were a better surrogate would I have been able to help him? Could I have done more to inspire him to change?
After I had cooled down a bit I called George’s therapist and explained what had happened. “I did my best,” I said to Madelyn, “but I just couldn’t get through to him.”
“Cheryl, we can’t help everyone who comes to us,” Madelyn replied.
At this early stage in my career, just a year into it, it was important for me to hear this. I felt so passionately about surrogacy work and I wanted to believe that I could help everyone who came to see me. Even in those early days, I had seen clients transformed by this work. And it wasn’t only the client who benefitted. The process of becoming a surrogate had changed how I saw myself and my potential. For a moment, the work with George had opened up that well of self-doubt that I’d worked hard to fill.
6.
no virgin mary
B y the time I was a senior in high school, I had visited just about every Catholic parish in Salem and a few outside of it. I made the rounds and juggled priests, usually with my friends Marcie and Lisa. It was my way of avoiding confessing the same sins to the same priest and receiving the same reaction every Saturday. As I cycled through different parishes I thought I could maybe convince the priests (and perhaps even myself) that I wasn’t a serial sinner.
One cold October morning I walked the tree-lined route to St. Mary’s with Marcie and Lisa. My legs felt rubbery and my stomach was doing back flips. I was also unusually quiet. “What’s wrong?” Marcie asked. “Oh nothing, just tired,” I answered. In reality, I was panicked. I was about to confess a mortal sin—again. I was thumbing my nose at God’s law. At least with Bill, I could tell myself that I was sinning for love. God might not forgive that, but maybe he’d show some mercy because of it. Intimacy with John was just for pleasure. I was trading my soul for a good time in the backseat of a Dodge on Kernwood Road. What kind of a person was I?
I had a few brief moments of relief when I walked into St. Mary’s and felt a welcome rush of heat, but my anxiety quickly returned and soon I was sweating. The earthy scent of incense made me feel even queasier. I tried to remind myself that afterward my friends and I would head over to Forest River Park, meet up with other friends, and the fun would start. We would spend hours laughing and gabbing. C’mon. Calm down, I told myself.
I sat in the confessional and tried to settle down. A few seconds later the priest entered the other side of the booth. Through the iron lattice I could see his cheek, which looked yellowish in the dim light. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.” I started describing some venial sins: To spare her feelings, I had told my cousin that I liked her new hairstyle, when I really didn’t. I had felt envious of a friend who was going off to college in New York City. I had lied to my mother. Then, it was time for the big one. I admitted to having sex with my boyfriend.
The priest had been silent up until then, and had he remained so, I probably would have seen him—or one of his counterparts—the same time next week. Instead, he said, “It’s girls like you who ruin young boys’ lives.” Suddenly my fear turned to anger. In that single moment, all my timid questioning, all my quiet skepticism, finally gave way to rage. I hardly had to cajole John into having sex. Perhaps I was a sinner, but was he really a victim? Wasn’t he equally culpable? “What about my life, Father?” I asked. “Twelve Our Fathers and nine Hail Marys” was his only response. I left the church that day without saying a single prayer and I never returned to confession.
I continued to go to Mass every Sunday with my family. It would have been nice if all of my shame and guilt evaporated when I decided to stop going to confession, but it didn’t. I still took
After I had cooled down a bit I called George’s therapist and explained what had happened. “I did my best,” I said to Madelyn, “but I just couldn’t get through to him.”
“Cheryl, we can’t help everyone who comes to us,” Madelyn replied.
At this early stage in my career, just a year into it, it was important for me to hear this. I felt so passionately about surrogacy work and I wanted to believe that I could help everyone who came to see me. Even in those early days, I had seen clients transformed by this work. And it wasn’t only the client who benefitted. The process of becoming a surrogate had changed how I saw myself and my potential. For a moment, the work with George had opened up that well of self-doubt that I’d worked hard to fill.
6.
no virgin mary
B y the time I was a senior in high school, I had visited just about every Catholic parish in Salem and a few outside of it. I made the rounds and juggled priests, usually with my friends Marcie and Lisa. It was my way of avoiding confessing the same sins to the same priest and receiving the same reaction every Saturday. As I cycled through different parishes I thought I could maybe convince the priests (and perhaps even myself) that I wasn’t a serial sinner.
One cold October morning I walked the tree-lined route to St. Mary’s with Marcie and Lisa. My legs felt rubbery and my stomach was doing back flips. I was also unusually quiet. “What’s wrong?” Marcie asked. “Oh nothing, just tired,” I answered. In reality, I was panicked. I was about to confess a mortal sin—again. I was thumbing my nose at God’s law. At least with Bill, I could tell myself that I was sinning for love. God might not forgive that, but maybe he’d show some mercy because of it. Intimacy with John was just for pleasure. I was trading my soul for a good time in the backseat of a Dodge on Kernwood Road. What kind of a person was I?
I had a few brief moments of relief when I walked into St. Mary’s and felt a welcome rush of heat, but my anxiety quickly returned and soon I was sweating. The earthy scent of incense made me feel even queasier. I tried to remind myself that afterward my friends and I would head over to Forest River Park, meet up with other friends, and the fun would start. We would spend hours laughing and gabbing. C’mon. Calm down, I told myself.
I sat in the confessional and tried to settle down. A few seconds later the priest entered the other side of the booth. Through the iron lattice I could see his cheek, which looked yellowish in the dim light. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.” I started describing some venial sins: To spare her feelings, I had told my cousin that I liked her new hairstyle, when I really didn’t. I had felt envious of a friend who was going off to college in New York City. I had lied to my mother. Then, it was time for the big one. I admitted to having sex with my boyfriend.
The priest had been silent up until then, and had he remained so, I probably would have seen him—or one of his counterparts—the same time next week. Instead, he said, “It’s girls like you who ruin young boys’ lives.” Suddenly my fear turned to anger. In that single moment, all my timid questioning, all my quiet skepticism, finally gave way to rage. I hardly had to cajole John into having sex. Perhaps I was a sinner, but was he really a victim? Wasn’t he equally culpable? “What about my life, Father?” I asked. “Twelve Our Fathers and nine Hail Marys” was his only response. I left the church that day without saying a single prayer and I never returned to confession.
I continued to go to Mass every Sunday with my family. It would have been nice if all of my shame and guilt evaporated when I decided to stop going to confession, but it didn’t. I still took
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