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.

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• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Life was carefree, and I reveled in the freedom of being on my own. The scene was much the same night after night—a bash, flowing with alcohol and “Mary Jane” at some guy’s pad, dancing under strobe lights, flirting bit by bit more dangerously, and then at some ungodly hour making my way back to the apartment to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before showing up at work on time. Life was pretty much the same for the four of us, so I was stunned when, at the end of the first month, my roommates somehow managed to have spent their rent money and I was left holding the bag. I dutifully paid for everyone, expecting to be repaid shortly. When a month rolled around and once again none of them had any money for rent, I took the least confrontational approach, politely asking one girl in private, “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.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Life was carefree, and I reveled in the freedom of being on my own. The scene was much the same night after night—a bash, flowing with alcohol and “Mary Jane” at some guy’s pad, dancing under strobe lights, flirting bit by bit more dangerously, and then at some ungodly hour making my way back to the apartment to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before showing up at work on time. Life was pretty much the same for the four of us, so I was stunned when, at the end of the first month, my roommates somehow managed to have spent their rent money and I was left holding the bag. I dutifully paid for everyone, expecting to be repaid shortly. When a month rolled around and once again none of them had any money for rent, I took the least confrontational approach, politely asking one girl in private, “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.

• 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)

  Bound to secrecy, I had no one to turn to. Exhausted by the fruitless search for answers, I eventually fell into a troubled sleep. Hours later when I awoke, the new day brought no respite. I craved distraction from my troubled thoughts. That distraction presented itself one afternoon, about a week after my sentencing. Sister Ann Mary approached me when I was alone in study hall. “Sister Anastasia,” she said in her exceptionally well-dictioned and modulated voice, befitting her role as the principal of the school. “We think, dear, that you should make application to some important colleges. It could help us in getting the school accredited.” That she spoke in the first-person plural was normal. There was no “I” in our community; there was no personal claim to anything, not even ideas. I was fully aware of what “we think” meant. Whatever was to follow, Sister Catherine had ordained it. I interpreted Sister Ann Mary’s words as an indication that I had been selected to help save the school. Acceptance at college would validate the Center’s claims that our school was worthy of accreditation. The gravity of my assignment was not lost on me—I had to excel for the sake of the community. Despite the apprehension I felt over my own impending expulsion, I held no grudge against the members of my community, whom I considered family. This was a mission of love for them, for my home, and for my school. I was also aware that this application process would have nothing to do with preparing me for facing life in the world after graduation. Even if I were accepted, Sister Catherine would never allow me to attend college. The words she and Father had used over and over again rang in my ears—colleges in America were “seats of evil, debasing virtue and corrupting the morals of young students.” In fact, much of the justification for our isolation from the world was a rebellion against the liberal teachings in colleges across the country. The colleges selected included one “Little Ivy” (Vassar), my father’s alma mater (Bates), and one safety school (Framingham State Teachers College). I was secretly thrilled to read the letter of recommendation that came from Sister Mary Clare, my English tutor. I had never heard compliments like those she used, referring to me as “brilliant…a leader among the students…and endowed with good judgment.” For the reference letters that were required, Sister Catherine asked our neighbor, Lois Watt, who could always be counted on for support. She also conscripted her own daughter, Nancy, to write one for me. I wished I could have seen that letter, which I assumed Sister Catherine had dictated to her. I had last seen Nancy when I was six years old. Throughout the fall, I heaved every ounce of my intellectual power into this project. My evenings were consumed with studying.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  The click of the clasp on the pocketbook opened up a profusion of items both novel and exotic. Was the gold-colored powder compact made of real gold? I committed to memory their beauty routine—the multiple dabs of the powder puff on each check (but seldom on their nose) followed by several deft sweeps of the lipstick tube across the top and then the bottom lip, then a smacking of two lips together over a tissue and running the tongue across the front teeth. This was an education I could never get at the Center. All those “worldly” lipstick tubes and powder puffs had been banned. 8 Identity Crisis 1953–1954 I was not quite five years old when Father Feeney decreed that the adults, including my parents, would change their names, in some cases getting rid of nicknames and in others replacing their “worldly” names with saints’ names, as is the practice when Catholics enter religious life. My mother, whom everyone had called Betsy, became Sister Elizabeth Ann, and my father Jim was now Brother James Aloysius. Within the community, the adults were referred to as the Big Brothers and Big Sisters, and the children as the Little Brothers and Little Sisters. As members of the religious order—the Slaves of the Immaculate Heart of Mary—each of the adults now used the abbreviation, MICM, following their signature on correspondence among themselves. (MICM stood for the first initial of the Latin translation of the order: Mancipia Immaculati Cordis Mariae.) Sixty plus people, each with a new name, was a memory challenge I took as a game. But more difficult was being expected to address my parents by their new religious names. Only in the privacy of our apartment, could I still call them Mama and Daddy. Then Father decided to change some of the children’s names. Grace, a little girl about two years younger than I was, became Claudette, a name I’d never heard of before. My sister, Cathy (whose full name was Catherine Mary Joan Leonard), became Mary Catherine, as Father chose to switch her first two names as if to say that Mary was more important that Catherine. He made a number of other reorganizations of the names parents had given to their children. Each day, it appeared as though another child succumbed to Father’s name-changing spell, and I grew wary, desperate that my name not be altered in any way. I was Mary Patricia, proud to be named for St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, who was Irish like my father. I did my best to avoid Father and was successful until one morning after second breakfast as I was walking through the basement refectory hand in hand with my mother. Suddenly Father appeared at the far end of the room. His stride was strong as he closed the distance between us. I gripped my mother’s hand, dreading what might be coming.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Chairs with arms are generally unbearable. So many chairs have arms. The bruises tend to linger. They remain tender to the touch hours and days after. My thighs have been bruised, more often than not, for the past twenty-four years. I cram my body into seats that are not meant to accommodate me, and an hour or two or more later, when I stand up and the blood rushes, the pain is intense. Sometimes, I’ll roll over in bed and wince and then remember, yes, I sat in a chair with arms. Other times, I catch a brief glance of myself in the mirror, maybe while wrapping a towel around my body, and I see the pattern of bruising inching from my waist down to my midthigh. I see how physical spaces punish me for my unruly body. The pain can be unbearable. Sometimes, I think the pain will break me. Anytime I enter a room where I might be expected to sit, I am overcome by anxiety. What kind of chairs will I find? Will they have arms? Will they be sturdy? How long will I have to sit in them? If I do manage to wedge myself between a chair’s narrow arms, will I be able to pull myself out? If the chair is too low, will I be able to stand up on my own? This recitation of questions is constant, as are the recriminations I offer myself for putting myself in the position of having to deal with such anxieties by virtue of my fat body. This is an unspoken humiliation, a lot of the time. People have eyes. They can plainly see that a given chair might be too small, but they say nothing as they watch me try to squeeze myself into a seat that has no interest in accommodating me. They say nothing when making plans to include me in these inhospitable places. I cannot tell if this is casual cruelty or willful ignorance. As an undergraduate, I dreaded classrooms where I would have to wedge myself into one of those seats with the desk attached. I dreaded the humiliation of sitting, or half sitting, in such a chair, my fat spilling everywhere, one or both of my legs going numb, hardly able to breathe as the desk dug into my stomach. At movie theaters, I pray the auditorium has been outfitted with movable armrests or I am in for some hurt. I love plays and musicals, but I rarely attend the theater because I simply cannot fit. When I do attend such events, I suffer and can barely concentrate because I am in so much pain. I beg off socializing a lot and friends think I am more antisocial than I really am because I don’t want to have to explain why I cannot join them.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  certain look in her eye—doleful and haunting—and I knew we were in trouble. I thought of her problem as my problem. Only I couldn’t solve it for her. All I could do was worry. As her bouts of inability to eat increased, I schemed to devise creative ways to help her, but they came with danger—the risk of getting caught. On one occasion when the meal was beef stew, a dinner I detested because of the small white boiled onions that made me gag, I managed to swallow my meal with the help of giant gulps of milk, but Mary Catherine, who was sitting beside me, wouldn’t touch hers. From the look on her face, I could tell she wasn’t going to eat at all. I sprang into action. Scanning the table to make sure nobody else was watching me, I swapped my bowl for hers. Gagging and shaking, I shoveled a second helping of stew—onions and all—into my mouth, down my gullet, and in the pockets of my cheeks. It was done. Mary Catherine’s stew was gone. As I finished the last bite, I sped to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I heaved up the still unchewed onions, the thick gravy, the potatoes and carrots, flushing them down the toilet. From the faucet I filled my cupped hands with water to rinse out my mouth. I patted my face dry and returned to my place at the table next to Mary Catherine. She gave me a silent look of gratitude with a feeble smile. I felt victorious. We had won the battle that day. But what would tomorrow bring? I was sure my parents knew nothing about Mary Catherine’s eating problem. The Big Sisters and Brothers sat at the far end of the refectory, out of earshot and view of the children’s tables. What I wasn’t sure about was what would happen if I told them. Could they help her? They were no longer in charge of her, my brother, or me. Would I get into trouble if I spoke to them about it? I didn’t have the courage to dare. * * * I was about seven years old, just a year after the separation, when “pilgrimages” became part of our religious life. On the first Saturday of each month, the thirteen oldest children—we ranged in age from Mariam, who was now ten, to the youngest, who had recently turned five—made an all-morning trip outside our enclosure to visit one of the many parish churches in Boston.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  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. [image file=Image00036.jpg] The Center had, in a way, been a proving ground, particularly during the years of the court case when I had been perspicacious enough to realize that the very existence of the Center’s school rested on my shoulders. Rather than find the challenge frightening, I thrived on the pressure that acted like adrenaline. Once out in the world, what I lacked in knowledge and sophistication, I attempted to make up for with will power. The status of ingénue did not inhibit my drive. I entered the jungle of Wall Street at a time when professional women were almost an anomaly in the industry, and was fortunate to have had an array of mentors (all of them men) throughout my advancing career. Their guidance was sometimes direct but more often subtle, and perhaps their greatest value was inspiring me to play a similar role to young women (and men) in their own careers as mine was maturing. The glass ceiling was real, and I was aware that my drive and energy were at times a detriment to my advancement—the same work ethic in male counterparts was treated as leadership and rewarded. But resentment was a waste of energy and could only detract from the exhilaration I experienced in the charged world of investing. So, I gave myself the same advice on more than a few occasions when I knew I had been denied a promotion I deserved: You have two options.

• 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