The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (5 page)

Aunt Kay stiffens, and I can see the muscles working in her face, but she's good, she doesn't react. She just takes a little moment to collect herself before speaking.

“I think I'll get the broom and dustpan,” she says, her voice tight.

Is it only my family gets on like this, or is everyone else's family a bit strange too? I don't know, can't say, this is the only family I know from the inside out.

Mom is staring hard at me, sending me a message. It takes a few seconds, but I catch on and jump up.

“Aunt Kay,” I say, all perky and helpful. “How about I take the boys and Beth-Ann downstairs and we can play a game of Hide and Seek? I can eat later.”

All the adults start talking at once—what a great idea, fabulous, have a game of Hide and Seek, by all means. Fabulous for everyone but me, I guess, but what can you do? Billy and Bobby stay up here any longer and people are going to come to blows across the Christmas table.

I herd the three kids out, just as Aunt Grace cuts ahead of me and storms down the hall, Baby Sophie screeching over her shoulder. Slicing through the hubbub, I can hear my grandmother's parting shot.

“I wonder,” she says, her voice cold, “how all the
normal
people are enjoying their Christmas dinner.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I SMILE TO MYSELF at the memory of it all. What a crazy Christmas dinner! Then it hits me like a birch junk. It was Gran's last. Christmas Day will never be the same without her.

Tears flood my eyes, I can't stop them. Turning my face, I force myself to focus on the buildings and houses rushing past the car window. Teardrops escape anyway, roll down my nose, and drip off the tip. I brush them away hurriedly but then there's a sob, quick and sharp.

“Maureen,” says Debbie, from the front seat. “Are you okay?”

I take a moment, concentrate with all my might on not breaking down completely, and then I speak.

“I'm just thinking about Gran,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Sometimes I can't believe she's dead.”

“Honey, it's only been a few weeks,” says Debbie's mom, as she circles around the Rawlins Cross intersection. “After a while it won't hurt so much. Try to think about the good times with your grandmother.”

I nod silently. And how is that going to help?

“Mom, you should have seen Maureen at ballet today!” says Debbie, trying her best to cheer me up. She's so sweet, what a good friend. “She picked up all the steps right away, and then guess what? Miss Louisa gave her a solo in the recital!”

“Is that right? Good for you, Maureen. That's quite a distinction.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thomas.” I give my nose another quick swipe with the back of my hand. Why is it I never have a tissue? “But a bunch of girls are doing solos. Debbie is too.”

“Really? It's an honour for both of you, then.”

Honour or no honour, it won't feel the same without Gran there to see me dance.

There's a short silence and then Mrs. Thomas speaks again. “How's your mom, Maureen? I haven't seen her since the funeral. I know she and your Gran were really close.”

Every muscle in my body stiffens and knots. I glance up and Mrs. Thomas's two eyes are in the rear-view mirror, latched upon mine like lasers, watching. I turn away quickly.

“She's fine, thanks.” My voice is tight and high, but I can't help it. Debbie looks sharply at her mom, a puzzled look on her face. Mrs. Thomas drops her eyes from the mirror, focuses on the road.

“Glad to hear it. It's not easy losing your mother.”

She knows. If she knows, why is she bringing it up? How miserable and mean is that? You know, I've never really liked Debbie's mom—she's always digging for information. “Dangerous,” that's how Gran described her once, “that Joan Thomas is a dangerous woman.”

I sit there in the back seat, twisting my hands in my lap, saying nothing. The silence in the car is thick and awkward; not another word is spoken until we pull up in front of my house on Kerry Street. Dad's car is parked in the driveway now and Aunt Kay's Volkswagen bug is still there too.

“Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Thomas,” I say, as politely as I can possibly manage. Debbie's mom smiles, but I can feel her appraising eyes locked on my back as I walk away. What a busybody.

“See you tomorrow, Maureen,” Debbie calls out, as they drive off.

I stomp up the walkway. Why can't people simply mind their own business? Angrily, I push through the front door, toss my ballet bag on an armchair, and then realize I'm not alone.

Dad, Mom, and Aunt Kay are all in the living room. Only Aunt Kay is crying, Dad looks like someone just died, and Mom is sound asleep in his arms. Oh my God, what now? I stand there, frozen to the spot, barely breathing.

“Maureen, come sit down.” Dad nods at the chair next to him. “We've been waiting for you to get home.”

I walk across the floor, like I'm on automatic. My brain has stopped, I feel nothing. I sit down stiffly, at the edge of the chair, hands folded in my lap like a nun. Mom looks unconscious, curled into Dad's big stomach, her body limp as a rag doll. Dad shifts her to the side a bit, before speaking. Mom's eyes don't even flicker.

Aunt Kay sits across from us, sniffling.

“Maureen, Aunt Kay told you we saw the psychiatrist today,” says Dad. I nod slowly. Don't think, don't react, just listen. “Apparently your mother is much worse than we thought. The doctor says she's suffering from severe depression. He says she won't get better at home.”

I stare at him, say nothing.

Dad takes a deep breath. “Honey, there's no easy way to say this. Your mother is being admitted to the Mental Hospital. There are doctors and nurses and good medicine there that will help her get well. We were just waiting for you to get home—I wanted to talk to you myself, let you see your mother before we go.”

My stomach twists so hard I think I'm going to throw up. The Mental Hospital? No, Mom can't go there. All of St. John's knows about “the Mental,” a sprawling set of brick buildings in the west end of town. It looks like a Victorian prison—or a workhouse from a Charles Dickens novel. Stories are whispered about what goes on inside—people lining the corridors like animals, crouched into corners, tied up in straightjackets. Then there are the snickers and jokes. “Don't be so foolish, you're like someone from the Mental!” Or, “You look like someone from the Mental in that outfit!” Or, “Keep it up and we'll put you in the Mental!” Once in a while, a patient escapes and then the whole town is in an uproar, with announcements on the radio and in the newspaper. When the patient is finally rounded up and locked back inside, everyone breathes a deep sigh of relief. No, there's no way Mom can go to the Mental. We'd never live down the shame.

I stare at my father stonily. “Dad, are you crazy? The Mental Hospital? How can you let this happen?”

His face stiffens and it takes him a moment to speak, but when he does, his tone is even and firm. “Maureen, I know this is difficult to accept, but it's the only way. Your mother's very sick, too sick to stay here. She has to get better. Don't you want her to get better?”

“Of course I want her to get better! But why can't she get better here, or at St. Clare's, or anywhere else but the Mental?” My hands clench into fists.

Dad's eyes look weary and dull. He doesn't even have the energy to fight with me, or tell me not to be so rude. “The doctor wants to try a particular treatment that could shock her out of her depression and it's only available at the Mental Hospital. They need to try a variety of drugs and she needs total rest. This could work, Maureen, get your mother back to normal. We have to give her this chance, there's no choice. You understand, don't you?”

How can I argue with this? I bite my lip, look away. “I guess,” I say, my voice low and small. “But how long will it take? How long does she have to be there?”

“If everything goes well, it could be as little as a few weeks. But it could take longer than that, too. It might take months. We just don't know yet.”

Weeks? Months? Without Mom here? This can't be happening. I shake my head slowly, look toward Mom, slouched asleep on the sofa. “Why is she like that?” I ask. My words sound far away, detached, like they're coming from someone else.

“She's sedated. When the doctor recommended the Mental Hospital, your mother became anxious and upset. Which is understandable. So he gave her something to calm her down. He says it'll wear off in a few hours.”

I nod carefully, like I'm considering something really important. Then I turn to Aunt Kay. “Where's Beth-Ann?” I ask, my voice dull and flat.

Aunt Kay looks up, her eyes red-rimmed and her face blotchy. “I called Charlie and he came and took the three kids back to our house. We didn't want the children to see your mother like this.”

“Okay,” I say, and I sound so serious and my head is still nodding as if somehow this plan is fine with me. But my brain is racing ahead. There's the ballet recital next month, the school concert in June, and the Mother and Daughter Graduation Tea after that. How will I ever explain the fact that Mom's not there? I shut my eyes tightly, trying to stop the thoughts and questions from sprouting in my head.

“Maureen, did you hear me?” I open my eyes and Aunt Kay is staring at me hard. “I said it's important not to say a word. Your mother won't want anyone to know she's in the Mental Hospital.”

I flinch. Just the name of the place feels like a kick in the gut. “I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can go on pretending that Mom is okay.”

“We'll figure out something to say,” says Dad, with a pleading look toward Aunt Kay. “Won't we, Kay?”

“With any luck, Cecelia will respond to the treatment and get better quickly.” Aunt Kay rises to the challenge, her tone is stronger now, more decisive. “Hopefully, she'll be out of there before we know it.”

“Honey, we'll get through this.” Dad reaches out and puts his free hand on mine—it feels all sweaty and clammy. I glance up at his face and, my God, it's beet red, and shiny with beads of perspiration. Poor Dad, what a sin, he looks a total wreck. “Sooner or later Mom will be better and life will go back to how it used to be.”

“Dave, you should really get going before that sedative wears off.” Aunt Kay is all business now. “Why don't you carry her out the kitchen door, it's more private that way. I'll get her suitcase.”

“Good idea.” Dad shifts Mom's tiny body, about to lift her.

“Dad, hang on, wait.” I move to the floor beside the sofa, kneel down, and look into Mom's face. She's as peaceful and serene as a sleeping baby. The scent of lavender surrounds her like faint mist. I push back a strand of dark hair that's fallen across her eyes and then I kiss her forehead. The pale skin is smooth and warm against my lips.

“Bye, Mom. Please get better soon.” My voice trembles despite myself and I feel the tears burning and pushing hard. I look up at Dad. “When will I see her again?”

He has to turn away and it takes him a moment to find his own voice. “She'll be home on day passes, honey. It won't be long, I promise you.”

“It's time for your mother to leave now, Maureen,” says Aunt Kay. “We'll go to my house. Your father will stay with your mother until she's settled for the night.”

I nod again, like a robot. “Love you, Mom,” I whisper, and move aside as Dad stands up, Mom cradled in his arms like a drowsy toddler. They go through the kitchen and out the side door, Aunt Kay leading the way. I stand at the big living room window, watching through the sheer curtains as Dad gently lays Mom on the back seat of the car and heaves the heavy brown suitcase inside the trunk.

The car backs out of the driveway in a slow, wide semicircle, then chugs lazily up the street. Watching it go, it feels like every bit of sense and meaning in my life is being pulled away with it. What's the point of anything now? How will I ever manage without Mom?

There's a hand, gentle and soft on my shoulder. Aunt Kay has come to stand beside me. “Let's go, sweetie. Time to leave.” We both see the movement at the same moment. Across the street, in a big living room window just like ours, a drape falls back into place. We turn and look at each other, knowing right away. Someone has seen Mom go.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT'S NOT MUCH OF a playground, but I guess the school board figures it's good enough for a bunch of girls. Fenced in on three sides by school walls, it's really just an asphalt square. And the asphalt itself is all rumpled and bumpy, tricky going for the little ones when they're playing tag. Still, it's great to be outside. My feet feel airy and light without winter boots. The wind is icy cold, slices against the bare skin above my knee socks. But I don't care. I toss my head, let the wind pull and tug at my hair. It's good to be away from that stuffy classroom.

The April sky is so blue it makes my chest ache. Not a cloud anywhere. Cold sunshine pours down; all the buildings, hills, and trees look incredibly clear and sharp in the distance. What a gorgeous day. I bite into the apple in my hand.

“How's your mom doing?” asks Debbie, idly kicking at a stone, sending it bouncing ahead.

“Good, thanks.” Careful, Maureen. “The doctors still don't know what's causing the infection, so she'll be in hospital awhile yet.”

“Wow, that's some bad infection she's got. Imagine being in isolation all these weeks. She must be some bored. Too bad you can't visit her.”

“Yeah, it's too bad, all right. I really miss her.” At least this much is true. Still, the story of Mom being at St. Clare's seems to be sticking. Sometimes I almost believe it myself.

“Do you think she'll be better in time for the dance recital?” Debbie eyes are all concerned behind her granny glasses.

I shake my head. “No. Dad doesn't think so. But Aunt Kay is going to come instead, so that's almost as good.”

Aunt Kay. Where would we be without her? I never thought we'd cope with Mom gone, but somehow we are. Things are different, of course, but it's really not so bad.

Here's the new routine. Each day after school, Beth-Ann and I walk in the other direction from Fatima Academy, away from home. Through Churchill Park, to Aunt Kay's tiny house on Poplar Avenue. Then I help Beth-Ann with her bit of homework, and keep an eye on Billy and Bobby while Aunt Kay makes dinner, which is not as bad as it seems, either; the twins are not nearly so hyper in their own place. Then Uncle Charlie comes home and we all sit down for dinner together. Uncle Charlie's so sweet. He always makes me feel like we're supposed to be there, like Beth-Ann and I are no extra trouble at all. He laughs and tells jokes and everything is always light and fun. Once dinner is over, I help Aunt Kay do the dishes, then start in on my own homework. Around eight-thirty, Dad arrives to pick us up. He has worked all day and gone out to see Mom at the Mental Hospital, so he's always exhausted. Often he's irritable and preoccupied, and on those evenings I kind of keep my distance from him. But sometimes he's actually in a pretty good mood, and those are the evenings he's got a little news to tell about Mom. Something positive like, “She laughed at a story I told her,” or “Today we went for a walk outside.” Regardless of his mood, Aunt Kay always has a plate of dinner ready for him, neatly covered with tinfoil, which he eats when he gets home. I mean, how kind is Aunt Kay?
She
never seems tired or grumpy.

I smile to myself, remember how I used to hate Aunt Kay's cooking. Somehow, none of that seems so important now. Aunt Kay is smart and always interested in what I'm doing. More and more, I find myself telling her about upcoming tests I'm worried about and some of the funny stories from school.

“Earth to Maureen! Are you there?” Debbie's planted herself in my path and I nearly bump right into her. “Hello! Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, sorry . . . ”

Debbie's got an odd look on her face, like she's keeping a big secret. “What's going on?” Something is up, I know. “What is it?”

“We-e-ll,” says Debbie. “I was only saying that a certain person thinks another certain person is kind of cute, and might just be asking that certain person to the spring dance at St. Matthew's, but only if that certain person is certain to say yes!” She grins and eyes me, watching to see the effect of this news bulletin.

She
can't
be talking about me. Sure, I hardly know any boys at St. Matthew's, I hardly know any boys at all. And I'm certainly not
cute
—each time I look in the mirror all I see are freckles and sporadic pimples.

“Debbie, you're not making any sense. What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” she repeats, casually moving away, looking over her shoulder to make sure I'm following, which of course I am. “Remember Friday night at my house? When Steve arrived with Doug and John?”

Yeah, I guess I do. Not likely I'm going to forget it. Steve is Debbie's older brother. He and his friends Doug and John are in Grade Nine at St. Matthew's High School, which is all boys, same as our school is all girls. On Friday night, Debbie and I were at her house working on our history project, when Steve, Doug, and John walked through the side door into the kitchen. I got so tongue-tied and awkward I could hardly say a word. What in the world is my problem that I can't speak to boys like a normal person? I can't even think about this without my skin crawling.

“Of course I remember. I'm not demented.”

“One of the guys thinks a girl with long brown hair is so cute, he'd like to ask her to the spring dance. But I'm not saying which guy, you have to guess!” Debbie grins at me, and then just for badness, skips away.

“Debbie, get back here!” I chase her across the playground, leaping across hopscotch games and jumping over skipping ropes. “I'm going to kill you! Who is it? Tell me!”

She slows down by the concrete steps, laughing so hard she has to bend over to catch her breath. “Okay, I'll give you a hint. It's not Steve.”

“Oh thanks, that's a big hint. He's your brother and he's only got a girlfriend already.”

“Okay, then I'll give you another hint. He's really tall, got gorgeous big blue eyes, and his ears stick out a bit, which you can't really notice because his hair is so long.”

“John?” My eyes grow wide and it feels like someone has lit up a bulb inside my face. “John Ryan wants to ask me to the spring dance?” Unbelievable. Girls from Fatima are hardly ever invited to the St. Matthew's spring dance. Usually it's just girls from high school. “But why me?”

Debbie looks at me like I've grown another nose. “Duh! I guess he likes you, Maureen. I guess he thinks you're cute.”

A rush of excitement thrills through me. Me? John wants me to go to his dance! And then my stomach plunges. Oh my God, I'd have to talk to him all night. I can't
do
that. There's no way. Plus I don't even know if Dad would let me go. I'd have to ask permission, which would be
horribly
embarrassing.

“So?” Debbie's watching me, waiting for an answer. “What will I tell him? He's not calling, unless he knows for sure you'll say yes.”

“Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean, I don't know. Oh Debbie, for God's sake, what am I going to do? I can't talk to John all night. What would I say? Plus, I doubt that Dad will even let me go. He'll just say I'm too young.”

“Don't be so foolish.” She flicks her hands like it's no big deal. “Lots of people go to dances in Grade Eight. And what do you talk about? Well, you just talk about anything, that's all. School, exams, teachers. It's easy. You just open your mouth and words come out.”

Yeah, right. Easy for her, maybe. On Friday night, Debbie chatted comfortably with the boys like they were all her best friends. Meantime, I sat there like the number one moron, getting all red in the face anytime one of them made a remark to me. I guess that's what comes from having no brothers. Debbie's lucky that way. If I had an older brother like her, I know I wouldn't feel like such an idiot.

“Come on, just relax about it. Whenever you're talking to him, just pretend you're talking to me.”

“If you were going to be there, then I wouldn't mind so much. That wouldn't be so bad.”

“Maybe I
am
going to be there! Didn't think about that, now, did you?” Debbie's looking at me all superior-like, hands on her hips like one of the teachers.

“You're going! To the dance? With who, Doug?”

Debbie nods her head excitedly.

“Your mom says it's okay, she doesn't mind?”

“No, she doesn't mind. Steve is going too, so he's supposed to be looking out for me. So ridiculous, like I can't take care of myself.”

“Okay, but I can't decide about this right now. There's no way. I'll have to ask Dad tonight and then I'll call you after that. This is crazy! I just can't
believe
John Ryan wants me to go to his spring dance!”

* * * * *

Whispering and giggling, the two of us push through the bathroom door, making a quick stop just before the afternoon bell rings. Some other girls are here too—we hear them chattering over behind the stalls. Suddenly, a single sentence knifes through the bubbles of my excitement.

“She says her mother's at St. Clare's but it's not true.”

Instantly I freeze, every nerve ending on edge.

“You're kidding!”

“Yeah, she's out at the Mental. Can you believe it? She's gone right off her head.”

“Are you serious? How do you know?”

“Aunt Thelma works in the isolation ward at St. Clare's and she says Mrs. O'Neill isn't there. I heard her say so to Mom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and apparently Mr. O'Neill goes out to the Mental all the time to visit her.” This from a third voice. “Mom was out to Bowring Park the other day and she saw him drive right up to the building.”

“My God, poor Maureen. Imagine if your mother was nuts. Must be some embarrassing.”

I'm senseless, paralyzed. It feels like every ounce of blood and energy has drained away from my body. I stand there, rooted, then feel the pressure of Debbie's hand on my arm.

“Maureen,” she says, her voice loud and clear and distinct. “Don't pay any attention to that pack of lies.”

The talking stops dead, just like that. Debbie pulls my sweater, drags me over behind the stalls where Mary Ann, Heather, and Bernadette are huddled together, as nervous as trapped mice.

“You guys have something to say about Maureen, then why don't you say it to her face? Here she is.” Debbie's furious now, boiling mad. She pushes me forward.

I'm totally outside myself. I look blankly at the three girls, as they fidget and twitch.

“Sorry, Maureen,” mumbles Mary Ann. “If we knew you were there, we never would have said a thing.”

“Take back those lies,” orders Debbie. I've never seen her so angry. “Take 'em back now!”

The three girls exchange guilty glances, hesitate. Bernadette bites her lip. Of course, they can't take back the lies. It's impossible. Because they're not telling lies, they're telling the truth.

I charge through the washroom door as fast as I can. Tears blaze in my eyes as I bolt down the corridor. Oh my God, they know. Everyone knows. What am I going to do?

Just then, the one o'clock bell rings. It's deafening, like a train whistle, like two cymbals clanging on either side of my head. I slide into my desk as Sister Marion enters the classroom.

The afternoon session has begun.