“Is borscht,” she snapped. “Beet soup.” She tilted the mug so I had no choice but to open my mouth and drink it. It was bitter and earthy, like drinking sun-warmed dirt, even better than the stuff Alice and Maria made at the deli. I swallowed, and my shaking subsided a little bit. Once I realized this woman was not making me drink the blood of dead children, I was able to look around at my surroundings and gather my thoughts. The walls were lined with old-fashioned iron cages, and inside them an entire zoo’s worth of exotic birds twittered and preened. The whole place smelled like birdseed, which was not unpleasant, exactly, but sort of earthy and feral, like the borscht. The coffee table and wood floors were nicely polished, but fluffs of feathers floated in the air, settling into corners in small, rainbow-colored piles.
In the largest cage, an enormous green parrot dozed. He was bigger than a crow, and so green he looked like he might glow in the dark. On the wall opposite from where I was lying stood a fireplace, but instead of logs, it housed a shrine to the Blessed Virgin, arched with Christmas lights, crisscrossed with Palm Sunday leaves, and glowing with votive candles. The mantel above this shrine was lined with icons of saints, mostly Saint Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals. This all made me feel a little better about my situation—if Bird Lady was a devout Catholic, she probably believed in the sixth commandment, which meant that she was probably not going to kill me.
She took the mug from my hands and placed it on the table, then heaved her squat body onto the couch and put a small, soft hand on my forehead. She peered into my face. Her eyes were small and pale blue and almost lashless, the eyebrows scraggly and white.
“I find you on my front stoop. You lucky I keep watch out my window. Otherwise, you be dead. Frozen.”
I nodded weakly.
“You very sick.”
“I’m fine,” I said, attempting a breezy laugh that came out more like a tubercular cough. “Just must’ve knocked my head when I slipped on ice. What time is it?”
“Not fine,” she said, ignoring my question. She produced a thermometer from the folds of her housecoat and stuck it in my mouth. While we listened to the numbers beep upward, she squinted her doughy face at me. “You homeless?”
I opened one eye beneath her warm palm and shook my head.
“You running away?”
“I just wanted a Dr Pepper,” I mumbled around the thermometer.
“Hm.” She put her soft, stubby fingers to my throat, rubbing the lymph nodes. She lifted one of my arms and felt beneath the armpits. She put a palm on my chest bone and tapped with two fingers, listening. My body felt noodly, muscleless, and I sat there limply and let her poke at me. Then, she leaned me forward and tapped twice, firmly, once on my back and once on my right shoulder.
I screamed in agony.
“Aha!” she said, while the Mohawk bird ruffled its feathers and squawked. “What’s problem back here?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I whispered.
“Show me.”
I reached behind me and lifted up my sweater as delicately as I could. I heard a gasp, then a stream of hysterical Polish, and then Bird Lady ran off into the other room. She returned a moment later with another woman—her mother, maybe—who looked at least twice as old as she was and who skated in slowly behind an aluminum walker. This woman had a humpback that reached higher than her stooped head, and the only hair she had left was a few staticky wisps standing straight up at the crown of her head. The two of them whispered to each other in awe, and then, with shining eyes, they began furiously crossing themselves again and again.
“It’s just a tattoo,” I said. If I’d had the energy, I would have rolled my eyes. “Not, like, a vision.”
Bird Lady interrupted her signs of the cross to swat me over the head.
“I know is tattoo,” she said, her voice hushed in wonder. “But you don’t see what she does.”
The older of the two ladies moaned then, cast aside her walker, and collapsed to her knees. Slowly, her knobby hands clasped together, she began to crawl across the carpet on her knees, swaying back and forth.
“O Boze! Matka Boska placze!” she wailed. “To jest cud, to jest cud!”
“Yes, Mama! Yes! Thanks be to God!” Bird Lady rejoined. She took me by the hands, drew me up from the couch, and stood me before the big gilded mirror above the mantle.
“Look!” She lifted the hem of my sweater dramatically, as if unveiling some celebrated painting. “Ave Maria! Ave Maria!”
I peered over my shoulder into the glass and saw immediately what all the fuss was about. There was Our Lady of Lourdes, her terrible, botched face staring back at me, the dead-fish pink light glowing on my hot, feverish skin.
And she was weeping.
Tears dripped and flowed from her turquoise eyes in rivers down my back and left dark stains on the waistband of my leggings. The birds began to take up the pious howls of the old ladies, and soon the room was filled with the strange jungle sounds of birdsong and the chant of the Polish rosary. If anybody else had been around, I probably would have laughed at them, these two crazy religious nuts and their silly little beliefs. But something inside me resisted laughter. Maybe it was the way the tattoo seemed to itch whenever I was faced with a moral decision. Maybe it was Kenzie. Alexis. My dad. The ghosts of Lady Clara and Sandy DiSanto and Tiffany Maldonado. The closing of Academy of the Sacred Heart. There had never been a time in my life when I needed a sign, a miracle, as much as I did now, and here it was. I could see it with my own eyes. Maybe afterward I would feel embarrassed and sneering and cynical. But for now, I just believed. I got down on my knees and joined Bird Lady and her mother in the rosary. I let their dry, soft fingers graze my back while they keened. I let myself be swept up in the miracle, in the soft, holy light of Our Lady of Lourdes.
At their insistence, I stayed for a dinner of veal chops and boiled potatoes. We ate in a small, cluttered kitchen while a trio of parakeets hopped around at our feet waiting for crumbs. I helped the women clean up, and by the time we’d wiped dry the last dish, the whiteout had trickled to a regular snowfall. I would at least be able to see where I was going now. When I looked out the front window, I saw in the glow of the streetlights that I had overshot my location by just a block. I could see the top floor of my apartment building, a short walk back toward the viaduct.
After reassuring Bird Lady over and over again that I was okay, after accepting a long, warm coat to borrow for my walk home, the pockets filled with downy feathers and seed kernels, and after they insisted that I go around blessing everything in their house: their statues of Saint Francis, their framed pictures of the pope, their Palm Sunday leaves, bottles of water that they hurriedly filled from the tap to give out to their friends, the canned beans in their pantry, the aluminum walker, and every single one of their bird cages, I stepped back out into the moonscape, my Dr Pepper long forgotten. The two women stood huddled together in the doorway of their apartment building. Bird Lady waved at me furiously, while her mother leaned on her walker and stared at me with those blue glittery eyes gleaming in her wondering, almost child-like face, still whispering softly, “To jest cud, to jest cud.”
Yes, I thought as I lifted my legs through the mountains of snow, wading through the night in the direction of my apartment. It really is a miracle.
21
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN I got home. I changed out of my wet clothes and into a tank top and cardigan sweater. I put the long-awaited bag of popcorn into the microwave, having resigned myself to the fact that there would be no Dr Pepper to wash it down with, and while I waited for it to pop, I flopped down on the couch and put my head in my arms.
When I woke up, the room reeked of burning kernels. I opened my eyes slowly, groggily, and then with a start, saw that I was eye level with my mom’s hospital scrubs.
“Mom?” I turned over, squinting against the light from the balcony, where the rising sun had turned the snowy parking lot into a field of diamonds.
With her thumb and forefinger, my mom lifted the sleeve of my cardigan, which had slipped down in the night.
“What,” she said quietly, “is that on your shoulder?”
Oh, shit, I thought. ShitshitshitshitSHIT. I’d been planning on telling her about the tattoo eventually, just not until I was, like, thirty.
“Um,” I said.
“Take off your shirt.”
I did as I was told.
“And your bra.”
I unclasped the bra and turned away from her. My mom hadn’t seen my bare chest since I was about eight years old.
“Lie down.”
In a way, it actually felt good, knowing that I was in deep shit. It felt like finally, someone cared. I lay on my stomach, my face sinking into the couch cushions.
“I can’t believe this.” She took a paper towel she’d yanked off the roll and began dabbing at my back. “Where’d you get this done, anyway? Let me guess—somewhere that doesn’t have a license on the wall.”
I nodded into the cushion.
“You kids today are all so stupid,” she said, dabbing angrily and with a nurse’s clinical efficiency. “Piercing your faces and your nipples and even your balls and clitorises—yeah, I just said clitoris, young lady. Deal with it. Dying your hair all those stupid colors. Jesus, Wendy. But at least hair dye and piercings can be reversed. This? This—this thing is now with you for life.”
“Mom—”
“All these years of praying to Our Lady of Lourdes.” She balled up the paper towel and tossed it on the carpet. “All the holy candles. All the Mass cards. All the rosaries. All the special intentions. I thought I was instilling a real respect for her in you kids. A real reverence. And then one morning I come home from work and I see this—this—version of her. Is it supposed to be some sort of horribly misguided tribute? Or are you blaspheming? What is this, Wendy?”
“Mom—”
“You know what? I don’t even want an explanation, young lady. I’m going to the drug store to get you some Motrin for your fever. Then I’m going to call the doctor’s answering service and get you an appointment. Jesus Christ, Wendy.” She shook her head and headed for the door.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“What about the weeping?”
“What about the what?”
“The weeping. Our Lady of Lourdes is weeping. Don’t you see it?”
“Of course I see it!”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a miracle? Or at least some kind of sign?”
“You’re goddamn right it’s a sign—a sign of an infection!” She picked up the paper towel, smeared with slimy yellow stuff and dabs of blood, and waved it in front of my face. “See that? Do those look like tears to you? That’s pus, young Christian soldier.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And let’s only hope to Christ that an infection is all it is. Dirty needles can carry blood-borne diseases, Wendy. That’s what you should be worried about—Hep B. Hep C. HIV!” She threw her hands in the air. “I swear, you never cease to amaze me. Eleven years of Catholic school and it’s like pulling teeth to get you out of bed for Sunday mass, but some scumbag scribbles on you with a dirty needle and suddenly you believe in miracles!” She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“A dirty needle?” I asked the question to the now-empty apartment.
I should have known. There were no such things as miracles. There was only science, logic, and facts. The leaky air-conditioning unit above the painting in the Saints Corridor. The air vent in the ceiling of the Florentine Ballroom. An infected tattoo. When was I going to get used to it? You can believe all you want, but life will always smack you down with the cold, hard truth.
22
ON MONDAY MORNING, I WOKE UP to a text alert that all public and private schools in Chicago were closed on account of the storm. Sighing happily, I rolled over and slept in for the first time in about three years. Around eleven I finally got up, ate some breakfast, and relocated to the couch, where I spent the rest of the day taking antibiotics and lounging under a pile of blankets. My mom was off work, and she sat on the other side of the couch from me while we watched Teen Mom 2. She didn’t mention the tattoo, but every once in a while I’d catch her looking over at me. “What?” I’d demand, but she’d just shake her head and look away. Which is pretty much the worst thing ever. At least if your mom is screaming at you, you know she hasn’t given up on you.
When I wasn’t sleeping or watching terribly awesome reality TV, I was reading A Farewell to Arms. Catherine Barkley had gotten pregnant, and even though she and Lieutenant Henry weren’t married they were still happy about it. My favorite part so far was how the two of them would try to put thoughts into each other’s heads while they were in different rooms of the hospital. Could that really work, if you were in love? I closed my eyes tightly, sat up on the couch, and tried it. I think I’m falling for you, Tino, I thought to him. I got the number you left in the book, but I don’t want to be the one who calls first. Here’s my number: call me. Call me right now. Please? I opened my eyes and stared at my phone screen, willing it to ring.
“Wendy?” My mom said. “Are you all right?”
I opened my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Sorry.” I put the phone down and turned back to Teen Mom 2.
I hadn’t heard a word from Kenzie or Emily or Sapphire since they’d shown up at the deli that Friday. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing them again at school on Tuesday. I was hoping we’d get another snow day, maybe even a couple, but that bastard Streets and Sanitation commissioner had made sure the streets were plowed in time for the schools to open as normal after just one day off.
When I walked into chapel the next morning, I glanced to the back of the room and saw the three of them sitting in their usual seats beneath the looming wooden statue of Saint Veronica. Sapphire was frantically copying someone’s homework, Emily was pretending to read a copy of 1984 but really just using it as a prop to hide her phone, and Kenzie was slouched with her feet up against the chair in front of her, her hand in a bag of corn chips, the picture of queenly calm.
I hurried down the middle of the aisle and found an open seat in the social no-man’s-land known as the freshman section. I sat down, bracing myself for a Pop-Tart to the back of the head.
A senior girl from Eucharistic Ministry Club stepped up to the lectern. “In the Name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Spirit who makes us free.” We all made the sign of the cross.
She read from the Book of Luke, and I half listened while outside, icicles dripped and melted beyond the blue-green light of the stained glass windows. As I stared ahead, Our Lady of Lourdes stared behind, like literal eyes in the back of my head. She saw my old crew all the way in the last row, watching me intently as they mouthed along to the prayers. She saw Alexis studying me, waiting to see if this time I’d tried harder. And she saw the freshmen on either side of me trying not to stare, wondering what tales of upperclassmen intrigue and betrayal had cast the popular junior with the notorious last name out among their lowly ranks. I bowed my head, ignoring all their wordless chatter, and tried to concentrate on my prayers.
“And while he yet spake, behold a multitude, and he that was called Judas, one of the twelve, went before them, and drew near unto Jesus to kiss him. And Jesus said unto him, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?”
We finished our prayers and the bell rang for first period. I threw my bag over my shoulder and hurried out the door, walking fast but not too fast. If Kenzie, who hated weakness, could see that I was afraid, her vengeance was bound to be even more vicious. I kept my eyes trained to the floor, moving quickly from the chapel through the Saints Corridor to the main staircase, sticking to crowded thoroughfares, and turned left at the languages hallway. My Spanish classroom was within my sight when I heard the neat clacking of high-heeled boots behind me. Maybe it’s not her, I thought, accelerating my pace as much
as I dared. Maybe it’s a teacher. Teachers wear high heels. Well, some of them do. And then I smelled it—a wave of sickly sweet peach body splash. Here it comes. I held my breath.
“Hey, Wendy.” Kenzie fell into step beside me. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about the other day.”
“Um,” I said. This was not what I had been expecting. Was this some kind of psychological warfare? I’d rather just get punched in the head.
“Not to get all TV movie or anything, but it was the five-year anniversary of my mom leaving. I was not ‘being my best self’ that day, as Ms. Bennett would say.”
“Okay,” I said. We had reached the door of my Spanish classroom, with its Picasso posters and scale model of Chichen Itza. Sister Agnes, who’d been writing subjunctive translations on the board, saw me hovering in the doorway.
“¿Señorita Boychuck?” She put a chalk-covered hand on her hip. “¿Vas a entrar o no?”
“Sí, Madre Agnes.”
I’d never been so happy to see a cranky old retired missionary who gave mountains of homework and over-pronounced her rolling r’s.
“I’d better go in,” I said.
“Okay. But let me just say one more thing. If you don’t want to be friends with us anymore, I get it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“No hard feelings?” She stuck out her hand. I hesitated. It seemed too good to be true, but I couldn’t figure out her angle. The bell was about to ring and Sister Agnes had commenced tapping her foot. When I shook Kenzie’s hand, she drew me toward her, enveloping me in her peach scent. Then, she kissed me on the cheek.
I’d only remember that detail afterward. I have to hand it her: I had no idea she could be so poetic.
She’d betrayed me with a kiss.
It happened later that afternoon, during US History. Mr. Winters was droning on about the Gilded Age, and I was jotting down notes while also watching Veronica the Vegan covertly picking her nose.
“Pardon the interruption.” Sister Dorothy’s voice crackled across the PA. “Would Wendy Boychuck please come down to the main office? Wendy Boychuck to the main office immediately, please.”
Neighborhood Girls Page 20
