gift to a child. But it made me feel special.
One afternoon a few days later, my father came to see me for the first time, with a gift in his arms. Mother came with him.
I had no idea, as I unwrapped the package, that something was about to go terribly wrong. I had just taken the present out of the box when my mother gave me the news that a family that we knew well would come to visit me in the hospital. The words were barely out of her mouth when my world suddenly went into slow motion. I became frozen with terror and could no longer speak.
I had no explanation for what was happening to me. All I knew was that something within me had suddenly snapped and the thought of any visitors, even those I knew well and had always liked, struck terror in my heart. Nobody knew at the time, least of all me, that as a consequence of Mr. Fuller’s abuse, what I was experiencing in the hospital that day was the first of several nervous breakdowns.
Even though I was paralyzed by fear, my parents remained oblivious to the storm silently brewing inside me. Father was angry at my not acknowledging the new brown leather bedroom slippers he had brought me, and Mother was furious that I was too rude to thank my father for his gift. They promptly left their mute and ungrateful child alone with the nurse.
The next day, when our friends showed up, was not a pleasant time for any of us. I was no longer frozen but had reached a state of hysteria which embarrassed my parents and left the visitors wondering what they had done wrong.
When I went home after ten days in the hospital, I took the terror with me. It was no longer possible for me to go anywhere outside of the house without panic setting in. We couldn’t receive visitors without my hiding out in the farthest corner of the apartment. If I had to go to a store, I would have to be walked around the block several times before I could finally enter the building.
Mother had difficulty understanding my behavior, which upset me because I could no longer be her perfect little friend, and my father had no idea how to handle the situation. So they left it to Lucy to cope with me as best she could.
Richard had somehow gotten it into his head that I might die from my appendix operation and had temporary feelings of guilt. The day I came home from the hospital, he was nice to me—almost solicitous—for the first time in my life, and it felt good. But about twenty minutes later, when he realized that I was not going to die and that I was the same little brother he had always resented, it was all over. I had always assumed that his abusive behavior was normal, that it was the way all older brothers treated their younger siblings. For the first time in my eight years I clearly saw what might have been. It made me sad.
Spring: First Holy Communion
A few months later, in the springtime, in spite of the emotional breakdown I had had in the hospital, my parents decided it was time for me to make my First Holy Communion. We were not a religious family but they felt it was important for their children to receive the sacraments of the Catholic Church. I was informed that I would have to go through a training period to learn the fundamentals of the church and, more importantly, make sure that my soul was pure enough to receive the sacraments.
I had always been intrigued by spirituality and the idea that someone knew the secrets of the universe, and had wanted to send away for booklets by groups such as the Rosicrucians, who advertised in my comic books, though I never did. This fascination was probably the reason that I peacefully followed my mother on my first visit to the Helpers of the Holy Souls in New York City.
We rang the convent bell and a tall, solemn woman in long black robes silently opened the ornate wooden doors. I held on to Mother’s hand as we left the sunshine outside and entered the darkness. The only light was filtered through the religious figures in the stained glass windows. Mother and I sat close together in the long entryway, which was lined with wooden benches. For once, I felt more curiosity than anxiety while we waited to meet the Mother Superior, who would enroll me in my classes.
Within a week I joined a class of about twenty children. We rarely interacted, just quietly studied our lessons and sat for long periods of time in silent contemplation. The nuns turned out to be nameless, faceless, black-robed figures with cold discipline flowing through their veins. A sympathetic word or touch for the children was not a part of the program.
Strangely enough, I was taught nothing about the real meaning of the Catholic faith or God’s love. As far as I knew, religion was a dull textbook of rules and the Mass was just a boring forty-five minutes while the priest showed his back to the congregation and mumbled in a foreign language.
The last three days before the ceremony were intense; it was the last chance for us children to mend our ways. We contemplated our faults and went to confession on each of those days, to be sure that we had been properly absolved of our sins. But how could I ever be sure that I was perfect enough to receive Holy Communion?
It was a solemn moment when the Mother Superior called me into her tiny office. She sat with a large crucifix behind her head and asked me about my parents, and if they went to church on Sundays. When I answered truthfully that they did not strictly follow the rules of the Church, the old nun informed me that it was my responsibility to see that they went to Mass every Sunday and confession at least once a month.
I cautiously approached my parents and told them what the nun had said. Mother and Father were not happy. They said that the nuns were being paid to see that I made my First Communion, and the rest was none of their business.
Now my dilemma was multiplied. Not only did I have to worry about my own perfection, but had my parents’ souls on my conscience as well. I knew it was a losing battle and that I would only further irritate my parents if I persisted.
As the final day drew near, I was told that a little girl and I had been chosen to go up to the altar during the ceremony to recite a special prayer. Did this mean that I was ready? Or would I have to find out on the day itself, when God would decide whether or not to strike me down as the priest put the body of Christ on my tongue?
When the big day arrived, I was dressed in a dark suit with short pants and a white bow tied around my arm. I was taken to the convent early, and made to sit in a large circle with the other children. I sat facing the large windows, wishing that I could miraculously fly away. Surely I could not be perfect enough for this solemn religious occasion.
Terror once again enveloped me as I fought back the tears. The children across the way looked up from their silent contemplation when my sobbing became audible. No one moved for the longest time. Finally a little girl came over from the other side of the room and put her arms around me in a motherly way.
I was trembling inside as we filed into the chapel. My parents, Tata, and Richard were already seated with the other families.
Shortly before the moment of truth, the anticipation became too much for me. I knelt down and fainted. I regained consciousness to the humiliation of being dragged up the aisle by a large nun, and was unceremoniously laid out on the floor of the vestibule.
Mother was mortified at the scene I had caused, but the nuns were not to be fooled with. As soon as I could sit up, they took me back into the chapel where I received the sacraments with the other children and recited the special prayer at the altar. I could only hope that God had been too busy elsewhere to notice me receiving the communion wafer. I also prayed that since I survived that, and recited the prayer perfectly, my parents would ignore the embarrassment I had caused them by fainting in public.
In years to come, I discovered that a friend named Ronnie, who had made his First Communion at the same time, had been told by the Mother Superior that if his mother did not divorce his stepfather and remarry his father, she would burn in hell for all eternity. Ronnie didn’t faint in church, but within weeks he had a nervous breakdown.
Soon after my First Communion, my parents began to plan our annual summer trip to France—where, at my Aunt Mimy’s beautiful summer home, La Richardière, yet another emotional trauma awaited me.
Summer: The Rabbit
Aunt Mimy had been a childhood playmate of my father. Her family had little money, so the moment she