Chapter Seven

 

 

Amy was confused when she woke up the next morning. Everything looked different. There was floral wallpaper that she distinctly remembered taking down when she and her husband had bought the house. She reached over for him and discovered her 18-year-old sister lying in his place. Then reality hit. Am I ever going to see Sandy again? she asked herself. I love seeing my parents again, she told herself, but I want my life back as a 63-year-old, not this gawky 13-year-old. She crawled out of bed, trying not to wake up her sister.

She smelled bacon cooking and walked into the kitchen to greet her Mom. “Good morning, Mom. That sure smells good.”

“Hi, Amy. I thought you and your sister were going to sleep in all day.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s 10:00. You’d better eat and get dressed soon or we’ll miss the eleven o’clock Mass.”

“Okay. I will,” she reassured her Mom. She hasn’t gone to St. Cecelia’s for years. It was the church where she and her husband got married forty years ago. People laughed at her when she told them that she made her First Holy Communion in a citrus packing house that was nick-named, “The Sunkist Cathedral.” That was in 1965. The birds used to fly among the rafters during Mass, distracting the parishioners when Father Sammon was saying the Homily. Eventually, the church collected enough money to build a real church on Sycamore Street. A lot of people remembered Father John Sammon, the chaplain for the fire department and former pastor of St. Cecilia’s. He was also the principal of St. Cecelia’s School and used to pass out report cards to Amy and her fellow students in class, giving away holy cards, rosaries, or statues of saints to the kids who got good grades. Amy always loved it when he showed up in class because he always made jokes. She was honored when he agreed to officiate at her wedding at St. Cecilia’s. Sandy wasn’t a Catholic, so they had to attend pre-marital counseling with Father Sammon in his small office that was brimming over with books. Sandy was very impressed by how intelligent Father Sammon was. It was a good introduction to the Catholic Church for him.

Amy was filled with regret as she watched her Mom at the stove. She asked herself, why was I always so sassy with her? and why didn’t I treat her with more respect? She told her Mom, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.”

“Oh, really? What’s that?”

“I just want to apologize for mouthing off at you all those times.”

Her Mom was shocked but pleased to hear this. “It’s okay. I’m glad you told me, though. You were just trying to find your niche in life, that’s all.”

“Thanks for being so understanding, Mom,” Amy said as she stood and put her arms around her mother.

Denise came into the kitchen wiping the sleep out of her eyes. “What did I miss?”

Their Mom told her, “It’s a secret between Amy and me.”

“Okay. What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s time for you to hurry up and get ready for Mass,” her Mom said.

“We’re going to Mass?”

“Of course we are.”

“Amy and I need to go to the fairgrounds today.”

“Whatever for?”

“We left some things there.”

“Like what?”

“It’s a secret between me and Amy.”

“Touché,” their Mom answered. “Now hurry up and get dressed. You can go after church. That is if your Dad lets you both off restriction.”

The sisters got a kick out of looking at their old clothes in their bedroom closet. It was a trip down memory lane. Amy pulled out a hip-hugger mini skirt and a ‘poor boy’ sweater. She tried them on and found her white go-go boots to complete her ensemble. She asked her sister, “How do I look?”

Denise started laughing.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that you look so cute.”

“It’s nice to be skinny again, I have to admit. What are you going to wear?”

“I hope I can find that white suit that I made.”

“The one with the Nehru jacket?”

“Yes. That’s the one.”

“It’s very Sergeant Peppers.”

“I know.”

“Good luck finding it. I can’t believe we shared this tiny closet. Everything’s so stuffed in here.”

Amy looked around her bedroom and took in how it looked in 1968. She peered out the window and saw a Mobil gas pump in her neighbor’s backyard, and then asked her sister, “Have you ever wondered what that gas pump was doing in a residential backyard?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you ever noticed that gas pump before?”

Looking out their bedroom window, Denise answered, “No. I honestly haven’t. How weird.”

“I finally found out about it a few years ago. Our neighbor told me that the property used to be a pesticide company that did exterminations. Their trucks used to pull up to the pump and gas up before they went out on calls.”

“We lived next to a pesticide company?”

“Sandy & I still do. All that pesticide is probably deep in the soil.”

“Wow! I wonder if all those avocados and apricots we picked from their trees are going to give us cancer someday.”

“Probably,” Amy supposed. “If the air pollution doesn’t kill us first.”

“On that happy note,” Denise said, “I’ve found my white suit.” She took out of the closet a white mini skirt and jacket with a Nehru collar. The bottom sleeves of the jacket had gold trims around the wrist, as did the collar.

“I hope it fits you in your present condition.”

“It will. I made it when I was pregnant.”

“You’ve always been such a good seamstress. You could have opened your own dress shop.”

“Thanks.”

Amy reminisced, “I used to love to go to Kresge’s and look through all the bolts of fabric and thumb through the pattern catalogs. Butterwick, Vogue, McCalls.”

“Don’t forget Simplicity—my favorite.”

“I was never as good as a seamstress as you were, but it was fun to spend a summer day there, looking through their catalogs and wishing I could make such beautiful dresses.”

“You could embroider. That was something to be proud of.”

“Kresge’s had embroidery kits, too. Those were fun to look at.”

“You were lucky to be taught how to embroider by Grandma. That was a special gift of her time that she gave to you.”

“It helped that we were both left-handed. It was a unique bond we shared.”

“She taught you how to be a good gardener, too.”

“Yeah, every Spring I’d ride my bike over to her trailer and help her plant pansies, stock, and snapdragons.”

At that moment, their Mom knocked on their bedroom door. “Are you two about ready?”

“Almost, Mom. We’ll be right there,” Denise told her.