mother said. “But I have no other choice than to send her to school. Her father and I are separated, so I have to work. And I can’t afford a babysitter.”
“What made you choose St. Columbkille?”
“Anne’s father went to school here.”
My ears perked up. My mother rarely mentioned my father; she only told me that he had gone away. I couldn’t understand why she wanted to send me to his old school. I wondered if this lady had been my father’s teacher.
“And did you attend parochial school?”
“No, Sister. My family lived out in the country, in the town of Kingston, near Plymouth. The only schools were public. But I went to Sunday school.”
Mother Superior pressed her hands together like the statue of the Blessed Mary that sat on my mother’s bureau. The nun looked at me for what felt like a long time. I jumped when she addressed me. “Anne, what did you learn in kindergarten?”
I felt like crawling under the chair. I looked at my mother. She was sitting at the edge of her seat, leaning forward.
“She knows her ABCs,” my mother said.
“Can you say your ABCs for me, Anne?” asked the nun.
I didn’t respond.
“Answer her, Anne Marie,” my mother said. “Sister asked you a question.”
“ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ,” I said quietly without pausing.
“Very good, Anne,” the nun said. Then turning to my mother she asked, “Is she a good girl?”
I held my breath as I waited to hear what my mother would say. At home, she often told me I was a bad girl.
“Yes,” said my mother. “Anne is a very good girl.”
I smiled when I heard this, even though I knew it was a lie.
“Well,” said the nun, “you know that we have to charge you tuition and fees. For one child that will come to a total of thirty dollars a year. Can you pay that?”
“Yes,” said my mother. “I’ll manage.”
“Is her father involved in her care?” Mother Superior asked.
“No. I’m on my own.”
“Does Anne have any sisters or brothers?”
“No, she’s an only child.”
“So it’s just the two of you living together?”
“My sister lives with us. She’s never been married.”
“Do you both go to Church and keep up with the sacraments?”
“Yes,” my mother said. “We go to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, and we take communion every week.”
“There are no male friends visiting you or your sister?”
“Oh Lord, no,” said my mother. “That’s out of the question for either of us.”
“Good,” said the nun. It sounded like she was calling my mother and aunt good girls. “You’ll need to send a lunch with her every day.”
“You don’t serve the children lunch?” my mother asked.
“Most of the children go home for lunch. Those who live too far away stay for lunch. So Anne won’t be alone. But we can’t send her home to an empty house for lunch.”
“No, of course not. I just thought maybe you had a cafeteria.”
“We closed our cafeteria several years ago. We found that the families couldn’t afford to pay for prepared lunches and preferred to have their children come home in the middle of the day.”
I didn’t want to be different from the other kids who got to go home in the middle of the day, but I was very happy to hear that I wouldn’t have to eat food made at the school.
“Who will take care of Anne after school?” Mother Superior asked.
“Our landlady, Mrs. John Reilly, has agreed to watch her. She’s home with her seven children.”
“Ah, yes, the Reillys are blessed with a large family. I see that you live on Turner Street. That’s quite far from school. Will you walk her to school in the morning?”
“She’ll walk to school and home with the Reilly girls.”
That seemed to satisfy Mother Superior, who nodded slowly while looking at me. She stood up.
“Well, we’re happy to welcome another child of Christ to our family. We’ll send a letter before school starts letting you know who her teacher will be, her classroom number, and the times and days of classes and holy days. We’ll also send information on where you can purchase Anne’s school uniform.”
I didn’t like the idea of a uniform. The uniforms worn by the older girls at Rosary had made it difficult to tell them apart. I wondered why I couldn’t wear my own dresses like I did at Rosary.
“Thank you for allowing Anne to come to St. Columbkille. She’ll be a very good student for you, Sister.” My mother stood up.
“Do you have any questions for me, Anne?” asked Sister.
“Where will I sleep?” I asked.
The nun laughed. “In your bed at home of course, dear. What a funny question.”
Margie walked me to my first day at St. Columbkille. She had pulled my hair into a ponytail so tight that I had trouble closing my eyes. My classroom, one of three for first grade, had fifty-three children. A single nun taught us; there were no assistant teachers or interns or parent volunteers. I listened carefully to everything the sister said, afraid I’d get sent away or slapped if I was not a good girl. The nun rewarded me with gold stars on my papers and all As on my report cards. These were something tangible, something I could show my mother, so she might like me a little more or hate me a little less. The nun assigned me to work with the children who were lagging, so at age five, I became an unpaid assistant teacher. I couldn’t understand why the teacher chose me to help others—I felt insecure and lost, not capable at all. All my life I’d experience what psychologists call imposter syndrome. Even when I’d succeed at a difficult endeavor, such as finishing medical school, I’d feel as if I didn’t deserve the rewards of my hard work.
Living at home, my weight quickly rebounded and shot up. I went from resembling a concentration camp survivor to a chubby kid. A condition called the refeeding syndrome is caused by rapidly replacing nutrients in someone who has been starved. The person can develop severe electrolyte abnormalities if fed too much, too soon, and the risk of serious complications, including death, is high.
I don’t know if I starved enough at Rosary to have had this level of risk. Studies of people exposed to starvation as children show an excess of fat accumulation in the period of refeeding and catchup growth. Looking back, I can see that
