Chapter One

Our Lady of Sorrows lived in an alcove on the second floor of my elementary school. Taller than any woman I knew, she wore a long blue gown over a white shift and held baby Jesus in her stiff, unmotherly arms. Her gold-crowned head was slightly tilted, looking down in abject acceptance of her lot. Her tight-lipped smile spoke of all the pain she had suffered. Standing there greeting us every day, her unspoken message was, "You did this; you broke my heart." And everything we heard and were taught every day reminded us we were dirty, filthy little sinners who broke Mary's heart and we could never make it better. But we damn well better try.

Sometimes I used to just stand and stare up at her in her tiny home and wonder what happened at night. Did she put down that chubby old man/baby, stretch her arms high above her head, sit down on the edge of her alcove, dangle her legs back and forth, sigh and wish for a different fate? Did she wish herself away from there? I did, every day—to anywhere else.

I began biting my nails shortly after starting school. I bit hard and often, and none of the usual remedies helped. My mom tried pepper, disgusting clear liquids "guaranteed to stop the urge," socks tied on my hands and the usual round of threats. There were no bribes; our family didn't believe in bribes. I was made of strong stuff, though, and I bit anyway until they bled. I bit the nail and the skin around the nail, and I continued to bite even when there was nothing left to bite.

I had a reason to bite. I had to go to school. This instilled stomach-churning