The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? Gran can't be dead; sure, she's not even sick.” I pull abruptly away from Dad. This can't be true. A coldness creeps over me and my brain feels fuzzy.

“My child, you must come with us now,” says Sister Marion, and I feel the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder. “This is a terrible shock, I know.”

“But Gran
can't
be dead—she was just at our house last night.” I stumble through the corridor between Dad and Sister Marion, my words sounding so strange, like they're coming from someone else.

On the drive home down Elizabeth Avenue, I stare out the car window, watching houses fly past like moving images in a kaleidoscope. Gran, dead? “Dad, how could this happen? I don't understand. Gran's not that old and she's never sick.”

Dad's voice is calm and soothing. His big hands rest lightly on the steering wheel as he slows down for a red light. “I don't understand either, Maureen, it just happened. Your mother and Gran were at Dominion and apparently Gran just collapsed. She was right in the middle of saying something—something about the price of the salt meat, according to your mom, when suddenly she stopped talking and collapsed in the checkout line.”

I'm watching him while he's saying all this and for some strange reason the only thing I can focus on is the colour of Dad's face. I never really noticed it before, but it's really red, almost as red as a tomato. His dark hair combed back in a wave, I can see right through it now, it's gotten so thin. My God, Dad's starting to look old. I shake my head, appalled at myself. Gran is dead and this is all I can think about? I blink my eyes, try to refocus, try to comprehend.

“But Dad, this makes
no
sense. How can someone just collapse and die when they're not even sick?”

“I don't know, Maureen. I guess she must have been sick and nobody knew about it, probably not even her. Your mother is very upset, as you can imagine; she was with her. It was quite a shock and then a load of confusion. They paged inside the store for a doctor or nurse and called the ambulance, but it was too late.”

A little something triggers in my brain. “Mom's upset?” I ask, studying Dad's expression. “How upset?”

He turns and looks at me, eyes weary and dull. “Remember last year when the dog died? Well, she's like that again, only worse.”

I nod woodenly. It feels like a big, heavy brick has thudded to the bottom of my stomach. When Trixie died last June—she was chasing cars up Kerry Street and got caught beneath a wheel—everyone felt terrible. Even me, and I never had much to do with Trixie. But Mom, she was beside herself. She couldn't stop crying and ended up in bed for two days. I know it was sad, but it wasn't the end of the world and we could always get another dog. But Mom wouldn't hear a word about another pet, and even now I wouldn't dare mention Trixie's name in front of her. I'd be afraid she might start crying again.

“I remember Trixie. I remember she died.”

The sweet little voice from the back seat makes me jump. Beth-Ann. I'd almost forgotten she was even there. I turn around and just the look of her makes me smile. I know she's my sister, but is Beth-Ann ever cute. Big blue eyes, as round as two coins. Blonde corkscrews curling around her face—all she needs is a pure white dress and a set of wings. Now, she doesn't always act angelically, but that's another story.

“I remember Trixie too,” I say.

“You know who else died, Bethie?” Dad's tone is even and gentle and I watch Beth-Ann's face closely. “Gran did. Gran died this morning and now she's in heaven with Grandad.”

Her eyes get even bigger. “Gran died too?” She sounds so surprised. “Why did Gran die too?”

“She was sick, sweetie. She was sick and she's gone to heaven. Oh look, Aunt Kay's at the house.” We're heading down Kerry Street now and I can see Aunt Kay's red Volkswagen parked at a crazy angle to the curb. “You like Aunt Kay, don't you, Bethie?” says Dad, as he pulls the big old Pontiac into the driveway.

“Aunt Kay is nice.” Beth-Ann nods, her mind already moving on. “I like Aunt Kay.”

I sigh deeply. I wish I was six too. I wish I was six and everyone would take care of me and I wouldn't have to think about Gran dying and Mom being even more upset than when the dog was killed. I kick at the messy slush on the walkway. Why is everything so grey? The shingles on the house, the fog, the dreary low sky.

I drop my bookbag on the big armchair in the living room. The house feels strange, too dim and quiet. Then I hear low voices coming from the kitchen and I push through the swinging door. Aunt Kay is standing by the stove, the kettle just starting to boil. Aunt Grace is here too, sitting at the kitchen table, thin smoke rising up from the cigarette between her fingers. The room feels very yellow and full of light and too warm. It's weird, but for some reason this makes me feel better.

“Maureen, you're home!” I just stand there and let Aunt Kay hug me tightly, fold me into her perfumed softness. “Isn't it just awful about Gran? I can hardly believe it myself.”

“What happened?” I ask, and I really don't want this hug to stop. It's funny, but our family is not much for hugs. We kind of keep our feelings to ourselves for the most part. And this is the second big hug I've had so far today. Which says everything, as far as I'm concerned.

“The doctor says it was a massive heart attack.” Aunt Kay pulls away now, nods me to sit down, so I do. “He said she was dead before she even hit the floor. None of us knew there was anything wrong with her heart. I doubt she knew herself. Sometimes these things just happen.”

“Poor Gran—I can't believe it's true.” I shake my head slowly. “So where's Mom?” I ask, like I don't know anything. Then I watch the two of them.

Aunt Grace's eyes flick toward her sister and the cigarette sits motionless between her fingers. This one's for Aunt Kay, who's much better at tricky situations. But then, she's the clear boss of the family and used to taking charge. Her hand is steady as she pours steaming water from the kettle into Mom's pink flowered teapot, her voice firm and even. “She's resting right now, Maureen. In her bedroom. Your mother's had a terrible shock, as you can imagine. Dr. Sullivan came by and gave her something to help her sleep.”

I nod silently. A terrible shock. Aunt Kay stirs the tea in the pot, slips a tea cozy over it. Every movement is controlled; she carries herself like a queen. She even looks like one with her auburn hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Aunt Kay always wears her hair like this—I can never remember seeing it any other way. She always wears dresses, never pants. “Trousers are for men,” she says, which makes me laugh inside. I mean, it is 1971 not 1935, and who still calls them “trousers,” anyway? But hey, that's Aunt Kay. She used to be principal of a small school around the bay, which is how she got so good at telling people what to do. Then she met Uncle Charlie and they got married and moved back to town. Now they have twin boys, Billy and Bobby, who are probably the only two people in the family who pay no attention at all to Aunt Kay.

“We have to be strong now, Maureen. That's what Gran would want.” This from Aunt Grace as she butts out her cigarette in an ashtray piled high with ashes. So disgusting, does she have to smoke in our kitchen? Aunt Grace is totally different from Aunt Kay; you'd never say they were sisters. She's short and round, with absolutely no sense of style. Today she's got on an orange and purple polyester blouse that's too big at the shoulders and too small across her chest. Her hair is short and brown, and underneath, small green eyes dart back and forth watching everything. Apparently, we have to be careful what we say when Aunt Grace is around—she repeats it all. “If you want your story broadcast over VOCM,” Dad said once, “make sure Grace is in the room when you tell it.” Anyway, we really don't see much of Aunt Grace because she works full-time as a secretary somewhere. She even went back to work after her baby girl was born, which put the whole family into a state of shock. The only one happy with the plan seemed to be Lloyd, her husband. “He's just thinking about the extra money,” Gran had sniffed at the time. “Imagine leaving your child with a stranger.”

“I want to see Mom.” My chin goes up and I eye them both, watch them exchange worried glances.

Why is it everyone always protects Mom? I mean, Dad speaks softly to her all the time and she never makes a single decision without asking him first. And then there's Gran, who comes over every afternoon to help Mom fold laundry and peel potatoes for dinner. Poor Gran, what's going to happen there now? Then on those rare times when Mom and Dad go out at night, Aunt Kay shows up to give advice on Mom's outfit, hair, and makeup. It's crazy; they all treat her like she's helpless. Mom clearly doesn't mind. With her big round eyes and tiny body, she draws people to her like paper clips to a magnet.

“Maureen . . .”

The kitchen door swings open, cutting Aunt Kay off. Dad strides in, Beth-Ann a small shadow behind him. He leans against the broom closet, his business suit dark against the bright yellow paint. “How's Cecelia now?” He looks tired and definitely worried, and my stomach does that somersault thing again.

“She's sleeping, thank God,” says Aunt Kay, giving him a knowing look as she crouches down by Beth-Ann. “My love, would you like a cookie and a glass of milk?”

Beth-Ann nods solemnly. I bite my lip and stare out the window at the drizzle. What about me, doesn't anyone care about me? Suddenly tears rush behind my eyes and the kitchen feels too small, too full of people. I have to get out of here. Now. I scrape my chair back on the linoleum floor and push out the door.

“Don't disturb your mother, Maureen!” Aunt Grace calls out, as the kitchen door rocks back and forth to a close.

But no one comes after me.

I stand at the end of the hallway, staring at the shut door of Mom and Dad's bedroom, glancing back toward the kitchen. Aunt Grace isn't telling me what to do—if I want to see my own mother, I will. Carefully I turn the doorknob. It clicks softly, releases, and the door swings silently open. I step inside.

The room is dark, curtains pulled tight. Mom's small shape lies motionless beneath the bedspread. The only sound in the room is the gentle rhythm of her breathing. On the bedside table there's a glass of water and a small brown prescription bottle.

“Mom?”

No response.

I tiptoe over to the bed and kneel down. Mom's eyes are closed, her face smooth and relaxed. Lavender perfume lingers on the air; I close my eyes and inhale. She's only resting, she'll be fine later. Minutes pass as I watch Mom sleep. Then quietly, I get up and go.

Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I hear footsteps coming down the hall.

“Maureen?” Aunt Kay sits on the edge of my bed. “I've made a casserole for dinner tonight. Beef and macaroni, it's in the oven now. I need you to take it out at five o'clock. Serve it, and clean up after. Do you think you can do that?”

“Of course I can do that.” I sit up, pull my knees to my chest. “But Mom gets dinner every night and she'll be awake soon.” Aunt Kay's beef and macaroni casserole? Her food always tastes weird. There's no way we're all eating that.

“Maureen, listen to me. Your mother's had a terrible shock. It's important that she rest as long as possible. The next few days are going to be very difficult for all of us, but especially for her. You have to understand, your mother will need all her strength to cope.”

“A terrible shock? All her strength to cope?” Anger suddenly balloons inside my head. “I'm sorry Aunt Kay, but I don't understand. You and Aunt Grace aren't taking pills to go to sleep. Neither am I. And I'm feeling pretty sad about Gran dying too, but nobody seems to care about that!” Now the hot tears bubble out, spilling down my cheeks, forming tiny damp circles on my blouse.

Aunt Kay reaches out and pulls me close. Third hug of the day. “I know, Maureen, I understand. We're all devastated that Gran has died. But we have to be strong. And some people are better at being strong than others. Things like this hit your mother harder than the rest of us. So we have to take care of her over the next few days. I know you can help with this, Maureen. Aunt Grace and I, your Dad and Beth-Ann, we're all depending on you to help.”

I sniffle noisily, wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Disgusting I know, but Aunt Kay doesn't say a word. I'm only thirteen, why am I in charge? Then I look at her and nod my head slowly. What choice do I have? “Okay.”

“Good girl,” says Aunt Kay, standing up. “Now wash your face and come back out to the kitchen.”

* * * * *

The beef and macaroni casserole sits on the three plates like mounds of sloppy mud, bits of yellow corn and ground beef sticking out like warts. Looking at it, I feel my stomach heave. Was it only yesterday that we all sat around this same table? Mom and Dad, Gran, Beth-Ann, and me. Pork chops and boiled potatoes we had, and the homey smell of frying fat was all through the house. I remember Gran sat next to Beth-Ann and cut her pork chop into small pieces. Mom laughed out loud at some story Dad told from work. Now Gran is dead and Mom is drugged-out in the bedroom. It feels like a hundred years have passed since last night.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DULL BROWN COFFIN inches down the aisle and we shuffle along behind it. Beth-Ann's hand is soft and tiny in mine; it's good to have something to hold onto. I keep my face down. The church is packed—people so close on either side I can hear them breathe, even smell their damp winter coats. Ahead of us, Mom walks between Dad and Aunt Kay, although “walks” doesn't begin to describe what's going on. She's being carried, that's more like it. Mom's being lifted along by Dad and Aunt Kay and her small brown boots are barely grazing the tile floor. My total concentration is on those boots, how they hardly move at all. Which is why I can't even think about looking up.

But I can't block my ears to the floating whispers.

“. . . not strong . . .”

“That poor Dave O'Neill . . .”

“. . . an awful burden.”

My spine stiffens. Do they think we're all deaf? How dare they? Mom's no burden, they don't even know her! If she can just get through the funeral, everything will be okay. That's what Aunt Kay said, anyway.

“Maureen. Maureen!”

I blink and look around. The entire class is staring at me. Up by the blackboard, Sister Marion is staring too, her sharp eyes curious.

“Sorry, Sister.”

Her eyes linger on me a moment longer before she speaks again. “I was just reading out the marks for the science test, Maureen. As I said, there were three marks in the nineties. I'm pleased to report that you received the highest score in the class—a ninety-eight per cent. Congratulations.”

A smile creeps across my face. Ninety-eight per cent? That's great! Usually about five or six of us are in the running for best marks. This time I came out on top.

Sister Marion is still speaking as she slowly moves among the rows of girls, placing papers on each desk. “I was quite disappointed in these test results. The class average was only seventy-two per cent and there were five failures. You girls will need to develop better study skills before moving on to high school next year. Perhaps we should ask those with the highest marks to tell us how they prepared for this test.”

I freeze. Don't ask me! The night before the test I did everything but study. I helped Beth-Ann with her homework, put her in the bath, and read her a bedtime story. After that, I went out to the kitchen and cleaned up the mess left over from dinner. Then I made lunches for Beth-Ann and me for the next day. All this time, Mom sat in the living room doing nothing, just staring at the TV screen like a zombie. Soon as Dad finished dinner, he took off back to work. By the time I sat down to study at nine o'clock, I was too tired to think. Unbelievable, isn't it? Tell me how Mom can just sit there while I do all her chores. And how can Dad go back to work when he knows I have a science test? What's wrong with the two of them, anyway? So I set my alarm for five-thirty the next morning and that's how I studied. I almost didn't even bother.

Suddenly the bell rings for lunch. Whew, that was close. Everyone stands and recites the Our Father. As soon as Sister Marion leaves the room, we pull our tin lunch boxes from beneath our desks.

“So how does it feel?” Debbie takes out her Thermos, unscrews the top.

“How does what feel?” I'm still thinking about the night before my science test.

“Oh, pretend you don't know.” Debbie rolls her eyes. “That test was brutal. I don't know how you got ninety-eight.”

“Well you got eighty-nine, that's pretty good.” What difference about the science test, anyway, who really cares? I pick the tinfoil off my sandwich. The white Wonder Bread is flattened like a pancake, the peanut butter and jam squished into a wavy line of brown and red. This never happens when Mom makes lunch.

“Not as good as ninety-eight,” says Debbie. True, but so what? She pours chicken noodle soup into the cup of her Thermos and a warm steam rises up.

All around, lunch boxes open and the classroom air balloons with different smells. Egg salad sandwiches, tuna, the sharp tang of a bit apple. Our cafeteria was turned into classrooms on account of so many girls in the school, which means everyone eats at their desks now. It's disgusting when smells stick around all afternoon, and bread crumbs and chocolate chip cookie pieces litter the floor.

A syrupy sweetness floods my mouth as I bite into my sandwich. Tastes better than it looks, anyway; I stare out the window at the April sunshine. Looks like it won't be long before the snow is totally melted.

“Are you going to ballet this afternoon?” asks Debbie, between sips of soup. Her granny glasses have slid to the end of her tiny nose, which is really not big enough to hold them there in the first place. Her black hair is curly to her shoulders, almost frizzy today. Poor Debbie is always trying to iron her hair flat and it never works out. I keep telling her to leave it alone, I love the curls. But she hates her hair, wants it straight like mine. Funny how no one is ever satisfied.

“I'm not sure about ballet.” Debbie and I have been in lessons together since we were seven. “I'll have to see when I get home.”

“My mom can pick you up. You haven't been to ballet in a while.”

Three weeks to be exact, ever since Gran died. “Well, Mom might need me to help with Beth-Ann.”

“Why can't your mom take care of Beth-Ann herself?” Debbie turns to look at me. “That's her job, isn't it?”

Yeah, it's her job all right. But she's not doing it anymore, so now it seems I have to. “There's been a lot of work since Gran died. You don't realize.”

“Okay, but the recital is next month and you're not going to know the routines. How about if we stop by on our way and see if you can go?”

“No!” My tone is way too sharp. Debbie pulls back, surprised. “I mean, there's no need.” Be careful, Maureen! “I'll call you if I want a ride.”

Debbie shrugs her shoulders and starts in on the noodles with her spoon. I keep on chewing but now the sandwich tastes like sand. And I think of Mom, the way she was this morning, how she couldn't even get out of bed. How Beth-Ann and I went in to kiss her goodbye and just those two little kisses started the crying again. She kept pulling tissues from the box by her bed.

“I'm sorry, girls.” Tears trickled down her face. “I don't know why I feel so sad all the time. I'd give anything for it to go away.”

“It's okay, Mom,” I said, gently touching her shoulder. All this crying just breaks my heart, absolutely kills me.

“Why is Mommy so sad?” Beth-Ann asked as we left the room.

“I don't know, Bethie.” It's all I could say, because I
don't
know. What I do know is that it makes me feel sad too.

There's never any way to tell how Mom will be after school. She could still be in bed, not having gotten up at all. Or she might be out in the living room staring at the TV, wrapped up in her old blue bathrobe, eyes glassy, hardly aware that we're home. Sometimes the breakfast dishes are washed. Often they're piled in the sink, smears of yellow egg stuck to the plates. And Dad is different now too. No more coming through the door, grabbing Mom by the waist, laughing and telling jokes. He's kind to Mom, helps me get dinner on the table, and then takes off back to the office as soon as the last mouthful is swallowed. Nice of him, hey? Have people forgotten that I'm only thirteen? Whenever I try to talk to him about Mom, he cuts me off. I know he's upset about all this, but there's no point taking it out on me. “Nothing wrong with your mother,” he says sharply, all irritated and annoyed. “She's just upset about Gran dying. She'll feel better soon.” Which I'm starting to realize is not true. This is simply going on too long.

Thank heavens for Aunt Kay. She turns up nearly every day, lugging in groceries, throwing in a load of laundry, tidying up the place. Aunt Kay showed me how to use the oven and the washing machine, and the proper way to iron Dad's white shirts. She always makes time for Beth-Ann, pulling her onto her lap, asking questions and hearing her stories from school. With Mom she's thoughtful and gentle, even helping her into the bath and combing out her damp hair afterward.

“Your mother and Gran were so close,” Aunt Kay said one day. At least someone will talk to me about this. “Probably they were too close. They saw each other every day and then in the night they'd be on the phone again. Your mother depended on Gran, needed her advice and encouragement. Now Gran is gone and your mother feels lost without her.”

“I miss Gran so much,” I said, my voice so low it was almost a whisper. “If only she hadn't died.”

“We all miss her.” Aunt Kay touched my hand. “You've been a good girl, Maureen. I don't know how we would manage without you.”

I sigh, wad up the tinfoil from my sandwich, stuffing it back in my lunch tin. Debbie's right. I'm not going to know the dances for the recital. My entire family seems to have forgotten about ballet lessons, that I actually enjoy my dancing. There has to be some way for me to get there today. But who will take care of Beth-Ann?

I jump up. “The smells in this classroom are making me sick. I need a breath of fresh air.”

At that moment the second bell rings. Forty-one girls head for their coats and the outdoors.