The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (7 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IMAGINE —
ME
BEING INVITED to the St. Matthew's spring dance! I still can't believe that it actually happened. I'm savouring the whole idea on the following Saturday afternoon, while I fix myself a snack. Of all the girls he could have asked, John Ryan decided to ask me.
And
, according to Debbie, he thinks I'm cute!

Of course, I still had to face Dad about it all. First, there was the teasing. “A date? My little girl wants to go on a date? Well, maybe that young man should have introduced himself to your dad
before
asking you out!” I mean,
really
! We're not living in the Jane Austen era, last time I checked. You'd think John was asking for my hand in marriage, the way Dad was getting on. And then after all that, he couldn't decide! Had to get on the phone to Aunt Kay, talk it over with her! So humiliating. “I think she's too young, Kay,” I heard him say. Cripes!

Between the two of them they figured out who John's parents are, and that he comes from a good family. “The Ryans are lovely people, Dave. And I went to the Mercy Convent with the boy's mother.” Isn't that unbelievable, it
is
only a dance, after all. Then Aunt Kay got on the phone to Debbie's mom, had to check out the whole event with her! They barely had all this done before John called back on Thursday evening. I
was
able to tell him yes, thank heavens. But I didn't go into the process leading up to the decision. He'd definitely think there was something weird about me and my family.

Now my only problem is—how will I carry on a conversation with John Ryan for an entire evening? I won't think about that now, I'll think about it later. At least Debbie will be there. I'll just have to depend on her.

I pop a slice of bread into the toaster. It occurs to me that sometimes this is the perfect snack. So long as it's toasted just right, not too light and not too dark.

It's not often that I'm in the house alone, but I am today. Beth-Ann's at a birthday party. Dad's out picking up groceries, I think. And Mom is—well, we all know where Mom is, don't we?

I smother my toast with so much butter that it drips over the side, forming puddles on the china plate. Who cares? There's no one here to lecture me about wasting food, and besides, it's my slice of toast, isn't it? I pour myself a cold glass of orange juice and plunk it beside the toast on the kitchen table.

Sitting there like that, I'm suddenly reminded of something else. An image springs to my mind, the memory of another Saturday not so long ago, when Gran stood here in this very kitchen, the aroma of her homemade bread wrapped around us, as safe and warm as a comfy blanket.

* * * * *

I wake to the sound of the window rattling. The wind is howling and the snow pelts against the side of the house like someone is out there throwing handfuls of nails. Looks like the weatherman was right for once. The biggest blizzard of the winter, he said, a vicious nor'easter set to blow down hard overnight. Too bad, though, it had to happen on a Saturday. No school holiday this time 'round.

It'll be totally impossible to get back to sleep in this racket. I cross the room to my window and look out. Can't see a single thing. The snow is pasted like white mud over every square inch, hardly any light able to leak through.

I pull on my dressing gown and slippers and scuff down the hall to the kitchen.

Gran's standing at the counter, completely in charge as usual. Her two chubby arms are deep inside a wide ceramic bowl, plunging up and down like pistons. She's totally dressed for the day, hair pulled back into a neat bun, cheeks bright red with exertion.

“Good morning, missy,” she says, looking around as I come in. “How'd you sleep?”

“Morning, Gran.” I sit down at the table. “Slept good, I s'pose, till the wind woke me up. How about you?”

“Good. Can't complain. That mattress down there is very comfortable.”

Every so often Gran sleeps over at our house for a night or two. Sometimes it's on special occasions like Christmas or Easter, and then at other times it's because she'd rather not be alone. Like last night. Gran was over for dinner anyway, and with the report of the blizzard coming, everyone agreed it would be better if she stayed with us. There's a tiny extra bedroom downstairs next to the playroom, with a little bathroom next door. Gran even keeps some of her clothes in the bedroom closet for times just like these. A flannel nightgown, a robe, a pair of knitted slippers. Sometimes when she's not there, I go down and bury my face in her clothes and you can smell Gran like she was giving you a big hug. It's a good wholesome smell, like vanilla and Ivory soap mixed together, always makes me feel really happy. It's kind of hard to explain.

“Wow, it's some stormy out,” I say. You can see better out the kitchen window, the wind being on the other side of the house. The snow whizzes sideways, swirling and lashing at trees which bend and strain. Soft white mounds obscure what used to be shrubs and cars and driveways. “What are you doing, Gran? Making bread?”

She nods her head as the pounding continues in the bowl. “Soon as I finish kneading this, I'll set it to rise for a bit. Then I'll get you some bacon and eggs. Would you like that?”

Would I
? See, this is what I love about having Gran around. Every time she sleeps over, she always cooks up bacon and eggs. Feels it's her way to help out. Well, she doesn't need to worry about that. Seems to me whenever she's here, she never stops working.

“Is Beth-Ann up?” I pull my dressing gown closer around me, nestling into it. The room feels cozy, the wind and snow going crazy outside while we're warm and safe and protected.

“Indeed she is. I gave her a bowl of Sugar Pops to keep her happy. She's downstairs watching cartoons.”

I don't even ask about Mom and Dad. If they were awake they'd be in here too. But hey, it's nice to have Gran all to myself for a change. She's always fussing over Beth-Ann or Mom or any sort of man who happens to be around. Dreamily, I watch as she takes a big knife to the enormous puffy ball of dough and slices off chunks. The chunks are moulded into smaller balls and gently set into the bread pans. Then all the pans are placed in a warm corner near the stove and covered with a clean cotton cloth.

“I love it when you make bread, Gran,” I say. “I think I love the smell of it more than anything.”

“My mother taught me to make bread,” says Gran, all business now, wiping her hands on the skirt of her apron. “When I was your age, I used to make it all the time.”

“I wish Mom would make bread more often. She hardly ever does it.”

“Making bread is a lot of work, Maureen. It's a bit too much for your mother. But next time I'm here, I'll teach you how to do it. You'll have to get up earlier, though, if you're making bread with me. Time you strolled into the kitchen all the mixing and measuring was done.”

See? Here we go again. Mom's not strong enough to make bread, but somehow I am. Tell me, does that make any sense?

But Gran's still talking as she pulls out the big cast iron frying pan and slices open a package of bacon from the fridge. “Raisin bread's definitely my favourite,” she says. “Plump, juicy raisins—the flavour spreads right through the dough. That was your grandfather's favourite too.”

“Did you make bread all the time when you and Grandad were married?”

“Every morning. In my day, you started your bread before you started anything else. Even when I had small babies, I always managed to make the bread. My, your Grandad used to love it fresh out of the oven. He'd slice it while it was still warm and soft. I used be ready to kill him, his big hands would nearly crush the loaf!” Gran stops and stares away from the stove for a moment, a small smile on her face.

“Do you still miss him, Gran? Do you still think about him?”

“Indeed I do! There's not a day goes by that something doesn't remind me of your Grandad. I think about him all the time. And he's been gone fifteen years, hard to believe, really. I still miss him now as much as the day he died.” Gran's determined cheerfulness suddenly slips away from her face, and for a moment her eyes look vacant and lonely. My heart twists for her. What do you do when the person you love most is taken away?

But then as quickly as the sadness appeared, it's gone. Gran forks and flips the sizzling bacon in the pan, and the sweet smell of it makes my stomach growl. “But you can't live in the past, Maureen. Life goes on. Your Grandad's in a better place now. One day we'll meet again.”

I think about this. And I sure hope it's true. There's a comfortable silence in the kitchen as I watch Gran pick out the bacon, piece by piece, placing each one on a plate covered with paper towel. Then, expertly, she cracks one egg after another off the side of the frying pan, plopping them in the fat, just so.

“Gran,” I say, watching her. “When you first met Grandad, did you know right away he was the one you wanted to marry?”

“Well, aren't you full of questions this morning!” She looks away from the pan and assesses me for a moment. Then her eyes take on a dreamy look, and for an instant I can almost imagine the girl she used to be. “Not right away, no. But there was something about your Grandad from the beginning. He was tall when most of the boys weren't. Dark hair, big shoulders and hands. Oh, I noticed him right away—we were both at a St. Bon's dance with other people. I had one dance with him that night, but he stayed on my mind. Next thing he was turning up to the door, asking me out for walks.”

“So how did you know he was the one you wanted to marry?”

“I'm not sure, really. I just knew, that's all.”

Cripes! Everyone always says this. “But Gran,
how
did you know?”

She flips over the eggs. “Well, let me think. You realize you both laugh at the same things. You like doing the same things. You feel happy and safe whenever he's around, and then when he's not around, all you can do is think about him.”

“Hmm.” I ponder this for a few moments. I can see her explanation working for Mom and Dad, but what about, say, Aunt Grace and Uncle Lloyd? They never seem to laugh at anything, let alone the same things. Can you imagine Aunt Grace feeling happy and safe just because Lloyd is there? I don't think so. Wouldn't be me, anyway. Sometimes people must get married for other reasons, that's all I can figure out.

“Now missy, enough of this idle chatter. Why don't you get out the forks and knives and set the table? Everyone will be up soon, looking for bacon and eggs.”

Later on in the day, when the bread was pulled out of the oven and the smell of it filled every corner of the house, Gran and I sat down together, slowly savouring two thick slices drenched in butter. Outside, the wind wailed while snow drifted deep against the clapboard.

“Yes,” she said, looking at me thoughtfully, “next time I sleep over, we'll both get up early and make bread. Got a feeling you'll pick it up right away.”

But it never happened. That was the last time Gran ever slept at our house. One month later she was dead. I look down at the thin slice of baker's bread, limp and soggy on my plate. At the congealed stains of butter beside it, cold and greasy. My stomach heaves, and suddenly I feel horribly lonely. I get up, scrape the mess into the garbage. Guess I'm not much in the mood for toast anymore.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT'S SCARY ISN'T IT, how fast things can happen? Gran dead, Mom sick and out at the Mental Hospital. Who could have dreamed on that stormy Saturday morning in February—when Gran made bread at our house for the last time—that life would change so quickly? Probably it's just as well you don't know what's coming. You'd be so upset just thinking about it, you wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else.

The sky is grey and cloudy on a Thursday after school, as Beth-Ann and I walk down Poplar Avenue toward Aunt Kay's house. The air is mild. No need for mitts and boots anymore; spring has finally arrived in St. John's. The branches on the trees are still bony and bare, but if you look closely you can see fat buds everywhere, ready to burst in a few weeks. I always love the month of May.

But this May is different. Mom still at the Mental Hospital, Dad so broody, and no word from anyone on when all this will end. Not even Aunt Kay can tell me anything. I think the worst part is not having anyone to talk to—no one who's interested in my life. I mean, Aunt Kay is sweet and always tries so hard, but she has no daughters and Billy and Bobby come first with her, which is how it should be, I'm not arguing with that. Dad is, well, Dad. He doesn't understand anything. He hardly thinks about me, just so long as I get all the chores done around the house. And obviously I can't talk to Beth-Ann about anything important.

See, here's the thing—Debbie and I are the only two girls in class invited to the St. Matthew's spring dance. Quite a distinction, don't you think? If Mom were home, we'd be talking about a new dress and shoes and what way I'd do my hair. If Gran were alive, she'd be asking all about John and his family, and then figuring out that she knows his grandmother from bingo or something like that. I grin despite myself, just thinking about what she would say. But then my smile fades, because as it stands now, I have nothing to wear to the dance and no one seems to know that, much less care. I bet Mom doesn't even realize I've actually been invited, because it probably wouldn't occur to Dad to tell her.

At least at school everyone seems to think it's a big deal. The girls are always asking if I like John (hardly know him), what I'm going to wear (no idea), are we going anywhere afterwards (highly doubt it), and on and on and on. This is brand new territory for me, some boy asking me out and everyone knowing it too. I like the attention—well, you know how I am about that. Just this recess time, for example, Bernadette was saying how lucky I was and that John Ryan was “gorgeous.” I smile remembering this, because I don't really think he's that gorgeous at all. His ears stick out like Jughead in the
Archie
comics.

Inside Aunt Kay's tiny kitchen, it's bright and cheerful. Some homemade chocolate chip cookies are cooling on a wire rack, and Beth-Ann and I help ourselves. The warm chocolate melts in my mouth, then mingles with the cold, clean rush of a glass of milk. Mmm, is there anything tastier in the world, I wonder?

Then I notice Aunt Kay's expression. She's sitting at the table in a trademark fitted dress, a cup of tea to her lips and a look of suppressed excitement in her eyes.

“Aunt Kay, what is it?” I look at her curiously, my mouth half-full of cookies.

“Girls, there's some wonderful news!” Animation blossoms in her voice. “Your mother's coming home on a day pass this Saturday!”

Relief floods my body. Mom home on Saturday? That's only two more days! It's been a whole month since I last saw her, since that horrible April day when the car turned the corner on Kerry Street, taking Mom away. I know I've spoken to her twice on the phone, but those calls don't really count, because it hardly even sounded like Mom on the other end of the line. The conversations were brief and strained, and Mom's voice seemed detached and distant, like her mind was on something else besides talking to me. Anyway, Dad says that phone calls must be kept to a minimum because they could make Mom feel even sadder about being apart from us. I don't want that to happen, that's for sure.

Beside me, Beth-Ann is jumping up and down, delighted. “Mommy's coming home! Mommy's coming home on Saturday!”

“Now, it's just for a visit, Beth-Ann, a short visit.” Aunt Kay lays a gentle hand on her blonde curls. “Mommy will still go back to the hospital Saturday night.”

Beth-Ann's face clouds over and she stops jumping. “But when is she coming home forever?”

Aunt Kay pulls her close for a hug. “It won't be much longer, I promise. Your mommy's getting better every day.”

You know, it's incredible to me how content Beth-Ann seems since Mom went away. She loves playing with Billy and Bobby, and although things can definitely get wild there, Aunt Kay says she doesn't mind so long as the child is happy. And Beth-Ann seems to be okay with me tucking her into bed at night and reading her a story. Sometimes she asks about Mom, but not nearly as much as you might expect. Once, though, I remember waking in the night, hearing her crying and calling out for her mommy. But Dad went in quickly, and whatever he said, she calmed down pretty fast. That was actually the only time my little sister was upset about Mom being gone. Amazing, isn't it?

It must be nice to be six and have everyone else take care of you. I plunk down on the chrome chair in Aunt Kay's kitchen and watch my aunt fuss over Beth-Ann. Meanwhile, my brain is buzzing. Mom home on Saturday! What will she be like? Will she be back to her old self, laughing and interested in everyone's stories? Or will she be more like she was before she went away, quiet and flat and pulled inside herself? Suddenly, I'm nervous. What if it's horrible? What if Mom's really different? I feel my throat tighten and I'm afraid to say anything, for fear of it turning into tears.

“You're kind of quiet, Maureen,” says Aunt Kay. “Haven't said a word. Are you okay?”

I shrug my shoulders, look out the window over the sink. “I'm okay, I guess. It's just hard to believe Mom's finally coming home.”

“It is hard to believe. It's been a long time since you've seen your mother. Quite a bit has happened since she went away.” Aunt Kay opens the fridge and puts away the quart of milk, just as Billy and Bobby charge into the kitchen and clamber up to the table, chattering to Beth-Ann.

I nod quietly, absently munch on another cookie. So much has happened—like me being invited to the spring dance, for instance. Then I have an idea.

“Aunt Kay! Do you think we could go through my clothes when Mom is home on Saturday, see if anything is good enough for the dance or if I need something new? Do you think she'd like that?”

She smiles at me from the sink. “I think she'd love that. I think it'd pick her right up. We'll put on a fashion show—you can be the model and your mother and I will be the audience. It'll be a bit of fun!”

I smile slowly and sip my milk. Mom
must
be better than before or Aunt Kay would never allow a fashion show. Maybe she
has
gone back to her old self. Maybe there's nothing to worry about after all.

* * * * *

Saturday arrives warm and sunny, like a day snatched from July, definitely not what you'd expect from early May in St. John's. The air feels light and fresh and a little breeze flutters the new grass. In the flower bed beneath the living room window, tiny crocuses peek up in pretty pastel colours of lavender and pink. There're even a few bees and mosquitoes buzzing and humming. Who ever expected this? It's like every part of nature is anxious and excited for Mom to come home.

I sit on the white wooden steps leading up to the front door, my book laid open on my knees. But I'm not reading. I've got my eyes closed and face turned toward the sun, waiting. The heat on my skin just feels so good.

Beth-Ann pushes her doll's carriage up and down the concrete sidewalk, every so often peering inside, fussing with baby blankets. In the middle of the lawn, Aunt Kay sits in a green and orange lawn chair.

She arrived early this morning, Aunt Kay did, dressed to perfection, hair pulled back in her famous bun—just as Dad was heading out the door to pick up Mom. She was all business getting the house totally tidy for Mom's visit. Breakfast dishes washed and dried, beds made, toys picked up. I followed along behind taking instructions, her number one assistant.

“Now, let's make sure everything is just perfect for your mother,” she said, as she plumped up the cushions on the living room sofa. “It's always so calming when a home is neat and tidy.”

I smiled and followed all orders. No point getting in Aunt Kay's way when she's in a tidying mood. Anyway, she's probably right. When we finally finished and the whole place was totally organized, I have to admit it looked pretty good.

So now we wait.

Aunt Kay drums her fingers on the plastic arm of her chair. “I wonder how Charlie's making out. I warned him not to bring the boys anywhere near this house. Billy and Bobby can cause enough confusion to set your mother back weeks.”

I grin. “I think they're off to Bannerman Park, and after that they're going for ice cream.”

“They're actually sweet little boys,” says Aunt Kay. “You just need to be in the best of health to deal with them.”

I laugh out loud at this—and then there's a shriek from the sidewalk. “They're here!” shouts Beth-Ann. “Mommy and Daddy are here!”

Aunt Kay stands up so fast, she knocks over the lawn chair behind her. I stand too, but there's something wrong with my legs. They're all weird and rubbery and I have to grab the wooden railing to keep myself steady. Beth-Ann's hopping and waving, her blonde curls springing like tiny yo-yos, as Dad's car pulls into the driveway.

Instantly, he jumps out, sprinting around to the passenger side. “I have a very special person in here!” he says to Beth-Ann, grinning broadly as he opens the door.

I can barely breathe. Mom's dark head emerges from the car. She turns toward us, her face alive and excited.

She's smiling! But still I can't move a muscle. Meanwhile, Beth-Ann charges forward, burying her face in Mom's stomach.

“Whoa, princess! Take it easy!” Dad laughs as he gently puts a hand on Beth-Ann's shoulder.

“It's okay, honey,” says Mom, and her voice is soft and clear. “It feels so good to get a hug from my baby.” She seems even tinier and more fragile than before, her dark eyes huge in her face.

Then her eyes find mine.

“Hello, darling,” she says, and now her voice trembles. “How's my darling girl?”

My body is shaking. I can't believe this—I'm crying. Ruining the homecoming. Probably going to make Mom all sad again, but I just can't stop myself.

Images flash in my mind—Gran in the kitchen, the potato masher in her hand—Mom in her blue bathrobe, staring vacantly at the TV—and then the hollow, silent house when she went away. All the looks, the whispers, the gossip in the girls' bathroom. The way I acted with Miss Godwin and the horrible fight with Debbie. Everything I'd fought to keep inside for so long crashes through me. There's nothing I can do to stop the tears.

Comforting arms encircle my back. A face nuzzles into my neck and there's a moist kiss on my cheek.

“It's okay, honey, I'm home now.” It's Mom's sweet voice in my ear. “I'm nearly all better and soon I'll be home for good.”

I dissolve into the softness, like every muscle in my body has turned to liquid. I'm being cuddled like a baby, comforted, caressed. And I let myself fall into it. One tiny part of my brain is instinctively aware that we're all out on the front steps, in full view of the neighbours, laying ourselves open for idle talk. But I no longer care. Mom is home, she's so much better than she was before, and nothing in the world matters more than that.