The Truth According to Ginny Moon Benjamin Ludwig (books to read in your 30s .txt) 📖

Maura. “I bet you could make some good friends here.”

She wants me to say Yes, you are right, Maura. They both want me to say something like Yes, I like it or maybe You know, this place is pretty okay if you like white walls and brown carpet and people nailed to crosses. Or that I don’t like it and would like to go back to stay at the Blue House. They want me to say anything.

I put my hands on my ears so I can’t hear their questions. I don’t want to think about Saint Genevieve’s Home for Girls Who Aren’t Safe. I want to think about the little rendezvous with Gloria and my Baby Doll. About the Other Ginny. And about Gloria’s surprise.

Then Maura says, “Ginny, are you all right? What are you thinking?”

She stands close so I hear her right through my hands.

“Sorry,” she says. “Ginny, what are you thinking about?”

I close my eyes and think of something else. Quickly. I remember what happened at the Special Olympics basketball tournament yesterday. I take my hands down. “I am thinking about Baby Wendy,” I say.

“Really? What are you thinking about her? Specifically, I mean.”

I look down at my watch. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. It should be waking up soon.”

Maura looks surprised. “You know, you’re right. You sure have a good handle on her schedule.”

“I was really proud of you for playing that tent game with her the other day,” says Brian. “You’ve been doing a great job of helping out your mom.”

He is talking about Maura, not Gloria. But still he didn’t ask a question.

Sister Josephine walks in. She’s the lady in charge of Saint Genevieve’s Home for Girls Who Aren’t Safe. Sister Josephine wears a big black sheet with a pillowcase hanging from her head. She calls it a habit.

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed having a look around the dormitory,” she says. “Lunch is at twelve-thirty, so we have some time on our hands. Brian and Maura, why don’t you stop by the office and talk with Sister Mary Constance? She can answer some of the financing questions you mentioned.” Then to me she says, “As for you, young lady, why don’t the two of us go for a walk? I think you’ll enjoy seeing the gardens.”

EXACTLY 11:02 IN THE MORNING,

MONDAY, JANUARY 24TH

Outside we walk down a shoveled walkway through lots of bushes and trees. Everything is wet and there are piles of snow next to the walkway. “In the summer all these rosebushes are in bloom,” says Sister Josephine. “There are five different varieties.”

At the end of the walkway I see a statue. There are bushes around it so I can’t see the bottom. A stone bench is in front.

The statue is of a girl wearing a habit or maybe some kind of hood or blanket. She doesn’t have a face. The stone is smooth and round where her eyes and mouth should be. Her head is looking down at something in her lap. I can’t see because the bushes are in the way.

Sister Josephine points. “Do you see her, there? Wearing the shawl? That’s our Blessed Mother. You know, the Virgin Mary. She was just a girl when she had her baby,” she says.

“How old was she?” I ask.

“No one really knows,” says Sister Josephine, “but a lot of people think she was as young as fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” I say.

Sister Josephine nods.

I walk closer to the statue, past the stone bench and right up to the bushes. I rise up on my tippy-toes and look to see what the girl is holding.

It is a baby.

A stone baby with tiny hands and feet. A stone baby with no face. It is looking right at me.

For approximately three seconds I can’t breathe.

“Why doesn’t it have a face?” I say.

“Ah,” says Sister Josephine. “I’ve often wondered that myself. The real Blessed Mother certainly ha—”

I interrupt. “No,” I say. “The baby. Why doesn’t the baby have a face?”

Sister Josephine looks at me funny. “Oh. I think it’s the same reason for both figures. The artist probably wanted us to see that the beauty of our Lord and our Blessed Mother is unimaginable. How does that sound?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. “Does...does—” I try to say but I can’t finish my question.

“Does what, Ginny?”

“Does the baby know who she is?” I say. I need to know because the baby can’t see the fourteen-year-old girl’s face. It can’t tell what color her eyes are. It’s like the girl changed and now she has a different head.

“Of course the baby knows who she is. She’s his mother. Babies always recognize their mothers. He’s all grown up now, of course.”

But Sister Josephine doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get it. “What about sisters?” I say. “Do babies recognize their sisters? Do they remember their sister’s face?”

Sister Josephine leans back. “I don’t know,” she says. “Our Lord didn’t have any sisters.”

She keeps talking but I can’t listen to her. Instead I cover my face with my hands. I don’t want anyone to see me. To see my face. Because I’m not who I used to be. I am (-Ginny) and I’m fourteen years old now and my Baby Doll isn’t going to remember me when I go to the little rendezvous.

“Ginny?”

I put my hands down. Sister Josephine is standing on my right.

“Ginny, why were you covering your face?”

“I want to go inside now,” I say.

“Are you upset? What’s going on?”

“It is cold.”

“All right,” says Sister Josephine. “We can talk some more inside.”

EXACTLY 7:02 IN THE MORNING,

TUESDAY, JANUARY 25TH

I am on the bus. We are driving into the front bus loop. Outside I see the space where the Green Car parked when Gloria came to school. I remind myself again and again that she’ll be driving a different car today. I don’t know what kind yet but I know the motor is running and when I hop in the car Gloria will zip the hell out of town. Which I’m guessing