Paolina Milana - The S Word: A Memoir About Secrets

The S Word

Copyright 2015 by Paolina Milana

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2015

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-927-6

e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-928-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015931299

For information, address:

She Writes Press

1563 Solano Ave #546

Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

This book is dedicated to anyone who may be keeping secrets.

To children too little to know they warrant a voice.

To teenagers too confused to think they have a choice.

To adults too overwhelmed to do whats right.

And to those of us who have survived crazy and whoblessed with a little perspective (not to mention nearly a decade of therapy)realize we no longer need to stay silent, and that spilling secrets may just help others from feeling as if they need to keep theirs.

P eople and places and events are all real, as true to my memory as possible. In order to preserve anonymity, I have changed the names of most but not all of the individuals in this book, and in some cases, I have also modified identifying details. No composite characters or events were created in writing this book. Some people and events were purposely omitted, but doing so had no impact on the integrity of the story. It is my hope that the truth I share does justice to all those involved and that it is seen as a story of redemption, forgiveness, and hope.

T he little red light at the top of the confessional turned to green.

Somebody came out: a mom-looking lady. She wasnt much taller than I was but was rounder in the middle. Her hair was the same dirty dishwater blond as mine but not nearly as long or curly. She smiled at me. From the look on her face, I could tell she had gotten a prescription for a clean slate: I estimated five Our Fathers and two Hail Marys.

I wondered what my penance would be.

I tried to calm my nerves by carefully scrutinizing the entire line of those who had come to confess, praying for redemption. An old man. Bald. Looking at me looking at him. Another girl. We were probably the same agefourteenbut she actually looked the part. I folded my arms across my growing chest.

I tried to assess what had brought them to the box to tell Gods chosen servant what they could not keep locked inside their own souls. Were they liars? Thieves? Adulterers? They all looked pretty normal to me. Did I look normal to them? Was my normal the same as theirs? Could they see what my mamma must have seen in me so clearly? Could they see why I was there? Could they see the real me?

Another somebody went in. The green light turned to red. Only one booth open to hear confessions today. Lots of sinners waiting. St. Peters obviously hadnt banked on there being so many. But what did I know? Maybe it was always like this. I hadnt been to Mass in I couldnt remember how long. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; its been ______ since my last confession. At least I remembered my opening line. How long had it been?

I thought about it while hopping from one foot to the other, trying not to think about how much I needed to go pee. Mass was either on Saturday night or Sunday morning/early afternoon. My hours at the donut shop where I worked were Friday and Saturday from 3:00 p.m. until 11:30 p.m. and Sunday from 7:00 a.m. until 3:30 p.m. Attending Mass was not really an option. So it must have been ever since Id started working at the donut shop. A year? Maybe closer to two?

I had forged my birth certificate as soon as Id turned thirteen. Another thing to confess, I guess. I knew it was illegal to do it when I did it, but I didnt really have a choice. I needed a job. My family needed me to need a job. To get one. And part of me wanted one.

I used my uncle Joes old Olivetti to do ita breadbox-size steel typewriter that I was convinced had experienced its past life as a blacksmiths anvil. When I typed out the 62 in standard Courier font, the keys almost refused to conspire, causing me to force them into submission not with a finger but with a fist. I whipped the freshly printed paper up and out, but rather than use scissors to cut out my newly minted birth year, I carefully tore around the number. I didnt use glue or any formal adhesive. Spit was all I had to work with. A bit on my index finger applied to the back of the sequin-size gem, the quickest of flips before the paper absorbed too much moisture and the ink began to bleed, a bit of massaging into place so that the 19 lined up and the 65 underneath vanished, and, ta-da! I had grown three years in a matter of moments. A few passes through the lightest setting on the copier, and no one would guess it was a fake.

I took a copy of my new proof of age to the twenty-four-hour donut shop, where a sign taped to the front door beckoned HELP WANTED. I had outgrown my babysitting gigs as much as I had outgrown training bras. I had developed early and passed easily for sixteenat least. Nobody questioned it.

Red light turned to green again. We had just fifteen minutes left until the start of the Saturday 5:00 p.m. Mass. I could barely keep still, fearful that we would run out of time just as I entered that dark little closet. Somebody else went in. Green light turned to red. One more person after that, and the next would be me. Thank God! Too much time to think was making me think too much.

I shut my eyes and leaned against the churchs wood-paneled wallso smooth, so cool, against my cheek. Mr. Kumar, the donut shops owner, came to mind again, looking me up and down, literally licking his lips. No taller than the third rack up of donuts on display, he had chocolate-colored skin that oozed as if coated in some sort of donut glaze, and the near-overpowering scent of him made him seem infused with a cumin-like spice. How slippery he looked, sounded. Some bottled water has that same oil-slick sensation. Every time I taste it, it takes me back.

You work weekend? he snorted loudly, drawing to the back of his throat what I imagined was accumulated phlegm. He swallowed. Come.

He led me to the back room, where freshly baked donuts dried on metal racks that rose out from the floor and reached more than halfway to the ceiling. Plain crullers, old-fashioned cake, buttermilk balls, and yet-to-be-filled jelly donuts all waited their turns to be put on display, to be seen, to tempt, and to be chosen by those hungry for a sweet treat. The aromaa blend of buttercream and lardnow had me licking my own lips.

Mr. Kumar wound his way to the back office, passing giant fryers filled with hot oil; powder-dusted stainless-steel work tables where the remnants of rolled-out dough sat abandoned; half a dozen plastic vats containing strawberry-, maple-, vanilla-, and chocolate-flavored icings and multicolored sprinkles; and two metal contraptions on the floor, positioned in opposite corners of the room, each illustrated with the silhouette of a long-tailed rat stamped out with a giant red X.