A psychiatrist? I feel like I’ve been struck with a bat. “But Aunt Kay, psychiatrists are for crazy people. Mom’s not crazy—she’s just feeling sad ’cause Gran died.”
“That’s true, she’s not crazy. But she’s very, very sad. So sad, she can’t cope with anything. You know, Maureen, your mother’s always been a little high-strung. But nothing like this has ever happened before. She just can’t seem to snap out of it. To be honest, your father and I are at our wits’ end.”
“But Aunt Kay, I don’t understand. Mom looks fine. It’s not like she’s got a fever or a disease or something. Why can’t she just get up and get going like the rest of us and start doing the things she used to do?”
“It’s funny, your father said the exact same thing this morning. I can’t pretend to have any answers, because I don’t understand it either. All I know is that your mother desperately wants to get herself dressed and make dinner and do all her everyday things again, but for some reason she can’t. So that’s why she’s seeing a psychiatrist.”
I slump back on the kitchen chair, turn my head away. The sunlight pouring through the kitchen window picks out the grime on the glass. It looks dirty and neglected. Why hasn’t somebody cleaned it already? I bite my lip hard as tears burn behind my eyes. “What will everyone say?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“No one needs to know.” Aunt Kay speaks firmly, leaning forward. “The fact that your mother is seeing a psychiatrist is completely private. Maureen, I promise you, eventually this will end and the whole thing will be just a bad memory.”
I nod slowly, take a deep breath. “People will find out. They always do.” The tears are trickling down my face now, no way can I stop them. “What about Aunt Grace? She always tells everything.”
“I’ve already spoken to Grace and that won’t be a problem. Nobody in this family will be discussing your mother’s illness. We won’t be saying a word. We’ll just keep your mother here at home until she’s better and keep everyone else away. Hopefully, this psychiatrist can give her something to bring her around a bit.”
I nod slowly, pick at a loose thread on the cuff of my cardigan. Keep everyone away? How long is that going to work? What about my friends? What will I tell them?
“So it’s actually a good thing she’s seeing this new doctor today. Hopefully, he’ll find a solution.”
I yank the thread hard, pulling it free. “When will she be home?”
“Not sure, really. To be honest, I thought they’d be back by now. It can’t be too much longer.”
I nod woodenly.
“Now, didn’t you say you wanted to go to ballet? Why don’t you give Debbie a call? How was school today, anyway? I didn’t even ask.” Aunt Kay is really trying hard here, but seriously, what’s the point? Does anyone actually care?
Suddenly nothing else in my life seems important. Not ballet. Not school. Nothing. My foolishness in Miss Godwin’s class seems a million miles away, like it happened in another time and space. Maureen O’Neill, the funny girl, so stupid. Then a new dread hits me—what if that story finds its way home? That’s all my family needs right now, to discover I’ve been crucifying the music teacher. Dad would be furious. And Aunt Kay would be so disappointed.
“I don’t think I want to go to ballet anymore.”
“Of course you’re going to ballet!” announces Aunt Kay, standing up. It’s the school principal talking now, you don’t dare argue with this. “I don’t care if I have to call Debbie myself. Now have a quick snack and get yourself ready.” She bends down, kisses the top of my head, and her kindness starts up the tears again.
“Maureen, trust me. In the end, this will be okay. Now call Debbie while I check on Billy and Bobby, see what chaos they’ve created in the last ten minutes.” She disappears through the kitchen door.
* * * * *
I stand listlessly on the sidewalk outside the house, my pink ballet bag slung over one shoulder, scanning the top of the street for the blue Austin Mini carrying Debbie and her mom. The sun is lower in the sky now and the dark shadow of our grey-shingled bungalow stretches across the road to the other side. A stiff breeze sails down the street. There’s an icy edge to it and I shiver and stamp my feet for warmth.
A psychiatrist? What if Mom really is crazy? I feel empty, hollowed-out, sucked away. The scrappy terrier from next door bounces and yaps around my feet but I don’t really care, barely even notice.
People will find out, they always do.
If only we could just go back to how things used to be . . .
CHAPTER SIX
THE RICH SMELL OF roasting turkey warms the whole house; in the living room a coal fire burns low and red in the grate. From the hi-fi, Bing Crosby sings White Christmas, his voice deep and hypnotic. Slouching lazily on the sofa, my eyes drift toward the Christmas tree, which shimmers in the dim afternoon light. Long silver icicles sparkle and turn like millions of tiny mirrors, reflecting shiny glass ornaments and glowing red and green lights. My thoughts drift peacefully away.
In the armchair next to the fire, feet propped up on a round humpty, Dad stretches out with a big book in his hands. Now and then he chuckles softly to himself.
“Good book, Dad?” He grunts a response—hasn’t heard a word, I know.
On the floor beside the Christmas tree, Beth-Ann gently rocks a small wooden cradle. Her new Thumbelina doll lies covered with a tiny pink blanket, sucking its plastic thumb. Beth-Ann whispers softly to her doll, totally lost in a world of her own making.
Piled beside me on the sofa are my gifts from Santa. The purple and yellow happy-face bag that Mom ordered from the States will definitely cause a major sensation at school. Then there’s Abbey Road by the Beatles, a record I’ve been dying to get for months. But best of all is my brand new maxi-dress. It’s blue and white and satin and ruffles, falling all the way down to my ankles—by far the prettiest dress I’ve ever owned.
“Well now, isn’t this a cozy Christmas picture.” It’s Gran, standing in the doorway, two hands planted on her hips. Yikes, does she ever look crabby! Wire-rim glasses halfway down her nose, face blood red, frizzy grey hair springing wildly from the bun at the back of her head. Short and thick as a tree trunk, she’s wearing a plain red dress—red for Christmas Day, of course. Over that she’s got on one of Mom’s frilly white aprons, which looks ridiculous on Gran, cuts right into the rolls around her waist. She’s sizing up the three of us as she stands there, green eyes sharp as a cat.
“Looks like everyone’s getting a great rest in here.” Her tone is clipped and annoyed.
“Sorry, Gran!” I jump up straight away. Cripes, what was I thinking, lying around daydreaming. “Can I give you a hand?”
“Just coming in to get you,” she says, full of business. “I want you to stir the gravy so it doesn’t burn, while I mash the potatoes and turnip. Your poor mother’s got herself totally worn out with all this and I’ve just sent her in for a nap.”
I follow Gran out to the kitchen. How is it that Mom can’t keep going, but Gran has no trouble and she’s about thirty years older? But hey, there’s no time to dwell on this point, because as soon as we open the kitchen door we’re hit in the face with a tidal wave of heat.
“Oh my God, Gran! It’s so hot! How can you stand it?”
It has to be a hundred degrees in here—I mean, the window over the sink is so thick with steam you can’t see out. On top of the stove, Mom’s pots are boiling furiously away, like witches’ cauldrons. My mouth waters with the smell of turkey, and the bird itself sits plump and golden on a large oval platter in the centre of the table.
“Heat from cooking never bothered me,” replies Gran, although I think it might be bothering her a bit, judging from the colour of her face. She picks up the masher and starts driving it into a big pot of potatoes sitting on the table right next to the turkey. Dollops of m
ilk and butter are dropped into the mix, and Gran’s upper arms jiggle wildly as lines of potato squirt up through the masher like white worms.
I drag my eyes from the sight and find a wooden spoon for the gravy.
“Let’s see,” Gran says, more to herself than me. “We’ve got the turkey and dressing, the potatoes and turnip. Grace is bringing the creamed broccoli and the carrots. Kay is bringing the trifle for dessert. I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything.”
“What time are they all coming?” I make deep, thick swirls in the velvety brown gravy.
“In about half an hour,” replies Gran. “Now, when they get here, we’ll feed the little ones first, here in the kitchen. Then we’ll make sure Grace has the baby fed and settled before the rest of us sit down in the dining room. No sense having Christmas dinner spoiled by a fussy baby.”
“I bet Billy and Bobby are some excited today,” I say, just for badness, eyeing Gran from my spot by the stove.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about the two of them!” She jabs fiercely at the potatoes. “Their problem is they don’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ It’s beyond me how Kay could run an entire school in St. Brendan’s but not be able to teach two small boys how to behave. Well, they better not ruin my Christmas Day!” She finishes this point with a sharp rap of the masher and a clump of fluffy potato falls back into the pot.
I grin, and hide my face. This is a running theme in our family. According to Aunt Kay, Gran doesn’t understand a thing about boys because she never had any of her own. But I’m not totally sure about this. Billy and Bobby don’t seem like normal boys to me, always shouting and racing and breaking stuff. I know Mom nearly gets weak any time they come through the door. So I’m siding with Gran on this one. But maybe I’m wrong. I don’t have any brothers myself, so how do I know what’s normal?
“It looks like my kitchen has been completely taken over!” Mom suddenly appears in the doorway, all done up like a stick of gum. I turn around and smile at her. She’s wearing a snow white blouse, a red fitted skirt, and a pale green scarf knotted at the neck. All Christmas colours, of course—my family is big on this. Mom’s short dark hair is fringed around her face in a pixie-style, and her eyes look huge and wistful. She just seems so tiny and fragile standing there, you’d think the least little force would crush her. Sometimes I feel like an elephant next to her, and there’s nothing enormous about me.
“Cecelia, you’re supposed to be resting!” Gran’s grey eyebrows knit together in a straight line, the potato masher held over the pot like a weapon.
“How can I stay in my bedroom when all the fun is going on in here?” says Mom, moving toward me. “Here, honey, let me do that.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I actually sort of like doing this.”
“All right, then. How about I check the dining room table, make sure it’s all set for dinner.” Then she stops and looks at Gran, waiting.
Why does this always happen? Why does Mom always wait for someone else to tell her what to do?
“How about you get back in that bedroom and finish up your rest?”
Mom smiles gently. “Look, I’m all dressed now and everyone’s going to be here soon. It’s Christmas Day, for heaven’s sake; who wants to lie around in bed?”
Score one for Mom!
“Hmmph!” Gran snorts and heads toward the stove for the pot of turnip. “Well, go ahead and check the table. I don’t think the knives and forks are out yet.”
Mom winks quickly at me and slips into the dining room. Meanwhile, Gran is at the sink, pouring water off the turnip, turning her face away from the huge clouds of steam.
“Your mother’s going to kill herself,” she says, more to the clock on the wall than to me. “She doesn’t know when to stop. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself.”
I’m staring at Gran, her thick jelly arms stiff as two pokers, holding the heavy pot. Her pudgy face is fire-engine red and beads of sweat are bubbling out on her forehead. Gran’s the one going to collapse, it hits me. She’s the one who needs to take care of herself.
Just then the doorbell ding-dongs through the house.
“Holy Mother of God, they’re early!” Gran pushes back a limp strand of hair. “Well, they’ll all just have to wait, now, won’t they? Because there’ll be no dinner in this house until I’m good and ready to dish it out!”
* * * * *
At the head of the table, Dad stands tall with the carving knife, cutting into the turkey breast. Slices as thin as paper curl away. He spears a few, drops them onto a plate, and sends the plate down the table. Casserole dishes heaped with steaming hot veggies travel in the opposite direction.
“Here, Lloyd, have some mashed potato. There’s plenty more out in the kitchen, so take as much as you want.” Gran’s in her element now, tending on the men. That’s a number one priority with her, seeing to their needs, making sure they’re served first. “Charlie, would you like some of my turnip? Bits of onion in it, just the way you like it.”
So I wait for my food and watch Dad carve the turkey. Standing at the head of the table, smiling and drumming up conversation and making jokes.
“Charlie, bet you wish this was a moose roast! Better luck next year, buddy.”
Another running theme in our family—moose-hunting. Who really cares? So much talk and discussion and packing up gear in trucks, and half the time they can’t find one anyhow. And then when they do shoot a moose, we have to listen to the story of how they killed it, over and over again. After all that, they cook it up. Which just about turns my stomach. I can’t stand the taste of moose, can’t even stand the smell of it.
Uncle Charlie just smiles cheerfully as Dad turns his attention to Aunt Grace.
“Hey Grace, that baby’s a real little beauty. Nice and quiet, too, which is just the way you want ’em on Christmas Day.” Aunt Grace beams at this and proudly looks over at little Sophie, sound asleep in her carry seat, poked in a corner of the dining room.
“Maureen?” Uncle Lloyd is nudging me with a bowl of broccoli.
“Oh sure, thanks.” I take the bowl and spoon some out.
Just my luck to get stuck next to Uncle Lloyd. It’s a sin for me to say this, but Aunt Grace’s husband is weird. He has no personality. Zero. Just sits around all the time, with a foolish look on his face, nodding his head once in a while, saying nothing. Plus, he’s disgusting to look at. Well over six feet tall and shaped like a giant pear. Huge rear end—which is bad enough on a woman but looks ridiculous on a man. He’s got watery eyes and thin black hair slicked back over his head with some sort of greasy gel.
But according to Gran, he’s a good husband. “He’s kind to Grace,” she says. “Holds down a steady job and heads straight home from work each evening.”
This, of course, is a direct shot at Uncle Charlie, who’s a travelling salesman and often meets up with clients for drinks. Well, I wouldn’t care about that, because as far as I’m concerned there’s no comparison between my two uncles. Uncle Charlie is lean and wiry with reddish gold hair, full of energy, always laughing and carrying on. Even now, he’s telling some story to Dad—probably about moose-hunting—waving his hands as he’s telling it, and Aunt Kay is smiling indulgently at him from across the table, unable to keep her eyes off her husband.
Uncle Charlie’s great fun to be around, but I think Mom’s got a pretty good husband too. Dad’s face is a bit ruddy and his belly might be starting to bulge over his belt, but he has this knack for making people feel good about themselves and welcome in his home. I glance sideways at Uncle Lloyd, who’s now got his face nearly into his dinner plate, shovelling food into his mouth. Oh my God. I could never marry anyone like that; I’d rather spend my entire life alone.
“That’s mine, give it back!” The shout comes from the hall, along with the sound of racing feet. Kay and Charlie exchan
ge panicked looks as their two boys burst into the living room. Billy’s ahead, but just barely, when Bobby takes a flying leap and lands on his back. The two of them crash to the floor in a tumbling ball of bright orange hair, blue plaid shirts, and flying cowboy hats.
“Give me back my gun!”
“Not your gun, it’s my gun!”
“Liar!”
Kay and Charlie leap to their feet, but they’re not quick enough. Kicking and punching, the boys roll straight into a wooden side table holding a tall porcelain lamp. One bright red sneaker shoots out of the confusion, striking the table leg hard. The lamp teeters wildly, then nosedives, smashing into a million little pieces.
“Sweet Mother of God!” Gran’s two hands fly to her head; green eyes narrow into slits, lips press together into one thin line.
At the head of the table, Dad’s carving knife is suspended over the turkey, the amused grin on his face slowly draining away. Mom sits motionless at the other end, eyes like tea saucers, one hand over her mouth. Grace looks horrified, like she’s picked up a bad smell in the room. We’ve even got Lloyd’s attention—he’s actually stopped eating, lifting his eyes to stare.
Cripes! I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep myself from laughing.
For a couple of seconds there’s a horrible silence. Billy and Bobby sit motionless on the floor, surrounded by jagged bits of lamp.
“Get up!” Uncle Charlie’s feet crunch loudly on the broken pieces. He lunges toward each boy, grabbing them by an arm, yanking them to their feet. “Two little hooligans! What in the hell is wrong with you?”
“Now Charlie, calm down, it was only an accident.” Aunt Kay comes up behind him, her voice firm and steady. “The boys didn’t mean to break the lamp.”
“An accident?” He looks at her incredulously, like she’s suddenly lost her mind. “Kay, how in Christ’s name can you call this an accident?”
The Secret Life of a Funny Girl Page 4