At one time or the other, she always,
always felt like she had some sort of sickness. Physical,
mental, spiritual—the symptoms were always the same. It was
perfectly normal for a young girl to think this way; after
all, her parents were both doctors. She was the daughter of
two very competent plastic surgeons, who had reason to neglect
her: “If she were really sick,” they always doted at one time
or the other, “then we would do everything we could to help
her. She looks fine.”
It was a good thing she wasn’t
ugly.
But she was inwardly sick al the time,
at one time or the other. It seemed that the tummy aches never
ceased, the psychological afflictions were rampant, the trips
to confessional were obsessive. On her own, she went to many
doctors, free of charge. “Oh, you’re their daughter? Ah, one
did my nose. What’s that? You? Sick? You should be so
lucky.”
Why did they act surprised? Why was
there a twinkle in their eyes every time she told them of her
new disease? It was like telling Papa Noel her greatest desire
and watching him laugh ho ho ho no you are a very special
girl, Juanita Patricia Maria Sally whatever your name is. For
a time the girl dwindled with immortality, but then she shook
off that sinful thought and ran to
confessional.
“Yes, my child?”
“Bless me, Padre, for I have sinned.
It has been four hours since my last
confession.”
“Ay, Maria, is that you
again?”
Always, at one time or the other, she
had thought of becoming a nun. That would take care of her
fear of the afterlife. Then she’d only concern herself with
the present. Unless she was immortal. Then she wouldn’t have
to worry about a thing at all.
No, no, she was not immortal. What
craziness.
How do you know you’re not
immortal? Have you ever died?
Well, no, not in my
life.
Then you could be
immortal.
Is that so?
Everyone is just keeping it secret, so
that they’ll die and leave you all alone. You’ll be here
forever!
What silly things her mind told her.
She was probably possessed. What a horrible thought! Like in
the movie. She would have to have a priest perform an
exorcism. And then he would jump out of the
window.
Every time Maria thought that, she
would run to confessional. It was a good thing she lived near
the church. Or else the driver man would be very tired and
probably die from stress and fatigue and carbon monoxide. And
then she would have to confess that she killed the driver, and
her parents would be very angry because they would have to
hire a lawyer in the case against Mrs. Driver, and you know
how the doctors despise lawyers. Or maybe it would be the
priest’s fault since he built the church so far away from her
home so he would be arrested or would jump out of the window
and what would God think of her then? It would be better if
she became a nun.
Sometimes, right before going to
sleep, she would always hear noises. Someone wants to break
in! He wants to shoot me, to hurt me, to rape me, to steal my
fine collection of pill bottles, to convert me to a Protestant
and take me off to a galaxy of meaningless intones of “Praise
the Lord!” and “Hallelujah!” There she would drift off, in the
midst of being born again and drinking fundamentalist
Welch’s.
Back in the fourth grade, on the day
of her first communion, Maria sat in her practice wedding
outfit and imagined drinking the blood, which she knew was
really wine, and feared becoming an alcoholic, because you
know how alcoholics are, your grandfather was one, and one day
during Mass he drank from the cup and went back in line and
drank again and again.
If she became a nun, then she wouldn’t
have to worry about her grandfather getting drunk at her
wedding. Of course, he was already dead, so it wouldn’t matter
anyway. But if alcoholism was contagious, no-no, hereditary,
then she may get drunk at her own wedding. That is, if she
didn’t become a nun. It was too bad her mother wasn’t a
fervent Catholic anymore. Entering the convent would have been
so much easier. But no, it was a divorce without any annulment
whatsoever, wasn’t even a correct marriage; he wasn’t even
Christian. Her mother, once respectful, did not return to the
church ever again. She did not care; she had a two o’clock
appointment with a certain ------ ------- and had to avoid the
media.
Maria often wondered if this life of
hers was simply a part of a long dream, and when she woke up
she would be a healthy but mortal girl with American father
working for a nice humble law firm and a mother who called
herself a domestic engineer and went to Presbyterian Bible
groups every Wednesday morning. This she always, always
dreamed, at one time or the other.
--jmfe