No One Must Know (5 page)

I counted nine chimes. Molly would be picking me up for church in half an hour, and I wasn’t even dressed! I tore off the plaid pajamas I was wearing and shrugged into a pink mohair sweater and a brown poodle skirt with a belt that cinched my waist and made it nice and small. While I was dragging a brush through my hair in a futile attempt to tame my curls, I remembered the message that Father Mike had sent to Mom last Sunday. He’d wanted her to call him about setting a date for my confirmation, and I knew he’d be unhappy when I told him Mom’s response.

To make things worse, I forgot where I had put my rosary after Mass last week. I knew that Father Mike would be upset if I showed up at church without it. I looked for it first in the white leatherette jewelry box on top of my dresser. The little pink ballerina inside the lid twirled around gaily, but I couldn’t see the rosary beads tangled up with my necklaces. Nor had I tossed it down on my desk or my dresser. I would have to borrow Mom’s rosary. I knew she kept it in the top drawer of her dresser because I’d seen her put it there after Mass on Easter Sunday, the last time she had come to church with me.

A dark wooden bureau and a heavy dresser stood guard over my parents’ bed. I had a sudden urge to turn around and march right out of their bedroom, but the thought of Father Mike’s disapproval hardened my resolve. At least I wouldn’t have to look for long, I thought. I walked up to the dresser and grasped the drawer handle, but then I let it go. Mom would be beside herself if she found out that I’d gone through her belongings without her permission not once but twice. She would say it was an invasion of her privacy. But there was no other way. If I wanted to find her rosary, I would have to risk her annoyance by searching through her things.

A quick spray of Chanel No. 5 lifted my spirits, then I shifted my attention to the drawers in her dresser. The top one held the lace mantilla Mom had worn to church, but there was no sign of her rosary. I pushed her monogrammed handkerchiefs aside but found nothing. Could she have put it into the second drawer? She was such a neat freak that I knew better than to be messy. I moved around her folded underwear and nylon stockings with care but still couldn’t find it.

In a few brief minutes, I’d been through all the drawers except the one that held her scarf. Although I didn’t remember seeing the rosary in it the day before, I thought I’d better check again, so I pulled out the drawer and rifled through its contents. There was no rosary, but
I came upon the old photographs once more and decided to have another quick look at them. I picked up the picture of the girl first. The photo was so blurred that it was hard to make out her features, but she definitely looked familiar. I stared at her face for a long moment and then it hit me. I marched over to the mirror and held the photo next to my face. My breath caught in my throat and my hands began to tremble as I realized that if I disregarded the old-fashioned clothes and the sausage curl, the girl in the picture looked exactly like the girl staring back at me in the mirror. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I just stood there, frozen, staring at the photo. Then I remembered that Dad kept a magnifying glass on his desk in the den. I rushed downstairs to get it. As I peered through it, the features of the girl came into focus. There was no doubt – the face staring back at me was a slightly older carbon copy of mine.

Could the girl in the picture be my mother when she was just a little older than me? I wondered. Everybody said I looked just like her. The longer I examined the pictures, the more convinced I became that I was looking at a younger version of a Mom I had never seen before – a Mom who looked happy. I decided to ask her about the photos when I got home. I was too curious to worry about the trouble I would get into when she found
out that I’d been searching in her drawers. I had to have some answers.

When the doorbell rang, I hastily shoved the photographs back where I had found them and rushed to open the door for my friend.

“We’re late,” Molly said as we climbed into the back seat of her parents’ car.

“I couldn’t find my rosary.”

“We’ve lots of time,” Mrs. Windsor said, turning around in her seat to greet me. “But we might as well get going.”

She revved up the car and turned on the radio.

“I keep thinking about those photographs we found yesterday,” Molly whispered behind a cupped palm. “I can’t get that girl out of my mind. I have the feeling I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

I opened my mouth to tell her about my discovery, but then I stopped myself from speaking. I’d better talk to Mom first, I thought.

“She did look familiar,” I mumbled instead.

I let out a sigh of relief when Mrs. Windsor pulled up to the curb in front of the church.

“Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Windsor. My parents will take us home,” I said as I climbed out of the car. “Come on, Molly. Sister Ursula will kill us if we’re late.”

T
he room was half full of kids by the time Molly and I slipped into our seats in the back row. Our Sunday school class was in the Catholic day school attached to our church. The large classroom, with its faded gray walls, scarred brown student desks, and battered teacher’s table in front of the blackboard, reminded me of my homeroom at Lord Selkirk High. The large crucifix hanging on the wall was comfortingly familiar.

The class was filling up. It was nice to see friends we didn’t see during the week.

“I didn’t memorize the questions and answers for Lesson 16, did you?” Molly whispered to me just as Father Mike strode into the room. He was followed
closely by Sister Ursula, famous for her pinched features, prickly chin, and wicked temper. A kind-faced older man, Father Mike was smiling in his usual benign manner, while Sister Ursula greeted us with her perpetual frown of disapproval.

“Good morning, boys and girls,” Father Mike boomed in a good-natured voice. He always treated us as if we were still little kids, but we liked him so much that we didn’t mind. Sister was silent, her sallow face framed by a white wimple and her bulging eyes scanning the room for possible wrongdoing. I gulped down the gum I was chewing before she noticed my transgression.

“I dropped by before Mass to make sure that all of you understood last Sunday’s sermon,” the priest said. “Any questions?”

No hands were raised.

“Excellent! Excellent!” He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “I’ll be off, then. See you at Mass.” He turned to leave, then seemed to remember something. “Oh, may I speak to you for a moment, Alexandra?”

I stood up with a sigh. I was hoping that he’d forgotten about his message to Mom and Dad, but no such luck. I followed him into the hall.

“Well, my dear, did you speak to your parents like I asked you to? When do they want you to have your confirmation?”

“I talked to them, Father. My mother told me that confirmation is a North American custom that they didn’t practice in their church in the old country, so it doesn’t mean anything to them. They decided not to have me confirmed.” I spoke as earnestly as I could. I didn’t want the priest to think badly of my parents. “Don’t forget, Father, they came to Canada not so very long ago.”

He stared at me for a long, silent moment, then cleared his throat before speaking again. “I see,” he finally said. “And what about you, Alexandra? Would you like to be confirmed into our church?”

“Sure, Father. Most of my friends had their confirmations ages ago. But I don’t think my parents will change their minds.”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t talked to your mother and father for a while. Tell them that I’ll give them a call. Or perhaps I’ll drop in at your house one evening this week. I’m sure we’ll be able to reach some kind of compromise.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You’d better return to your class before Sister gets annoyed.”

I often felt that the priest was as afraid of the nun as the rest of us. I turned and was just opening the classroom door when he called after me once more.

“Alexandra, I believe I have something of yours.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out my missing rosary.

“Oh, Father, thank you! Where did you find it? I turned the house upside down looking for it.”

“It was on one of the pews in church last Sunday. I remembered seeing you with it and knew it must be yours.” He waved goodbye as he set off in the direction of the church.

I slipped back into the classroom just as Sister Ursula was beginning to test us on our catechism questions. To make the lesson more difficult, she mixed up the questions instead of asking them in the order they appeared in our Baltimore Catechism books. Every one of us was careful to avoid making eye contact with her, but this was a useless exercise. Sister made sure that everybody got tested.

“What is the first commandment of God?” the nun asked, pointing her ever-present ruler at Molly, who was rapidly slipping down behind her desk.

“I don’t know, Sister,” Molly mumbled, shifting in her seat and chewing on a strand of her hair. “I had a science test to study for, so I had no time to –”

Her voice cut out when Sister Ursula’s ruler slammed down on the edge of her desk, just a few inches from her fingers. She shrank even farther down in her seat, her face neon bright. I began to feel the fluttering grip of fear settling into the pit of my own stomach when the unrelenting tap of Sister Ursula’s fingers made its way to the desktop next to mine.

“Who knows the answer?” she asked.

A girl at the front of the room put up her hand.

“The first commandment of God is ’I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt not have strange gods before Me,” she repeated, parrot-like.

“Excellent!” Sister Ursula said, turning toward me. When she came a few steps closer, I could see three long white hairs quivering under her chin. The hairs hypnotized me like the headlights of a car do an errant deer. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

“How does a Catholic sin against faith?” she asked me.

My mind drew a blank. The straight memorization of the catechism questions was always difficult for me. I forced my attention away from Sister’s chin.

“I said, how does a Catholic sin against faith?” she repeated, her words punctuated by a whoosh of her ruler.

My memory finally clicked in. “A Catholic sins against faith by not believing what God has revealed, and by taking part in non-Catholic worship.”

“Very good. Always remember, children – outside of the church, outside of salvation,” Sister Ursula declared in a firm voice.

As soon as Sunday school was over, our class went to Mass in the sanctuary. All of us paid close attention to Father Mike’s sermon, for he knew which topics
interested us. When the service ended, Molly went to the bathroom. By the time we were ready to leave the church, all of our friends had already gone. As we headed toward the front entrance, Mom and Dad came into the lobby.

“Hello, darlings,” Mom said. “We were just coming to get you. We were afraid we’d missed you.”

Before I could reply, the door leading to Father Mike’s study swung open and a well-dressed middle-aged couple came out. They were about to pass us by when the man came to a sudden stop.

“Dr. and Mrs. Gal! It is you, isn’t it?” He grabbed hold of Dad’s hand and began to pump it. I could see by my parents’ bewildered expressions that they had no idea who he was. “You’re looking so prosperous that I almost didn’t recognize you,” the man said in a jovial tone. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He patted his stomach. “There’s a lot more of me than when you last saw me. At least ten years must have passed since you first came into my shop in Toronto.”

“Of course!” Dad said, slapping his forehead with his palm. “Forgive me, Mr. McCallum. It was such a long time ago.”

“Oh, Mr. McCallum! We’ll never forget your kindness when we were new to the country,” Mom said with a smile.

“No offense taken,” he replied. “I hardly recognized you myself. I’m glad to see you looking so well. Let me introduce you to my wife, Mary,” he added, gesturing to the woman by his side.

“I’d like you to meet my wife, Agi, Mrs. McCallum,” Dad said. “This is our daughter, Alexandra. She was the baby we used to bring into your husband’s store,” he added as I nodded politely at the strangers. “And this is her friend Molly.”

“Has the old neighborhood changed a lot, Mr. McCallum?” Mom asked.

“You wouldn’t recognize it,” said the man. “All of the immigrants have moved on, except Dr. Kohn. You were good friends with him, weren’t you, Dr. Gal?”

“Yes, I was. But we lost touch.”

“Well, the poor man is still struggling to make ends meet.”

Dad and Mom exchanged swift glances.

“I’m sorry Dr. Kohn is having so much trouble,” Dad said. “He’s an excellent physician.”

“I don’t doubt that, but you know how stupid people can be,” said Mr. McCallum. “They don’t want to go to a doctor who’s –”

Dad cut in. “So what brings you and your husband to our city, Mrs. McCallum?” he asked with what looked like a forced smile pasted on his face.

“We’re motoring to Banff,” the woman said, “and we stopped to deliver a message to Father Mike from a former parishioner who now attends our church.”