Sinful Purity (Sinful Series) (2 page)

Being as willful as I was, I spent quite a bit of time in the Mother Superior’s office. Like the rest of the orphanage, her office was dark and understated, steeped in history and rich wood paneling. The waiting area consisted of two small wood chairs, one with a loose, wobbly leg. I always tried to avoid that one. The inner sanctum of her office screamed minimalist. In the middle sat one large wood desk that was so dark with age it appeared depthless, like an oil slick. If I had to guess, I would have said it was built at the same time as the building and assembled in place, since no one in their right mind would want to carry that behemoth up the three flights of stairs it would have required. Rolled up behind the desk was one of those legal-looking chairs, with its well-aged burgundy leather and metal studs that led up and around the arms. Two tall, narrow wooden filing cabinets flanked each side, like guards protecting their ruler’s throne. That left only a large wooden cross on the opposite wall and another small, wobbly chair for the soon-to-be disciplined. Once, Sister Christine was asked why she had the large crucifix hanging above the child’s chair and not over hers. She simply replied, “The children know I work for God. They need to be reminded that they do too.”

Sister Christine was my least favorite of all the nuns at MIQ. While many of the kids thought all the nuns were the same—ruler-snapping walking penguins who lived only to judge and extinguish hope before it could ignite and burn the whole institution to the ground—I knew that Sister Christine was worse. Her eyes had an intensity that made you believe she could sear the sin right out of you. Conformity was her agenda, and I was a nonconformist at heart. Therefore, I was a throbbing, oozing thorn in her side for the better part of the next decade and half. Her only hope was that she would be able to excise me before gangrene set in.

It was during one of these heart-to-heart visits when I was eight years old that I overheard Mother Superior and Father Brennigan talking about the Perkins girl and her incessant willfulness. Sarah was her name. When I heard those words they sounded right: Sarah Perkins. I thought I might be able to remember being Sarah Perkins once. Tears welled up in my eyes and a smile broke across my face. A small giggle escaped through the giddiness. I tried not to wiggle the chair with my excitement. I knew that if Sister Christine or Father Brennigan heard me listening, they would stop talking and I would never find out more about my family. It was at that moment Sister Christine’s phone rang and Father Brennigan excused himself. As he left the office I glanced up and he smiled, a gentle, friendly, knowing smile. His smile reassured me and I knew without a doubt I must be Sarah Perkins. It was a revelation to be sure, and for the first time in a long time I was unique again. Even when Sister Christine ended her phone call and called for me to enter, I didn’t fear my punishment. All I could think about was being Sarah Perkins. Mother Superior was so displeased with my lack of regret for my most recent escapade that she doubled the usual punishment from one week of extended bathroom and kitchen duty to two weeks. When I left her office as happy and gleeful as when I’d entered, she tacked on the waxing and polishing of the chapel’s pews for good measure. But I didn’t care. I had an identity, one that was all mine and not shared.

After I had learned my secret alias, I became calmer, more at peace, knowing that somewhere I had a place and a past. The orphanage itself no longer defined me. The sense that I was more than my surroundings was awe-inspiring. I knew all I had to do was wait, and one day my life would be mine again. I rarely demanded to be called Elizabeth anymore, although I still preferred it. Finally, after being at the orphanage for more than four years, dutifulness and piety became second nature to me. No more willful
outbursts. I buckled down with my studies and became a model at Mary Immaculate Queen. I excelled academically and was often rewarded for my hard work and dedication.

As a reward, I was frequently invited to have dinner with Father Brennigan. Every day at MIQ was always the same, and these outings were my one escape. I loved seeing and experiencing new things, even if it was only on the other side of the orphanage’s iron gates. St. Matthew’s rectory dining hall seemed like an alternate universe to the orphanage. The hall had lavish decorations and served sophisticated meals. The tables were adorned with crimson linens with gold embroidery that twinkled under the light of the large chandelier. I thought the chandelier was pretty also, with its glistening crystals, but inside I was secretly terrified that it might fall and crush me during the meal. Father Brennigan would frequently catch me gazing up at the chandelier. He thought I loved it so much. Honestly, I was just amazed that the tiny chain that held the chandelier hadn’t already snapped, sending the giant illumination crashing to the floor. Sometimes I would quietly wonder when the fateful moment would be, since I knew it was inevitable.

My favorite items in the dining room were the candlesticks. There were big ones, small ones, pewter ones, and tall ones. It seemed more like a store and less like a place to dine. I loved the sheer variety and quantity of them. When they were all lit I would imagine the great desert sun and everything in the room melting from the immense heat of the candles. I had developed a grand imagination that I used quite frequently to get me through the long, repetitive days at the orphanage. Yet it was these dinners with Father Brennigan that gave me the sight and knowledge of things that amazed even my imagination. These dinners were the happiest part of my childhood. I loved Father Brennigan. He was kind and thoughtful, like I always hoped my own father would have been.

During dinner, I loved to count the silverware on the table: three forks, two spoons, and two knives. No matter how I tried, I could never understand why anyone needed to use that many forks and spoons. Sometimes I would drop a utensil just so that I could use another one, trying to use them all. I could tell that Father Brennigan enjoyed watching me. I imagine that I was as much of a diversion from his monotonous routine as he was from mine. Occasionally I would catch him quietly chuckling to himself, imagining, I’m sure, what was going through my little mind and secretly
knowing that I would always be safe and obedient at Mary Immaculate Queen as long as he was there. I think back now, convinced that his mind held far more secrets and mysteries than mine ever could.

Father Brennigan was a portly little man with a large belly and even larger rosy cheeks. Many of the children thought he looked like Father Christmas but with less hair. He was always clean-shaven and had begun balding very early on. By the time I was ten, Father Brennigan was in his early forties and had only a thin ring of hair wrapping his head like a halo. During dinner I would watch the candlelight dance across his bald head. As a little girl, I thought Father Brennigan must be close to a hundred years old. I thought him wise enough and bald enough to be nearly ancient.

Our dinners together became almost a weekly routine, an occurrence that both he and I looked forward to very much. It wasn’t long before I became Father Brennigan’s favorite. It was because of this favoritism that on adoption days I was somehow previously occupied or deemed unavailable. I heard that many potential parents inquired about me but were told that adoption was not a viable option. I never concerned myself too much about being adopted because I knew that the Perkins family must have been planning to return for me. Why else would I be “not adoptable”? With this thought firmly embraced, I was always quite relieved when adoption day was over. Visitors always created so much extra work around the orphanage. Plus, all the nuns put on their most helpful, godly faces, which made me despise them even more. They were never that kind to us on a regular basis, and I saw them more as hypocrites than as women of the cloth.

Despite my personal feelings about adoption day, it was a huge deal to the orphanage and the community as a whole. The Mary Immaculate Queen Orphanage was the pride of Chicago. Would-be parents came from around the globe to adopt the “perfect” child. That’s what everyone referred to us as, “perfect.” MIQ had the most well-behaved, highly educated, and respected children. The sisters prided themselves on rearing exceptionally successful and productive citizens through hard work, discipline, an ingrained love of God, and a good dose of religion. MIQ was like the hall of fame for orphans. We had orphans who’d become Pulitzer Prize–winning authors, Ivy League professors, and foreign dignitaries. In fact, two governors, a Supreme Court justice, and a US president had all come from the modest beginnings that were MIQ.

Once every few years, the news media would drag out the stale story of possible abuse or brainwashing at the esteemed Mary Immaculate Queen Orphanage. The stories were always big sellers and rating boosters, because nowhere the world over could anyone believe that one institution had yielded so many substantial public figures.

St. Matthew Cathedral next door shared in MIQ’s good fortune and was heralded as having the most “distinguished congregation in the United States.” Globally, St. Matthew’s was second only to the Vatican in Rome. Never in the hundred-plus-year history of the orphanage had any of its charges, past or present, ever committed a crime or had any run-ins with the authorities. There was never anything more severe than a traffic ticket in the lives of all MIQ’s residents. Model citizens were what the orphanage produced and nothing less.

Another reason I detested adoption day was that it seemed that we were all paraded around on show. Like, “come see the wonderfully perfect Stepford children. Come right on up and see if you can take your very own home today.” I always viewed adoption day more like a used car sale. Like we were all just old jalopies, previously used and partially damaged, that had been buffed up to look pretty and supported by the prestigious MIQ lifetime warranty. Never would a potential buyer be disappointed with a brand new MIQ orphan, guaranteed one hundred percent perfectly ethical, perfectly well, perfect.

I would imagine one of those huge inflatable arm-waving wind socks that car dealerships use to attract attention, mounted right on the roof of the prestigious one-hundred-eighty-six-year-old MIQ Orphanage. I thought we should have been selling popcorn and cotton candy. After all, I already felt like a sideshow attraction.

I don’t know, maybe I was just bitter. Deep down I didn’t really want a new family and I was always relieved that I didn’t have to participate fully in the spectacle that was adoption day. I guess I just hated being one of them, those “perfect” kids. Partly, I was just irritated that the Perkinses were taking so long to come get me.

Best Friends Forever

I never made many friends at MIQ. I have my many colorful childhood paroxysms to thank for that. Even years after my last episode, I was still the black sheep of the orphanage. It was as though everyone was just waiting around for me to wig out again, making sure that when that day came they would be nowhere around. So I had a lot of time to myself, time that I mostly filled with reading. I loved books, and MIQ had a very impressive library, albeit a characterless one. Reference and theology books abounded on every subject under heaven, more than you could ever desire. It was the fiction section that was pitifully weak. You would never find the likes of the irreverent Holden Caulfield or the willful Elizabeth Bennet amongst these hallowed shelves. Even the pious yet passionate Jane Eyre was doomed to be ostracized by the discerning eyes of the ever-watchful sisters.

Just when I had accepted that I would be sentenced to years of solitude and quiet contemplation, Kelly arrived at the orphanage. She was older
than most of the new wards. Most arrived as infants or toddlers, but nearly all came to MIQ before they had reached school age. Like me, Kelly had just turned twelve, and upon her arrival she too was named Mary. Due to her age, she was permitted to be named Mary Kelly rather than the standard Mary-plus-some-other-female-name-from-the-Bible. From the very beginning, I could tell I liked Mary Kelly. I even liked her name—it was unique, and I liked unique. Unlike the rest of the kids, Kelly didn’t shy away from me. She had moxie, along with a lot of red curly hair and freckles. Shorter in stature and fuller figured than I, Kelly had been touched by the outside world and I loved it.

Kelly wasn’t actually an orphan; it was through special circumstances that she had come to MIQ. Her parents had died in a car accident, that was true, but she had a brother, Brett. Unfortunately, he wasn’t old enough yet to be her legal guardian. So it was that Mary Kelly would be gracing the sisters and livening up my life for the next four and a half years until Brett turned nineteen. Even though the legal age of adulthood is eighteen their parents’ will contained stipulations for guardianship. It required that Brett graduate from high school, be enrolled full-time in college and have a suitable place for Kelly to live before guardianship was granted.

Kelly was definitely a shining star in my previously dim and stagnant life. For the first time I had a friend and a confidant. Another perk was that Kelly’s brother sent her weekly care packages. They always contained marvelous, forbidden items like band t-shirts, hunky teen heartthrob posters, gossip mags, and music that was actually played on the radio—I am not talking about the gospel channel, either. Sometimes he’d even throw in a book or two. They were always wonderfully provocative books that had not been prescreened by the sisterly censors. Life was good.