The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (8 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

YIKES, I DIDN'T EXPECT that to happen. Here's Mom in a delicate mental state and I'm the one crying. Anyway, there's nothing I can do about it now, only try my best to forget it. I'll just concentrate on being cheerful and happy and enjoy the rest of Mom's visit home.

We arrange a few lawn chairs in a sunny corner of the backyard. I grab the chair next to Mom—no one else is getting that—while Aunt Kay fusses with a plaid blanket, tucking it around Mom's knees.

“Sorry about the display.” I roll my eyes. “Didn't plan for that.”

“Nothing wrong with a few tears,” says Aunt Kay. “Tears only show that you care.”

Mom says nothing, just looks at me with an expression of such pure love that I have to turn away or risk making a show of myself again.

Mom looks so much better, I can actually hardly believe it. Her face is bright and her eyes are interested, but after a while I realize she's not saying too much. Aunt Kay is doing all the talking, prattling on about Grace and the baby and Lloyd's job at the chicken plant. Who really cares? Mom looks content to hear all this news, but me? I think I'm going to explode. So I look for an opening and then, as soon as Aunt Kay finishes up about the baby's latest ear infection, I jump right in.

“Mom, are people nice to you at the hospital?”

Uh oh. Big mistake. It's like I've dropped a small bomb on the back garden. Mom's face clouds slightly and she drops her eyes. Dad is emptying a bag of charcoal onto the barbeque and he stops dead, staring daggers at me. Aunt Kay looks horrified, eyes upbraiding me for being so thoughtless. Only Beth-Ann, propping her dolls along the wooden picnic table, seems unaware of the tension.

Oh, great. Me and my big mouth. What have I done now?

Then it's Mom who saves the whole situation. Who would have thought? She looks up and smiles bravely. “Yes, they are. It's not too bad there, really. I rest a good bit, I'm always so tired. Some days there are . . . uh, treatments, so that takes time. Other days I see the doctor, and that takes time too. On fine days, I try to get outside for a bit, if I'm feeling up to it. Everyone treats me kindly. Especially the nurses; they're very sweet.”

Instantly, like we're all on cue, everyone visibly relaxes. I can actually hear Aunt Kay letting out her breath. How foolish is all this? I bet Aunt Kay was dying to ask that question herself—sure, everyone's curious about the Mental Hospital. Anyway, Dad just shrugs his shoulders as he tosses a match on the coals. “Weiners ready in about half an hour,” he announces, his thin hair whipping around in the wind. “Anyone up for a hot dog?”

“I'd love one!” Mom snuggles down into her blanket. “So tell me all about the recital, Maureen. I hear you have a little solo.”

Finally, my turn! I take my sweet time explaining all about the dance recital and the girls from school and the A+ that Debbie and I got on our history project. I conveniently leave out anything connected to Miss Godwin and that business. I'm not completely foolish, am I? Even I know this wouldn't be good for Mom's mental health. I don't bother mentioning anything about John Ryan and the spring dance either. Suddenly I feel hugely awkward about all that.

Mom's interested in everything I say, right in there asking questions. Her eyes are on me, she's listening and making the right responses. Amazing, really. I actually can't believe the difference in her since she went away.

Soon the aroma of roasting wieners mingles with the heat of the sun and the smell of grass. I help Aunt Kay stick them into rolls and pass them around.

“I can't remember the last time I tasted anything this delicious!” says Mom, sort of surprised at herself. And they really are tasty.

“Have another one, Cecelia,” says Aunt Kay. “You've lost a little weight over the last few weeks.” Has she ever. Incredible to think Mom could get any thinner, but she has.

Her appetite is certainly good today, I'm thinking, as I watch Mom down another hot dog, then sit back contentedly, eyes sleepy and body all relaxed. “Oh my,” she murmurs. “This sun feels just fabulous.”

Then without warning, the wind shifts around from the northeast and the temperature plummets about fifteen degrees. In typical St. John's fashion, a cold drizzle has crept in from the Atlantic Ocean, totally blocking out the sun.

“Blessed Mother, it's enough to freeze you!” Aunt Kay bundles up Mom as everyone scoots indoors. “What a change! It feels like a day in November, for heaven's sake.”

Inside, Mom is carefully positioned on the sofa, pillows behind her back, the same plaid blanket tucked around her knees. Dad and Aunt Kay fuss over her like a couple of hens. Is Mom warm enough? Is she tired? Would she like a cup of tea? God! Is this really necessary? I actually don't think I could stand people fluttering over me like that. But Mom doesn't seem to mind one bit. She just lies there smiling, allowing everyone to take care of her.

The kettle is put on to boil and a pot of fresh tea produced. “Drink it up now, Cecelia,” says Aunt Kay, in that bossy voice you wouldn't dare argue with. “I hope to God you didn't get a chill when that wind changed.” Then she turns to me. “This is a good time to try on your dresses, don't you think? I'm sure your mother would love to help decide on an outfit for the dance.”

“Oh, the dance!” Beth-Ann's face lights up like a neon sign. “Mommy, a boy keeps calling Maureen all the time and wants her to go to a dance!”

Cripes! Does this have to be a topic for the whole world to discuss? I feel the blood creep up my neck and into my face. The last thing I want to do right now is try on dresses and get everyone talking about the dance. How on earth did I ever think this was a good idea?

“Beth-Ann! He only called twice, that's not calling all the time.”

Beth-Ann shrugs her shoulders; she doesn't care. I wish to God she had just kept her mouth shut. The rest of the afternoon will probably be ruined for me now, everyone discussing the dance. I almost wish I wasn't even going—I don't want this to be the focus of Mom's visit.

But Mom, Dad, and Aunt Kay are only too delighted to have the topic on the table. They're grinning and exchanging knowing looks like this is some sort of a huge joke. Honestly, it's all I can do to keep from bolting down the hall.

“Yes,” says Mom, trying to be serious. “Your father mentioned something about a dance. I think it's very exciting. Now how about we see what's in your closet?

I guess. How can I say no? This
was
my dumb idea to start with.

I slump out of the room, then appear and reappear in various combinations of skirts, blouses, dresses, and shoes. There really isn't a big lot to choose from, and in the end Aunt Kay clucks her tongue in mild disapproval.

“That maxi dress you got for Christmas is nice, but a bit too heavy for this time of year. I think a trip downtown might be in order, to Ayre's or Bowring's. What do you think, Cecelia?”

Mom murmurs a quiet agreement and I look at her sharply. Her eyes have gone dull and her interest has slipped away. Like all of a sudden she's tired and doesn't care anymore. Isn't that amazing? She only lay there on the sofa for about half an hour, watching me try on clothes. Imagine getting worn out from that. Depression sure is a strange illness.

It certainly doesn't escape Aunt Kay's notice. “Time for a nap,” she announces. “Maureen, I need you to help me in the kitchen, and Beth-Ann, you bring your dolls out with us. Dave, stay here and read if you like, but don't disturb Cecelia. It's important she gets a rest and doesn't get overtired.”

Dad rolls his eyes and shakes his head as soon as Aunt Kay's back is turned, but I notice he doesn't argue. I guess someone needs to be in charge when it comes to sick people, and Aunt Kay certainly seems to have the knack for that.

Out in the kitchen, we get together a tasty meal of roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and gravy. It's funny—and it took me a while to realize this—but Aunt Kay really is a good cook, so long as she stays away from those disgusting casseroles. I set the table and soon everyone is gathered around, just like it used to be, except that Aunt Kay is sitting in Gran's place. Well, she is doing all the work just like Gran used to do, so I guess that's the proper place for her to sit. Mom seems fresh and rested from her nap, but as soon as dessert is over, she puts down her fork and lifts her enormous eyes toward Dad. She's got that tired, vacant look again. Dad doesn't miss a beat.

“Time to go?” He lays down his own fork, lines of concern creasing his forehead.

Mom nods slowly. “I'm sorry, girls, I'm afraid I don't have much staying power. Seems all I do is sleep, and even then I never feel truly rested. I feel terrible leaving my babies, but I really think I need to go back to the hospital now.”

Then she is gone again. Bustled away in a flurry of kisses, a gathering of bags, and then the final waving of hands from the front porch. We watch them disappear around the corner just like before, then slip back inside, shutting the front door against the cold fog that has settled down to the ground.

The house already feels different—strange and empty and unfamiliar. Like someone has let every bit of air out of a balloon. So what was the point of that, I wonder despondently. I feel way worse now than before Mom arrived. The whole visit seems totally stupid if all she's going to do is lie on the sofa and eat dinner and go straight back to the hospital. What I want is for things to return to the way they used to be. I just want my mother home, like all the other mothers. Honestly, is that too much to ask?

I head toward the dining room table behind Aunt Kay—I suppose someone has to clean up this mess, and lately that means me. We hardly notice Beth-Ann, crumpled into a corner of the sofa, whimpering softly. “Why did Mommy have to leave? Why did she go away again?”

Her words are like spears piercing straight through my heart. I stop, frozen, a dirty dinner plate in each hand, while Aunt Kay rushes over to Beth-Ann, cuddling her up in her arms.

“There, there, my beauty, don't cry. Your mommy is nearly all better. She just needs a little more time in the hospital and then she'll be coming home to you.”

Oh, sure. Right. Run straight to Beth-Ann. Nobody seems to care how
I
feel. I feel sick to death of it all. How much longer will this go on? How much longer do we have to wait for Mom to come home for good?

“But when, Aunt Kay? Exactly when do the doctors say that Mom will be home?”

She looks up at me, her eyes sad and defeated. Actually, she seems very upset, which kind of surprises me. Aunt Kay is always strong and in charge, so you really don't expect this. I suppose I never thought too much about what Aunt Kay was feeling.

“A couple of more weeks, Maureen, that's all I can say; they won't be any more specific than that. The treatments and medications seem to be working okay, but she still tires so easily—you could see that for yourself today. She'll need to be stronger before they let her come home or she won't be able to cope. It's hard, I know it's hard, but we have to be patient. We really don't have much choice.”

“Yeah, I guess there's no choice.” What else can I say? Aunt Kay's not a doctor. She probably doesn't know much more than I do. And how can I say I want Mom home if she's not ready, if she might not be able to cope? But it's just
so frustrating
to have her here, then watch her leave us again. I put the dirty plates back down on the table and go sit next to Beth-Ann.

“Two weeks is not so long to wait, Maureen,” says Aunt Kay, her hand patting my knee. “We've gotten through this much, we can certainly do two more weeks.”

I nod my head slowly. “I guess,” I say again, shrugging my shoulders, forcing down the lump in my throat. Aunt Kay's right, I suppose. Two more weeks is not such a long time. Gently, I smooth down Beth-Ann's blonde curls as she snuggles deep into Aunt Kay's lap. Two weeks is
not
a long time—if someone could only promise me that Mom will definitely be home then.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE NASALLY VOICE CRACKLES from the square box over the blackboard. “Mrs. Doyle, could I have Maureen O'Neill in the office, please?”

Oh no, what now? Is it Mom, is she okay? Is it something else? Debbie and I exchange worried looks and then I scan my brain for anything I might have done. But there's really nothing, not since my big performance in music class, and that was a couple of weeks ago. Just a few warnings from teachers about talking too much. I hope to God I'm not being called to the office over that.

“Certainly, Sister Marion,” says Mrs. Doyle, our history teacher. “She'll be along right away. Now class, let's turn our attention to the War of the Roses. Page 153 in your textbooks.”

Nervously, I make my way through the silent corridors, aware of the strong smell of chalk and dust. The door of the vice-principal's office is slightly ajar and I knock twice. “Come in,” says a voice, clear and precise.

I step inside and stand there with my hands clasped primly before me. “Yes, Sister? You wanted to see me?”

“Ah, Miss O'Neill. Yes, please take a seat.” Sister Marion lifts her head from the papers on her desk and nods toward a chair.

“Now,” she says, as I sit, “there's a matter of some importance that I wish to discuss with you.”

Okay . . .

“You are aware that in every graduating class, one girl is selected as valedictorian to speak at the Mother and Daughter Tea in June, on behalf of all graduates. The girl selected must be of good character, with high marks and an excellent work ethic. She must be well-rounded, meaning she is active and accomplished in other areas besides academics, and she must be of sound Christian principle.”

“Yes, Sister.” My mind races ahead with the possibility. Me as valedictorian? That would be so cool! A split second later—but will Mom be better by then?

“Very good. I assumed you were aware of this distinction.” Sister stands and moves toward the window, giving full attention to the slowly unfurling leaves on the big maple tree outside.

“What you may
not
be aware of, Miss O'Neill, is that the graduate selected must meet with unanimous approval of all teachers on staff, with particular emphasis on those teachers who actually give instruction to the Grade Eight class.”

Sister Marion slowly turns away from the window and assesses me, her head cocked to one side.

Prickles of fear ping-pong inside me. Miss Godwin! Oh no. I lower my eyes and say nothing.

“The names of several girls have been put forward for this honour. Yours, Miss O'Neill, is one of them. As yet, no decision has been made.”

Sister walks to the front of her desk and stands there, arms folded across her chest. I'm not moving a muscle, my eyes locked tight on Sister Marion's black lace-up shoes.

“During our staff discussion regarding this award there was an unusual revelation. A revelation I found surprising, even shocking. A certain teacher—one of
your
teachers, Miss O'Neill—took exception when your name was put forward. This teacher has given many years of distinguished service to our school and she felt there were important issues of behaviour in question.”

I'd like to run away, escape anywhere, but I'm trapped. Valedictorian? I'll be lucky if I'm not suspended. Sister Marion glides behind me, standing at the back of my chair, looming over me like ghost.

“This particular teacher feels that you are of a nervous disposition, easily excited, and prone to outbursts.
Outbursts
, Miss O'Neill! In fact, this teacher expressed the opinion that you are
not
a suitable candidate for valedictorian and in fact could probably benefit from immediate professional help.”

Sister circles 'round to the front of my chair, glaring down at me with so much bottled-up rage that it feels like another presence in the room.

“So what I'm wondering, Miss O'Neill,” she says in a voice that is brittle and tightly controlled, “is how any teacher in this school could draw such incredible conclusions about you. Would you care to explain?”

Here's where I'd like to die. Or maybe just wither away, close my eyes, and blink myself into nothing. I'd like to be anywhere else in the world except fused to this chair, imprisoned in this office, nailed beneath Sister's fury.

“I'm sorry, Sister,” I say, mumbling. “It was just a bit of fun.”

“A—bit—of—fun?”
Each syllable is laced with such force it feels like I'm being struck with something solid.

Yikes, wrong thing to say.

“How does mistreating another human being qualify as ‘a bit of fun'?”

I have to look up at Sister now, there's no choice. It's very scary, believe me. I twist my hands in my lap. How could I say something so stupid? “I'm sorry, Sister.” My voice is small and shivery. “It was wrong of me to misbehave with Miss Godwin. It won't happen again.”

She says nothing, just watches me for another moment or two, returns to her chair, and sits down. Seconds click by. Tension builds and thickens. Will this ever end? What is she going to do to me?

Sister Marion taps her pen twice on the desktop, and then looks up. “How is your mother feeling, Maureen? I understand she's been ill.”

Whoa! Where did that come from? Does Sister know about Mom too? I look at her face and it's softened a bit, eyes carefully watching me, gauging my reaction to her question.

She knows.

I sigh and lower my head. “She's feeling better, thank you, Sister.”

“Is she still in hospital?” The tone is still direct, but kinder now.

“Yes, Sister. She is.”

“I see.” She clasps her hands on her desk like she's praying, tilts her head to one side, still staring at me. “So this has been a difficult time for you, Maureen. First your grandmother died. Then your mother became ill. Then she was admitted to hospital.”

I nod my head slightly. “Yes, Sister,” I say, and my voice is barely a whisper.

“You are helping care for your little sister, I assume?”

“Yes, Sister. I am.”

“Tell me how you are managing.”

So I tell her. The words come out slowly at first, then it gets easier, and soon I'm unloading everything onto Sister Marion. Every detail of my strange new life since Mom went away. How Beth-Ann and I walk to Aunt Kay's house each day after school; how I help with her homework and then do my own. How I bathe my little sister each night, read her a bedtime story, and listen to her prayers. How I make the lunches, fold the laundry, do the breakfast dishes each morning before school. How every Saturday we all tidy up, do the dusting and vacuuming. And how once I even ironed one of Dad's white shirts but ended up burning a hole right through it, so now he has to do those himself.

The whole time, Sister Marion's thoughtful eyes never leave my face. When I finally stop talking, she takes a moment and then says quietly, “You must miss your mother very much.”

Her kind words are so piercingly true, they touch something tender and sore inside me. Feelings rush up like lava and, to my utter humiliation, hot tears spill down my cheeks and clog the back of my throat. Choking and sputtering, sentences tumble out in a rush.

“I miss her so much, Sister, I can hardly even think about it. She was home for a visit two weeks ago but I haven't seen her since and she's supposed to be home for good soon but nobody can say for sure when that will be and sometimes I worry that she's never coming home at all.”

Sister pushes a box of tissues across her desk toward me. “My child, I knew you were carrying a burden, but I had no idea it was so heavy.”

I look up, sniffling, eyes glassy with tears.

Sister Marion pauses, drumming her pen on the desk surface, still observing me closely. “What you have just told me helps me better understand your situation. However, it still does not excuse your behaviour with Miss Godwin, which is the reason for our meeting today. This sort of behaviour is unacceptable at Fatima Academy. As a result, there are repercussions.”

“Yes, Sister.” I dab my nose with a tissue.

“First, you must apologize to Miss Godwin immediately. Before the end of this school day. Second, you must promise me that you will never behave like this again, with Miss Godwin or anyone else.”

“Yes, Sister, I promise.” I absolutely mean it. I know what I did was wrong —making a fool out of Miss Godwin just for a few laughs from the girls. “I swear that I will never act that way again. I'll find Miss Godwin after school and apologize for my behaviour in her class.”

“Good,” says Sister Marion, and her voice is back to crisp and precise. “I will check with Miss Godwin later to make sure the apology is a proper one. Normally, I would also impose a detention, but considering your current family obligations, I will forgo that penalty for the time being. However, if there are any further problems, I will be contacting your father.”

“I understand, Sister.”

Sister Marion looks like there's something more she'd like to say; her eyes rest on me thoughtfully.

“Maureen. About your mother. You and your family may feel you are the only ones in the world struggling with this situation. Let me assure you this is not the case. People don't like to talk about these problems, but they are common in many families.”

Now I'm the one watching Sister closely. Where is she going with this? The nun turns her head, looks out the window.

“Some people call it bad nerves. I have seen it many times over the years. Women too sick to get out of bed. Men unable to hold down a job. Everyone else trying to do the chores and cover up the trouble. It's very difficult. But it happens all the time.”

Now Sister's eyes are on me again, open and direct like there are no barriers between us. “Your mother may always need a little extra attention, Maureen. You may find you need to help out at home more than other girls your age. And you must be careful never to cause her any upset or confusion.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Sister stands up, neatly rearranging the papers on her desk. “I believe I've kept you from class long enough. Mrs. Doyle must be wondering what's become of you.”

“Thank you, Sister,” I say, rising from my seat. “I really appreciate everything you've said to me today. I'll apologize to Miss Godwin this afternoon, right after class.”

Sister dips her head slightly in response, already back into prim vice-principal demeanour. “Just one more thing,” she adds, as I have my hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, Sister?”

“You're doing a remarkable job at home, Maureen. To be honest, I find it inspiring. Keep it up.”

Praise from Sister Marion? Whoa, can you believe this? “Thank you very much, Sister,” I say, smiling. “I will.”