with matching robe and cap. As with her daytime costume, a string of beads hung from a black rope around her waist. She told me these were rosary beads. I thought maybe they were named after the school and wondered if they hurt her legs when she slept on them.
The dormitory followed a bedtime ritual. The girls went in small groups to brush their teeth. Sister Mary Joseph stood outside the open bathroom door to make sure they were making progress, while also keeping an eye on the rest of the room. After all the girls finished in the bathroom, Sister Mary Joseph told us to kneel by our beds with our hands folded, our heads down, and our eyes closed.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art though amongst women . . .” After Sister Mary Joseph finished the Hail Mary prayer, she would be quiet for a few seconds, and then say, “Dear Lord, thank you for our blessings today. Please help us to be good and holy girls. Amen.”
“Amen,” the girls said in unison. I wasn’t sure what “amen” meant, but I said it too.
“Girls,” she said, “remember that nighttime is for sleeping. All lights need to be off now. If you have to go to the bathroom, be quiet and don’t turn on your light. The nightlights will be on, and you’ll be able to see your way. Be quick and then go right back to bed. No stopping to see your friends. If any of you need me in an emergency, you know where my room is, right at the end of the dormitory.”
It felt comforting to hear her say these things, but she didn’t come over to each girl’s bed to tuck us in. I didn’t dare get up because Sister Mary Joseph had said that we were supposed to stay in our beds unless it was an emergency. Some nights the bigger girls would sneak into the bathroom after Sister Mary Joseph’s room went dark. I’d hear them whisper and giggle. One night, through the open bathroom door, I could see them eating toothpaste. Sister Mary Joseph suddenly appeared.
“What are you girls doing up?” she asked. “You know you should be asleep.”
“We were hungry,” said the six-year-old whose bed stood next to mine.
“Come along now,” said the nun. “Breakfast will come soon enough. You need to make sure you eat all your dinner so you won’t be hungry at bedtime.”
I could understand why they were hungry. I’d barely tasted any of the congealed food the kitchen workers glopped onto the boarders’ trays. But even if the meals had been as good as at home, I wouldn’t have wanted them. My throat clamped up at the thought of eating there.
I lay awake most nights at Rosary. The nightlights around the room caused dark shapes and shadows to appear on the walls. I tried closing my eyes, but the darkness under my eyelids frightened me even more than the shadows. I could hear various noises: a bed’s springs squeaked as a girl tossed around in her sleep, an arm hit the wall, a doll’s head thudded on the floor, a girl called out “Mama.” In the months I spent there, my only deep sleeps were on the weekends at home.
On particularly bad nights, when I’d cry from terror, Sister Mary Joseph would take me to her room and let me sleep in her bed. She wasn’t Margie, but it was so comforting to have her nearby that I’d drop off to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I doubt if Mother Superior would have approved. Maybe Sister Mary Joseph came from a large family, or maybe she’d learned over the years how challenging boarding school was for the little girls.
Looking back from the perspective of a mother and grandmother, I am grateful that Sister Mary Joseph cared for me on difficult nights. While I found it comforting, it could be a dangerous situation for a vulnerable child at a boarding school. If my mother knew about my sleeping in the nun’s bed, it didn’t seem to concern her.
In my thirties, on night call during medical training, I’d again sleep in strange institutional beds. It might be a cot in a dingy, dirty room with peeling paint; a bunk bed in a dorm; or even an empty intensive care unit bed. The difference was that I chose to undergo the rigorous training and was free to leave. I couldn’t leave Rosary—I was a prisoner.
One afternoon an eighth grade girl came over to my bed as I woke from my nap. She had short, curly, dark-blond hair and thick pink-rimmed glasses. Her royal blue school uniform blouse fit tightly around her arms. The top of my head reached to her waist.
“Come with me,” she said. “I’m supposed to give you a bath.”
She led me down the hall by the hand.
This bathroom looked as large as a ballroom. Like the dorm, the walls were white with dark wood wainscoting. Several overhead lights hung down with bare bulbs sticking out of silver cone fixtures. The black and white square floor tiles were several times larger than my feet. Little light got in through the narrow windows. A large, institutional bathtub sat in the middle of the room. A bar of Ivory soap lay in a silver tray near the water taps.
The girl turned on the water tap and helped me undress. She showed me where to hang my clothes on some hooks. She walked over to a metal cabinet and took out a white towel, which she placed on the floor near the tub. She turned off the water. Steam rose from the high surface of the water like the wisps of smoke from my mother’s and aunt’s cigarettes. I hugged my arms around my chest to warm myself in the cold air.
“Get in the tub,” the girl said.
I felt the water with my hand, the way Margie taught me to do at home.
“It’s too hot,” I said.
She swished her hand through the water.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Sister said to give you your bath or neither of us will get any supper.” Her voice was louder now. I thought she must be angry.
I couldn’t move, stiff like one of my dolls. I didn’t want to get into that hot water because I knew it would hurt me, but I was also afraid of this girl. On the other hand, the threat of missing supper didn’t bother me at all.
“It will burn me,” I cried.
Suddenly the girl picked me up and put me into the bathtub feet-first. I screamed from the pain of the scalding water, but she held me down. Her fingers dug into my arms as she struggled to push me farther into the burning water. I screamed, “Please, please, please let me out.”
The bathroom door crashed open. Sister Mary Joseph ran in, yelled at the girl to get away from me, and picked me up out of the water. She gently wrapped me in a stiff towel. She inspected my bright red legs, which stung the way my face did after my mother’s slap.
Still carrying me, Sister Mary Joseph rooted around in the metal cabinet draws and took out a big jar of Vaseline. She sat down on the floor, held me in her lap, and gently spread the Vaseline on my legs. I didn’t complain that it hurt every time she touched my skin because it felt so good to lean against her and have her take care of me. I almost felt safe.
If my mother noticed burn scars the next time I was home, it didn’t bother her enough to take me out of Rosary. It’s unlikely that Sister Mary Joseph reported the incident—the Catholic Church keeps such things secret. After this, though, only the nuns gave me my baths.
Medical school would help me realize how much I’d suffered as a child. I’d learn in a pediatrics lecture how to recognize the signs and symptoms of child abuse. I listened in a frozen state, remembering my own abuse at the hands of people who were supposed to take care of me.
I’d learn in microbiology about a condition called scalded skin syndrome, in which an infection with certain strains of Staphylococcus bacteria causes skin to blister and peel off, as if boiling water had been poured onto it. Until they heal, patients are vulnerable to dehydration and infection with other bacteria. After my scalding at Rosary, I felt exposed, as if my protective coating had been peeled away. Until I could escape that school, I was vulnerable to attack.
At Rosary, there were safe times of day and there were dangerous