“We’ll try the cheeses next week. They smell to high heaven, so they must be good.” Granny chortles.
Granny broadens my larder by forcing me to appreciate foods from different countries. She’s always pleasant, but I won’t have any part of it.
When I open the front door, I hurry to the kitchen. Two chocolate donuts sit on plates. The chocolate is so rich, it appears black. I sit across from her.
“Dig in,” she says with a smile.
Granny bites into her donut and licks her fingers when a blob of chocolate falls. “A glass of milk will go well with them,” she says as she jumps up. She brings the container and two glasses to the table.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Have a good day at school?”
I don’t bother to look up as I reply, “It was okay.”
“Anything new happen?”
“No.”
“Like your snack?”
The donut is soft, and the chocolate topping is abundant and rich. “It’s all right.”
“Want to play a hand of cards?”
“No.”
I’m what you call bad company. I convince myself suffering is my lot, and it’s also a lot easier.
Each day reminds me of my loss. Fathers show up at school for career day. My teacher tells me my ma can come, but she can’t afford to lose a few hours of her wages.
My Brownie troop plans a special day for daughters and fathers. We’ll hike through the Garrison Hills and learn about nature. I can join my best friend Susan and her father or I can bring Ma. I quit Brownies.
My anger bubbles as father-and-daughter events rush forth daily. There were never so many when my dad was alive. The world plots to underscore what’s missing in my life.
MARNIE O’SULLIVAN DOESN’T HAVE A FATHER.
EVERYONE ELSE DOES
BUT SHE DOESN’T
HE’S DEAD
POOR BASTARD
Why did God take my father when he let other girls keep theirs? Drunks and addicts stumble around in a stupor, always waking up to see a new day. God should let little girls keep their daddies and rid the world of degenerates.
I’m not God. My views have no relevance. My wound festers. I hate God, and the hate spreads until I hate everything. I have no right to be happy. My father died!
Granny is a patient woman. Eventually, even she gives up on me. She still has a tasty snack waiting for me, but instead of listening to my one-word answers, she spends her time in her room reading until Ma gets home. Those first few months find her walking to the second-hand bookstore on Pretoria at least once a week.
Chapter 9
Months pass. The heat of summer wanes and then vanishes completely. Trees pitch their leaves to the ground. Before long, Christmas music fills the air, and children cheer. Our school prepares for the holiday play. I’m one of the few children featured in the fifth grade’s rendition of Frosty the Snowman. Most of the class sings in the choir. I get to dance around the snowman and look happy. It’s a miscast.
“Sister said we have to wear our winter coat, a hat, and mitts,” I explain to Ma.
“You’ll be warm dancing around the stage, dressed for outdoors.”
“I know, but she wants the scene to look authentic.”
“Very well, then.” She makes her way to the dark hall closet. She returns with my winter coat and a paper bag. “I can’t wrap it in Christmas paper,” she says as she hands me the sack. “Gifts can’t be opened until Christmas Day.”
Rules can’t be broken, but bending them is permissible. It’s a gift but not a gift. Ma purchases things cheaply at the end of the season and holds on to them until Christmas. I reach into the sack. It feels as if an animal is in there. I pull it free. It’s a white furry hat with two pompoms that tie under your chin. I try not to be impressed, but I am.
“Try it on,” Ma says as she takes it from my hands. The instant she perches it on my head, I’m transformed into a majorette. The old Marnie would take out her baton and parade about the house. The new Marnie doesn’t allow herself to partake in such foolishness. I take off the hat. “Thank you,” I mumble. My hand lingers and brushes the soft furriness of the hat. I despise its weakness.
Winter arrived in name, but not in spirit. I’ve been wearing my all-weather coat with a thick sweater underneath. “I hope your winter coat still fits,” Ma says she crosses her fingers.
She pulls at the sleeves before I even do the buttons. “Ya can’t stretch them,” I snap.
She frowns, but only for a second. “I’ll use the fake fur I’ve been saving to lengthen them a few inches. It’ll go well with your new hat.” She eyes the buttons and buttonholes. “You’re getting so big,” she declares. “Paddy would be so proud of you. Imagine being in a play. He loved plays.” She marks the material with chalk.
Lately, Ma often speaks of Daddy. She pulls out scrapbooks and photographs and shares their histories with me. She aims to help, but it hurts to hear about him or see his smile as he looks up from a flat, lifeless photograph. I suspect that she thinks her reminiscing will bring him back into our kitchen where he’ll remain a part of our daily lives. It doesn’t.
On and on she goes, speaking of Daddy as if they spoke that morning. I try to ignore her and make her words inconsequential, but I can’t. She’s jamming words into a dead man’s silent mouth, and the charade makes things worse, not better.
“Your father was in a play. He wasn’t the lead, but he was a main character. He—”
“Stop it!” I shriek. Silence falls, heavy and stiff. Granny’s eyes lash out at me. Ma’s face hangs in shock. My face prickles, my mouth dries, and my tongue winds itself into a ball. Still, I won’t back down. I must stop Ma. Her feelings, I disregard. There are times when you must put yourself above all else. Experience teaches me they’re never your best moments.
“He’s dead!” I yell. “Your stupid stories don’t change anything. You can’t bring him back, and you don’t know what he would say or do, so stop pretending.” I plant my face inches from hers and hiss, “Who are you trying to fool anyway? Yourself or me? Face it, we have nothing to be grateful for. Our lives are pathetic. Do you want a dose of truth? The only reason I get to dance around the dumb snowman is because the teacher hates my voice so much, she doesn’t want me to sing. She told me to mouth the words and pretend to sing. Do you think that would make Daddy proud?”
Anger retreats, leaving fear and regret in its wake. I wait for my life to shatter. I’ve never yelled at Ma before. “Take off those things and put on your lighter jacket,” Mother demands in a tight voice that leaves no room for contention. She hurries to the phone and comes back a moment later.
Her face is rigid as we march down the porch steps. The harsh line of her lips doesn’t allow a word to escape. Thunderous feet pelt the sidewalk as we make our way to the main section of town. My mother walks quickly. Her firm grip on my arm forces me to keep up with her. When we reach Sacred Mother of Mercy Hospital, she stops. I look up at the looming building. Is there a place in that massive institution that fixes children who don’t respect their elders? Can they implant respect into you? Will it hurt?
We enter the hospital. Ma catches the elevator just as its doors are about to close. She jabs the button marked six. We begin our upward journey with a jerk that I feel in my stomach. The silence breaks when she barks, “Wait in the hallway.”
She goes into room 623. The clock ticks. Nurses hustle past without looking at me. Something awful is behind that door, I just know it.
Chapter 10
Minutes rush by. Ma is soon beside me with a woman whom I don’t know. The stranger is my mother’s age. Her frame is larger than my mother’s tiny build. She’s tall but stooped. Weariness washes out the grey eyes that look at me with pity. I’m going to learn respect the hard way, and it will hurt.
Ma takes my hand. Her stiff fingers feel like the grip of a stranger. Her blank face doesn’t hold the emotion I take for granted: gentleness is gone.
The door looks like other doors but feels different. It’s substantial and unreadable. I can’t move. I don’t want to go in that room. Ma prods me. I open the door.
The stark sunshine causes my eyes to squint. Pink carnations stuff a vase. Teddy bears fill a corner. It doesn’t look like a room that holds bad things, but that’s what it is.
A girl about my age opens an eye to look at me. Her other eye is swollen shut. Bruises cover her face, leaving it puffy and lopsided. I try to envision what she would look like unharmed, but I can’t. I only see deep, hurtful wounds, some covered by tainted bandages.
I wish I had a blanket to cover myself with, for I’ve never felt so cold. Her hurt frightens me. I force my wooden legs to move forward. I oblige words to leave my mouth. “Were you in a car accident?” I ask, thinking she had to be, for what else could do that kind of damage?
She looks up at the woman who I’m sure is her mother. They have the same blonde curls and cheerless, grey eyes. “Tell her, Mary-Beth,” the woman says. The child hesitates. Her mother’s hand caresses her arm. “She needs to hear the truth.”
A delicate voice leaves the shattered body. “I was beaten.”
I snap my mouth closed before it hangs stupidly. Human hands did the damage. My mind refuses to accept the concept. “By strangers?” I ask, envisioning her walking down a dark, unfamiliar street, alone and naïve. “You shouldn’t go out at night alone, especially when you’re far from home,” I preach, parroting past warnings.
“A stranger didn’t beat me,” she says, removing the smugness from my thoughts. “And it didn’t happen at night far away from home.”
My mind stalls. You can only be hurt when you’re with strangers in dark, unfamiliar places. Her words are senseless.
“My, my father…” Her hands pluck at the sheet. She finds a loose thread and pulls at it. “He had a very important meeting. I was late… I couldn’t find my math book. He was in a hurry. He kept telling me how important the meeting was, but I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to leave without my book. I kept looking for it even though he told me that we didn’t have time to waste. He became angry. He…” Her eyes look away.
Her mother finishes the sentence. “Her father did this to her.”
Those six short words fill the room. I hear them, but I don’t understand them. Mary-Beth looks up at me. “I wouldn’t listen.”
Her eyes beg me to value her explanation. She wants the flimsy excuse to cover brutality, but what he did to her, no father should be capable of doing. I tug at my mind, trying to seize words of comfort, but they’re out of my grasp. My heart thumps loudly. Ma must feel my panic. She talks to Mary-Beth. The clock ticks loudly. It grabs Ma’s glance. “Oh my, we must get going.”
The mother smiles. “Thanks for the visit.”
“No, thank you, Evelyn. We’ll visit again.” She gives the woman’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow. You’re on the morning shift?”
“Yep, I’m working nine to five, the same as you.” Ma hesitates and touches Mary-Beth’s left hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mary-Beth.”
Tied in the awkwardness of the room, I manage to mumble, “Hope you feel better soon.”
Mary-Beth’s cracked lips form a smile. How can she smile after what happened to her? Where does she find the strength, the courage?
We don’t share a word as we leave the hospital. Thoughts claw at my self-pity. Eyes downcast, cheeks flaming hot, I walk quickly—easily—without the impediment of pain. I never knew danger lurks in justification. I guess any excuse to act thoughtless and hateful is two-faced.
My stomach growls. Granny will surely have a snack waiting for us. I snatch her treats and her kindness and give nothing in return. Unappreciative, I pine for what I lost, never giving thought to what I gained.
Anger no longer walks with Ma. Her steps are so quiet, I barely hear them. She looks down at me. Her eyes… How did I not notice the deadness that lies within them? Patrick O’Sullivan wasn’t only my father. He was her husband. I never appreciated that she was a widow until that moment.
Daddy kissed Ma whenever he left the house and kissed her again when he returned. Every Friday, paycheck in pocket, he walked to the drugstore to buy Ma a box of chocolates.
Ma now works at the drugstore. She sells treats. She no longer receives them. Recollections of father flash before my eyes. His lopsided smile, a hearty laugh that echoed from his belly, and his touch—a combination of softness and strength—all wrapped me in a blanket of love and safety. His blanket was large. It wrapped Ma, too. I have only happy memories. Ma must have the same memories, and I tried to steal them away from her.
Daddy’s love did not hurt or leave scars. At least it hadn’t until I twisted it into something unrecognizable. How could I have done such a thing?
My behaviour is not a testament of love. It’s nothing short of mockery. I grab Ma’s hand. Her eyes widen in surprise. I don’t say anything. The blanket was pulled from us both. We need one another to find warmth once again. “I’m going to visit Mary-Beth after school tomorrow.”
“That would be nice.”
“I’m going to bring my Snakes and Ladders.”
“I’m sure she’d like that.”
“I hope so.” Mary-Beth healed my wounds. I feel the need to do the same for her. “Would Dad really be proud of me?” I ask.
“Of course,” Ma says in a voice full of certainty. “He was always proud of his little girl.”
The changes in me bring doubts. Could anyone love the girl I’ve become?
Ma, reading my thoughts again, says, “Your father loved you very much. You could do no wrong in his eyes. You were his perfect little princess. I often worried he would spoil you.” Her eyes start to tear. “He won’t get to see you in the play,” she whimpers. Her hands quickly cover her face. “Poor Paddy will miss out on so much.”
For months, I resented my mother’s strength. Now that she’s crying, I want her to stop. “He won’t miss out, Ma. You’re long-winded, I’m sure you’ll tell him everything.” I pat her back and squeeze her shoulder. It feels unnatural. I’ve never provided her with comfort, for I truly believed she didn’t need it.
Her eyes glisten in the sun. “I’ll tell Paddy everything,” she promises. She grabs a hankie from her pocket and dries her eyes. Red-faced, she looks around. She doesn’t want anyone to witness her tears. I don’t know why. She’s done nothing to shame herself.
When she takes hold of my hand, I look up and see a person. Her tears washed away the differences I thought existed between us. From that day forth, her maxims become somewhat easier to live with, because I now know they’re not only for my benefit, but for hers as well. When we enter our home, I promise Daddy to help blanket the woman he loved. I also ask God to forgive me. I’ve been a brat, and I know it.
Chapter 11
My sweaty hand separates the red satin curtains. I take a quick peek at the audience. Chattering like a flock of tiny birds, heads bob as snippets of gossip travel down the rows. Granny and Ma sit bunched tightly in the centre of the front row. Fur collars adorn their woolen coats, attached by eyes and hooks, secured only for special events. Velvet hats perch on their heads to add further importance to the evening.
Grateful for a chance of redemption, I see the performance as a way to make up for recent misdeeds. I’ll dance as no child has ever danced before. The sullen girl who once inhabited my body will fade away as my utter brilliance dazzles them.
Our lead, Steven Osbourne, stands motionless. Steve is a shy child who finds it difficult to utter a peep, but he has the one thing every Frosty needs. He has height. He t
owers over the rest of us, including me, and I stand taller than the majority of boys.
Sister Mary Theresa helps Steven into the three plastic balls that constitute his costume.
“You look like a snowman!” Susan calls out.
“You really do,” Pina agrees.
Cheers ring out when the teacher places a large, black top hat on his head.
Steven doesn’t want to play the lead. It’s of little concern. His lofty stature has a price. He appears swathed in snow, but that’s not why his teeth chatter. Sister Mary Theresa frowns as she fiddles with the hat. “Don’t be nervous,” she says as he teeters in fright. “You barely have to say anything at all.” She gives each of his sweater sleeves a good tug in an attempt to cover his wrists.
He shivers, and she becomes impatient. “Steven, you’re the biggest child here,” she says. “Act it.”
He stares ahead. Normally pale, his flesh has a green tint. If he can hold on just a little longer, he’ll be fine. Our class has barely ten minutes on stage.
Introductions ring out. It’s time to sing our song. Sister Mary Theresa plunks Steven onto the centre of the stage. The curtain opens. His dark brown eyes resemble chunks of coal as they stare blankly at the audience.
“Wave at the crowd,” Sister Mary Theresa whispers from the sideline.
Steven ignores her.
“Say ‘Happy Birthday,’” she instructs.
Our snowman has sticks for ears. Her commands fall to the ground unheard. Sister gives him ample time to make a move, but he remains frozen. She signals with her right hand for the music to begin. Our Frosty is mute even though the magic hat sits on his head.
The choir flanks the stage. Everyone begins to sing. Johnny Scarpetta, Susan Dow, Marjorie Burton, Donald Shay, and I dance onto the stage to circle our stunned Frosty. My pompom hat, which I thought of as the greatest hat in the world, proves to be a nuisance. Whenever I move, the stupid pompoms smack my face. Annoyance deepens, making it difficult to smile.
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