more and more frequent. One Saturday morning, Sister Catherine tried a new tactic. After she’d spoken to us from the doorway between our refectories, she approached Mary Catherine’s table. In a quiet voice, she said, “Mary Catherine, I want to see you in my office after breakfast.” Maybe she’s going to try kindness, I thought, hoping that would work. But it was hard to tell with Sister Catherine; she could play tricks on you. Mary Catherine was gone for the entire morning and I spent the time in lackluster play but inwardly was racked with anxiety. When we gathered for lunch, I held my breath as the bowl of soup was set in front of Mary Catherine.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Since the day my parents were taken away, it had become my daily habit to pray during First Breakfast to a litany of saints, as well as to my guardian angel, beseeching heavenly help as I braced for the daunting task of getting through the day without incurring the wrath of Sister Matilda. On this morning, as I knelt on the hardwood floor of the chapel during First Breakfast, I ignored the prayers on my own behalf, concentrating instead on Mary Catherine’s patron saint. With all the fervor I could muster, I prayed to St. Catherine of Siena. Please help Mary Catherine eat all her breakfast so that she won’t get punished. I was starting to realize that it was always a gamble with my prayers— sometimes they were answered, but just as often, they seemed to miss being heard. On this morning, however, I was rewarded. As we sat down for second breakfast, Mary Catherine picked up her spoon and ate as though yesterday had never existed. I silently thanked the whole court of heaven. My faith in prayer was restored—for the moment. Mary Catherine’s “recovery,” however, didn’t last for long. Her “non-eating” episodes, as I called them to myself, seemed to come out of the blue. For a few weeks she’d be vivacious and energetic, and then one morning, she’d have a

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  and sixteen-year-old Sister Margaret Mary, a novice. Both appeared happy with their choice. I had braced myself for a new head of the household—my father, whom I called “Daddy” from the time he started visiting my mother and me in Cambridge. It suited him, the way “Mother” suited my mother. He was casual; she was more formal. He was laid back; she made sure things were in their proper place. I loved her; I adored him. It had been years since I had to be accountable to either of them, and now I was nearing my twenty-first birthday, accustomed to making my own decisions, leading my own life, traveling where I wanted, building my own coterie of friends. I viewed my father as a neophyte in the world I had come to relish, naïve about social and political issues and hopelessly more religious than I was. Compromise was a virtue I had yet to cultivate. That first evening as the five of us Walshes sat down to a roast chicken dinner at the now-expanded dining room table, my father, with a certain air of bravado and the full flare of a bishop blessing an entire congregation, made the sign of the cross and announced, “Let us say grace.” I grimaced. Grace at meals was one of those rituals I had discarded shortly after my expulsion. It reeked of being a Catholic, something I needed to hide, lest it invite questions that would wrangle their way into divulging my past. While the rest of the family spoke the words with respect, I barely moved my lips, fuming inside. After three years on my own, and now a confident and independent “woman of the world,” I had a feeling of panic. Am I about to lose my freedom? My solution was swift and impulsive. The following day, I traversed the streets of Cambridge and found an apartment on the far side of Harvard Square. At dinner that night, I announced my decision to move out. There was a stunned silence. “I won’t be far,” I said, trying to soften the blow, a sudden pang of guilt sweeping over me as I looked at the expressions of shock on the faces of the people I most loved in the world. But I had no appetite for a return to a life that I feared might be regimented and a reminder of the Center.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  When my father left the Center, he and my mother requested that they be allowed to take with them the sterling silver dinner service for twelve that had been a wedding present twenty-two years earlier. It came as a surprise to me that the silver I had polished almost weekly as I set Father and Sister Catherine’s places at their head table had belonged to my parents. That, together with a check for $9,000, was the sum total that was deemed to be the value of the sweat equity the two of them had contributed over a period of twenty years of living and working and raising money through bookselling, not to mention their donation of the proceeds and contents of their house, which they sold when I was still an infant. My father was approaching his fifty-second birthday, a middle-aged intellectual with no track record in academia for over two decades. The angst of finding a job and making a living haunted him for the first few weeks, until he was hired by Volvo—“the intellectual’s car,” as he liked to refer to the company. He could hardly be described as a salesman, much less a “car salesman.” For my father, the business of selling cars was simply one more opportunity to engage with interesting people rather than a challenge to make a sale. This worried me: after all those years at the Center, was he able to face the day-to-day pressure of earning a living, making sure there was enough money to pay the rent and buy food? He’d regale me with stories about his customers, seldom alluding to whether they’d bought a car. He was particularly pleased one Christmas when he received a personalized letter from Senator John Kerry in appreciation of his services. Years later, when Kerry ran for president, I asked my father if he still had that letter. “You better believe I do,” he said with a sense of elation. Meanwhile, in the freedom of my own apartment, I could retreat into rooms furnished in a combination of Victorian and hippie—orange shag rugs and bookcases crafted from creosoted railroad ties piled on bricks, mingled with my grandmother’s mahogany library table that served as both dining room table and desk. Here, I experienced life far removed from the transition my family was making. For hours on end, I’d sit on the floor, my ear less than two inches from the slowly rotating vinyl, as I memorized the words to the hottest Broadway shows