3. Helen
Stepping into my compact, one-bedroom apartment, eager to devest myself of the sheer torture that is an underwire bra, I let out a groan of frustration when I see my cell phone screen light up with Mom. A rebellious little part of me wants to send it straight to voicemail, but I quickly remember the last time I did so: The Boston Catholic network went into action, and my mom’s church friends’ sons, who also happen to live in Chicago, showed up at my door. And because Quinn Sullivan and Dan O’Malley run Cipher Security, they had a whole team of security officers with them. It was a whole thing, and it’s taken me almost a full year to convince my landlady that I’m not a war criminal. (Offerings of surplus baking goods have come in handy with this task.)
“You’re just so new to the world,” my father explained at the time. “We worried about you so much less when you were still a nun.”
I could have reminded all of them that I’ve been living on my own now for about two years, after earning my MS in library science and saving up enough money to move to Chicago, even if it was into a shoebox (and a kids’ small, at that). By pretty much all measurable determinants of what makes somebody a responsible adult, I tick all the boxes. I pay my bills, I have a steady job, I watch HGTV. Sure, I’ve never had sex or been in a relationship, but that’s true for a lot of adults. Okay, maybe not a LOT, but some. I’m not the only one.
(Right?)
But to my family, I will always be the miracle baby, the chosen one, whose life was promised to God—all without consulting me, of course.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer on the fifth ring, knowing I can’t let it go much longer without fear of repercussions.
“Helen!” My mother, Pamela Flanagan, shouts my name way too loud, then adds, “Ken, it’s Helen!”
I hear my father in the background, also shouting for no apparent reason. “Hang up and do the FaceTime. Helen, we’ll call you right back on the FaceTime!”
“I don’t really—” I start, but it’s too late, because my mother has already hung up the phone, only to call back a moment later via FaceTime.
I answer, forcing a smile. “Hi.”
“Sweetheart, did you get my text about Dean’s birthday?”
The worst thing about FaceTime—even worse than not being able to pretend to listen attentively as someone talks while you actually play Tetris—is not being able to eye roll with abandon. “Yeah. I already texted you back.”
“Oh. I haven’t checked my texts yet.”
Then why are you calling me, Mother? I want to demand, but keep my smile plastered on. I love my parents, I really do. They are good people, and they try their best.
But—and I think this with all the love and kindness in my heart—they need a hobby. Maybe several. I visited them over the Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend, just a few weeks ago. We have a virtual Sunday dinner together every week. My mother texts me frequently throughout the day, usually about nonsensical, pointless things that she could have just as easily Googled. Mom is planning my brother’s birthday a month in advance, seemingly because she has nothing better to do. My dad at least has his sports teams he follows, but I once heard him get into a long debate with a telemarketer, I think just because he was bored.
I know they worry about me, and Dean (well, maybe rightfully so with Dean), but they might worry a little less if they took up gardening or traveling, or maybe got a dog.
These suggestions seem to always fall on deaf ears, though, so I listen as they tell me about a great new show they discovered that they think I’ll love. After listening to their back-and-forth explanation for a few minutes, I interrupt: “Are you talking about The Office?”
“Yes, that’s what it’s called!”
Lord, give me strength. Only one of the most popular sitcoms of all time, and my parents think they’ve discovered a hidden gem. “I’ll have to give it a try.”
“What’s that on your face, sweetheart? Are you bleeding?”
Frowning, I examine my image on the screen, seeing the smudge in question near the corner of my mouth. “Um, no.” I reach up, guiltily wiping it with my index finger. “It’s chocolate.”
Silence. “That’s right,” Dad says after a moment, too cheerfully. “You met up with your friends tonight, right? How was it?”
“Great.” There was once a time when my parents were thrilled at my weekly meetings with Matilda and Nina—probably believing that being in such close contact with two other former sisters might remind me of what I’m missing and persuade me to renew my vows. When they slowly began to realize the opposite might be true, their enthusiasm about our weekly meetings dimmed considerably.
My mother changes the topic quickly, not wanting to dredge up the old fight. Actually, fight makes it sound more like a confrontation. Conversations with my mother are never direct—they are passive-aggressive boxing matches where we dance around each other and mutually agree to pretend we don’t notice she is taking jabs. “Don’t forget we’ll be in town next week for Aunt Linda’s birthday. I’m looking forward to attending mass with you at St. Michael’s.”
Again, I must suppress an eye roll, knowing that my mother can see my face, though it almost feels worth it to chance it. Every time my mother visits me in Chicago, she insists on doing a self-made tour of all the most beautiful Catholic cathedrals in the city, as if this will trick me back into sisterhood.
I still go to church, I do. But I’m happily a once-a-week worshiper these days, and no cathedral, no matter how stunning, is going to convince me to give up my free will. Or my Pizookies.
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally, mostly to avoid an argument, then fake a yawn. “Early shift tomorrow. Better get to bed.”
They let me go, telling me to sleep well and that they love me, and I bid them good night. As I get ready for bed, I wonder how it’s possible for two people to make me feel both smothered by their love and also like I’m a constant disappointment, in practically the same breath. They act like my choice to stop being a sister was the worst thing that’s ever happened to them, as if it’s so outrageous that I should get any say in my own life.
I wonder sometimes if that’s part of why I have such a hard time letting go of some parts of my life from back when I still had a vocation. The baggy clothes, for example. I know in theory that it wouldn’t be a big deal for me to wear normal clothes in which my figure is not just an amorphous blob of fabric. Even Nina, with her shirts always buttoned to the top of her neck and long skirts down to her ankles, at least has a silhouette. I suppose I have a silhouette, too, in my big bulky sweaters—only it resembles the Kool-Aid Man more than a human woman, which is what I should be going for, probably.
Freed from my bra, wearing my sleep shorts and T-shirt, I take stock of myself in the full-length mirror. It isn’t a dislike of my body that keeps me from dressing in a more flattering way. I know I’m not a supermodel or anything, but I don’t think I’m hideous. I’m tall—not Matilda tall, but taller than average—with blonde hair that brightens and darkens with the seasons, depending on how much sun I get. My eyes are bright blue, my nose just slightly crooked, but in a way that gives my face character, I think. Underneath the baggy clothes I wear, I’m not fat or thin, but somewhere in the middle. I like my hourglass figure, my surprisingly small waist, my toned calves and shapely ankles. I don’t like the little pooch just below my belly button, or the cellulite on my thick thighs. I’m coming to terms with my voluminous breasts, which always feel a little bit overpowering and are therefore more comfortably hidden under baggy T-shirts and bulky sweaters.
I think my body is fine, all things considered. Maybe even attractive, on days when I’m in a good mood and I’m not on my period, or about to start my period, or just after my period—so, that one good week out of the entire month. It’s more like I can’t really reconcile putting myself in a position to be seen as an attractive, sexual being. I like being amorphous. It’s safe, and comforting.
It’s also likely why I’m still a thirty-one-year-old virgin.
Deflated by this assessment, I turn out the lights and go to bed. In the dark, I run my hands over my body, not for the sake of arousal, but assessment. If I ever do manage to have sex with a real human man, what will he feel when he touches me? Will he like my softness, my contours? Will he pity me for my lack of experience? Will it be obvious, off-putting?
It’s a pointless hypothetical, since even getting a man this far is unlikely at best.