Page 3 of The Baby-whisperer and the Brute
“Who did you speak to today? You haven’t been talking to any of the fathers at the preschool, have you?”
“No, Mother. It’s mostly moms who pick up their kids. And the fathers are all married anyway.”
“That doesn’t matter. You can’t trust any of them. Don’t talk to them. Don’t even look at them… lecherous beasts.”
“I know, Mother. I don’t,” I rushed to say, eager to nip the usual tirade in the bud if possible.
My mother hadn’t been in favor of me taking the job as a teacher’s assistant at the preschool. It had only been the intervention of the Benedictine sisters that had convinced her to allow me to work there for the past couple of years.
They encouraged discerners like me to reflect and gather information, paying periodic visits to the religious community we intended to join while still living at home and working or studying.
“At least you won’t be there for much longer. Your postulancy will begin soon, and then you’ll be protected from the whole lot of them forever.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I looked down at my plate and dragged the tines of my fork through the lasagna. Though I was an accomplished home cook and it was one of my best dishes, I was no longer hungry.
A queasy feeling unsettled my stomach as it did whenever I thought about moving into the monastery and beginning my postulancy and novitiate period, parts of the stages of formation that would culminate in my initiation into a life of religious service.
The multi-year process was meant to help an aspirant, as those who wanted to become nuns were called, gradually let go of the attitudes of the outside world and adapt to monastic life.
The problem was, I had barelyexperiencedthe outside world.
I hadn’t really thought about it until fairly recently, but it seemed almost ridiculous that someone my age would have experienced so little in life.
I’d never left Eastport Bay, except to visit the monastery, had not gone away to college like most of the other girls from my exclusive, private, and very small girls-only high school.
Though Mother had inherited a fortune, she’d never taken me on a single trip or vacation, preferring to remain secluded in our home most of the time.
We didn’t go to restaurants or movie theaters or shopping as some of my schoolmates discussed doing with their parents. I’d never been to a dance or a party or even a sleepover with girlfriends.
Ihadno girlfriends—not really.
Mother redefined the word “overprotective,” forbidding me to go anywhere other than directly to school and back, and in the past two years, to the preschool down the street.
She literally timed me as I walked to and from the school building. Once when I’d stayed late to help the lead teacher decorate the classroom for the holidays, my mother had called the Eastport Bay police to report me missing.
All of it was in the name of safety—and to keep me “pure” for God’s service. Which had to be a good thing, right? I couldn’t argue with that.
It was only recently that I’d begun to question whether there weren’tmanyways a person could serve God.
Ones in which I didn’t have to give up teaching, for instance. I loved my little students, and interacting with them was the joy of my life.
“Iwillmiss the children,” I finally said. “I think I would have made a good teacher.”
“You won’t miss them once you’re sequestered with your new sisters. You’ll be doing what the Lord has called you to do. When you were born, I promised God to give you into His service, and you must make good on that promise. Terrible things will happen to me if you don’t. Not to mention what would happen toyou.”
It was the warning that had kept me from stepping a toe out of line my entire life. As a little girl, whenever I’d had a naughty thought or urge to disobey, the image of my mother dropping dead on the spot had terrorized me and scared me back into compliance.
“I will. Of course I will.” I stood. “I’m finished. Can I get you anything before I go?”
“Go? Where do you think you’re going?” Mother demanded.
My heart began to stutter. “Next door. Remember I told you one of the mothers at the school asked me to help plan the end-of-school party for the students? This is the night I’m expected at her house.”
Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Next door? You’re not talking about that floozy Cinda Brown, are you? She had a child out of wedlock and flaunted it without an ounce of shame before she went and married that prince fellow. And don’t even get me started on him, gallivanting around the globe, seducing women. Who knows how many illegitimate children he has?”
“Her name is Cinda Wessex now, and she’s one of the nicest women I’ve ever met.”
