Handbook for an Unpredictable Life: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (with Great Hair) (13 page)

Out of nowhere, Sister Renata was standing right behind us and slammed our heads against the lockers again!
Bam!
How the hell did she get behind us so fast? Cindy glanced up at her. Sister Renata
was standing there without her nightcap on. Her hair was short and bundled into small knots that looked like spark plugs sticking out of her head. Cindy’s body shook as she tried her best not to laugh. Sister Renata banged Cindy’s head again against the locker real hard—then again. Cindy looked straight ahead, responding with a defiant smirk.
Bam!
went her head a third time! Man, I was terrified of Sister Renata even more now. And my heart was breaking for Cindy. This was the first time I saw her get angry. Cindy’s nostrils flared. She looked like a completely different girl. She took a deep breath and looked straight ahead.

Twenty minutes passed. We finally got to go to bed. I was dazed with exhaustion and too much in pain to be angry. I pulled the blanket over my head, closed my eyes, and stuck my thumb in my mouth. Sister Renata went back to her room.

“Psst. Psst.”

Oh my goodness! Is Crazy Cindy for real? I can’t! I just can’t!

“Pssssssssssst!”

“What?” I screamed in a loud whisper.

“Good night, Rosie.”

“Good night, Cindy … good night, John Boy,” I added.

“Oh my God, you’re still corny!” she quietly chuckled.

“Cindy! You can’t use the Lord’s name in vain!”

“Oh my God!” she laughed, burying her face in her pillow.

I quietly chuckled back. I stuck my thumb back in my mouth and felt a soothing satisfaction that we were once again best friends.

•   •   •

Sister Renata was on my ass after that. She was like that. If she didn’t like you, she’d single you out through endless punishments. Spankings, restrictions—which meant being grounded for the most part—and withholding food were her favorites. It was unfair because I was really well behaved and liked doing the right thing.
Like, if you threw a gum wrapper on the ground, I’d pick it up and properly throw it away … like, even at six years old, I would offer to help the other kids with their chores. But Evil Reincarnated didn’t take any of that into consideration.

My bed wasn’t made well enough, so she gave me a spanking … then ripped apart all of the other girls’ already made beds and made me remake them as well as mine.

When I was caught watching television with my thumb in my mouth, she gave me a quick scolding and numerous whacks to my hands with a ruler, plus restricted me from dessert for two days.

I should have said “May I?” instead of “Can I?”—a military-style lecture.

I was impertinent to one of the counselors, and so all of the girls had to stand in front of the lockers for an hour … after I got a spanking—bare-assed again. And a week’s restriction, plus no dinner.

Being ten minutes late walking back from school got me no dessert … after a spanking.

I was accused of showing off by correcting a girl’s grammar (it’s a sin of pride), so I had to kneel down and pray in front of my bed for an hour or so … then was put on restriction for a week.

I said a bad word—a pop in the mouth with the back of her hand, then a bar of soap shoved in it, followed by bathroom cleaning duty for two days and a week of restriction.

On and on it went, day after day, week after week. Always in trouble for minor things, I was like a nervous bunny, busy developing strategies to avoid and navigate around Sister Renata’s moods so that I could avoid further beatings. And I was always apologizing for
everything
—very Catholic.

Now, if I knew a punishment was justified, I’d suck it up, but come on, people! And the beatings took their toll—especially the face slaps. Slapping a child in the face should be against the law, seriously. It is demeaning, hurtful, and insulting, and the damaging
consequences are both immediate and long-term. I began to have screaming tantrums that would begin at the first slap and last for hours. It got so bad that I would get extra spankings in an attempt to shut me up, which most of the time didn’t. After a while, the screaming stopped and I resorted to long bouts of intentional silence. The self-righteousness I displayed drove Sister Renata crazy. What really sucked was that I kind of liked her … in a way. Yes, she was the devil’s daughter, but she was also self-assured, very smart, and at times caring.

Once, there was a huge storm ripping through Peekskill. The sky looked like a scene out of
The Wizard of Oz
—branches flying every which way as the rain came down sideways. By nightfall, all of us were terrified. Ba-boom! ba-boom! went the thunder in the dark night. Everyone screamed with fear and jumped onto each other’s beds for some kind of safety. Sister Renata ran out of her bedroom, with that silly cap on her head, holding a bottle of holy water.

“Come here, children! Come over to me!” she said as she started to sprinkle the bottle of holy water on us! The girls rushed toward her. Although I thought the whole holy water thing was silly (I didn’t buy it for a minute—I don’t know why, but I didn’t), I was so afraid of thunder (still am), but more afraid of Sister Renata spanking me for not believing, that I rushed over too. “It’s only God and his angels bowling. That’s all it is, children.” Another huge crackle of thunder struck, shaking us all over again. “Everything’s okay. God just got a strike! Hoorah!” Sister Renata screamed with her fist up in the air in celebration.

How could this same lady be such an evil queen!

•   •   •

A couple of months had passed and the main office called up to Group One: I was to go down to the Baby Girls’ dorm to meet my
mother on “important business.” As I headed out, Betsy and Terry were walking up behind me.

We walked in. Mrs. Vasquez, Amy, and my three brothers were already there. And so was my mother, with my infant half-sister, Kathy, on her lap. This must be the other one that Mrs. Vasquez had talked about a year earlier. This was the “important business”? Meeting another sibling who would be part of the system? Sad. I kissed my mother hello, kissed Kathy—she was so cute, with auburn, curly hair, thin dimples, and the palest white skin ever—hung for a few minutes, and then left. I heard later that she was placed in the Home or in foster care. I really didn’t know, because I don’t think I ever saw her in the Home again.

•   •   •

There are priests and there are brothers. The difference is that brothers are not ordained and are subordinates to priests.

Brother Bob was the most handsome brother at the Home. He looked kind of like Gregory Peck—tall, dark-haired, slim, and just dreamy. All the girls had a crush on Brother Bob. It wasn’t just his gorgeous looks. This guy was so sweet and extremely kind, a strong contrast to the penguins. In fairness, the brothers got to live with the priests, and priests did have nicer living conditions and better food—they didn’t have to share mealtimes with us either. But then again, if you’re supposed to be a servant of God, that kind of stuff shouldn’t affect how kids are treated—you feel me, people?

It was Sunday. The winter was just beginning, and it was cold, very cold out. There were maybe seven girls, most of us from Group One, set to go with Brother Bob in the Home’s beat-up four-door sedan on some type of trip to somewhere that I’ve blocked out. We all had winter coats or snowsuits on. I was in this ridiculous, thick-ass one-piece snowsuit that was white with blue, no, maybe
pink, trimming. I still had my potbelly, so I looked like a miniature Michelin tire man.

These trips with Brother Bob were somewhat regular because I remember how everyone would fight over who got to sit up front with him. All the popular girls, all four of them, which included Fat Dina, pushed their way to the front seat. Although I really wanted to sit up front too, I wasn’t the bully type. Besides, the back was usually where we sat anyway—Crazy Cindy, Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein, and myself.

That day we were playing “cooties.” Over and over again, Crazy Cindy would end up losing. It drove her insane. By the eighth or ninth time, frustrated, she grabbed Fat Dina’s winter hat off of her head and threw it on Puerto Rican—Jew Evita, screaming, “Cooties!” Evita then screamed and flung the hat on me: “Cooties!” Before I could respond, Fat Dina turned around, saw me with the damn hat, lunged with her big fat paw, and punched me hard in the gut. The force flung my body against the passenger door, which unfortunately was not shut properly, and I flew out of the car as it drove pretty fast up a hill, with me now trying to hang on by grabbing at two big, gold-encrusted religious candles that were lying on the back board of the car.

Whoosh!
Out I went, and my body skidded down the hill like a rock skids on water, screaming my head off at each bump against the pavement. The skin on my hands was burning off from the scraping friction against the street. I tried to stop with my feet, and I heard two loud cracks. My head dropped in wrenching pain
—boom!
My big fat forehead banged on the concrete as my skin scraped off all the way to my hairline. (I know—not the forehead!) I lifted my head in aggravating pain
—bam!
My head slammed on the pavement again, busting my nose flat. Blood was pouring out of me. I remember looking up at Brother Bob, running in a panic down the hill as I screamed and cried. Everything looked red, and I
don’t remember hearing any sound, not even my own screaming—everything was silent and in slow motion.

Brother Bob scooped me up in his beautiful, slender, muscular arms and carried me back to the car. He made all the girls climb in the back and placed me in the front! Yay! Okay, so part of my forehead was scraped off, my nose was busted, my lip was split, blood was pouring down my face, my feet were probably broken, and my knees were banged up—but I was in the front, with fine-ass Brother Bob! I also remember not feeling pain anymore and still not being able to hear any sound. As we rushed to the hospital, Brother Bob wrapped his arm around me and held me close to his body, and I looked out the front windshield at the row of houses—everything looked red and hazy and beautiful in a strange, dreamy way.

They told me that I was unconscious for several days, but it felt like twenty minutes or so. When I opened my eyes, everything still seemed dreamlike. There was a nurse with dark brown hair standing over me, gasping gleefully. Then the pain came. I became very conscious and confused. I licked my bottom lip, feeling the stitches against my tongue. I put my hand to my head. It was wrapped with bandages. “No, no, no. You can’t touch,” the nice nurse said. “You’re in a hospital. You had a very bad accident and were asleep for a very long time.” I looked up even more confused. I didn’t remember a thing—and wouldn’t until years later. I told her that I dreamed I was in
The Wizard of Oz
and I was Dorothy and Toto was my dog. “I was singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ to you. Every day while you were asleep.” She replied all heavy and stuff.

“Wanna hear a funny joke?” I asked, trying to change her mood.

“Okay.”

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because he felt like it!… Get it?… Boy, tough room.”

She let a bit of a smile seep out and then left before she started
to cry. I lay back, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. Then my thoughts turned to Tia. I wondered if she came to visit me. I closed my eyes, stuck my thumb in my mouth, and went to sleep.

•   •   •

Several days later, I think, I was back at the Home in the infirmary. I remember having to wear these braces on my legs with weird crutches to help me walk. My nose was taped, my bottom lip was smeared with Vaseline over the stitches, and—adding the ultimate insult to injury—I had a helmet on my head. Yes, folks. I had a padded helmet on my big-ass head to protect me from further concussions. I think it was blue or red, I don’t remember. And of course, “Helmet Head” quickly became the joke. I see the humor in it now, but come on, people!

I hated the pain even more. The middle of the night was the worst. The pain ringing through my head was agonizing, and the piercing pain in my knees didn’t help either. By two or three o’clock in the morning, I couldn’t take it and would have to wake Sister Irene up. I hated waking her up too. After a series of frustrated huffs and puffs, she would rip off her blankets and get me an aspirin or my kiddy pain pills. God, she was so annoyed by me. I really hated that.

•   •   •

Sister Renata came into the infirmary with Mrs. Vasquez, and they gathered around my bed. Mrs. Vasquez told me that the nice nurse from the hospital wanted to adopt me when she found out that I was a kid from the Home. That’s why she was so emotional over me! If I wanted to be adopted by her, they would ask Lydia and take it from there.

I was totally insulted. I felt like she pitied me, and I didn’t like that feeling.

Adults would come in on the weekends from time to time and look over the kids to adopt, as if we were a bunch of puppies on display in a storefront window. I always felt sad how some of the kids would run up to these strangers with their eyes pleading and their forced and rehearsed smiles, hoping to be saved. I found it even more despicable how the adults would only consider the cutest picks of the litter. Yes, I wanted out (and quite honestly, used to fantasize about some famous rich person adopting me), but I resented that we were subjected to this type of desperation. I refused to participate. I wasn’t some depraved child who needed saving. Or was I? Was that what people thought of me? Forget that. I had a mother, even though she hated my guts, but she was going to like me someday—I just knew it. And I had Tia! And she loved me, even though I hadn’t received a visit or gone on a home visit for several months. Besides, I was going to get out of there and get my own house and be successful and everything was going to be all right.

Well, at least that’s what I told myself. I had to tell myself that, or else I’d be just like the majority of the kids in the Home who seemed to have given up or to never think about wanting much more than what was presented—and that was unacceptable.

I shook my helmet head no, slumped down, folded my arms, and stared straight ahead at the wall.