The Thursday Night Club (9 page)

John raised his hand and halted the kind gesture. “Much obliged, doc, but I reckon I’m gonna be too busy for a spell. Got a lot of work that needs my full attention.”

Schwartz attempted an objection, but stopped. Big John’s face looked as serious as death. He was clearly on a mission.

Hank, Elle, Evan and Tara watched as the old man approached them. Looking into Elle’s eyes, John pointed down at her jacket. “You best start takin’ care of yourself and button up. You’ll catch your own death, if you don’t start lookin’ after yourself.”

Elle smiled. His eyes never once left hers. He wasn’t talking about any coat.

Leaning into Hank’s ear, John whispered, “Ain’t no shame in cryin’ when there’s reason for it. Believe me, I wish I had the guts.”

Hank’s brow wrinkled. No one heard their new secret and from his reaction, Hank wasn’t sure he had either. “Pa must be losin’ his marbles,” he whispered under his breath.

Evan and Tara waited. They were next. The old man turned, walked five feet, then spun back around. “And as far as you two…you can just wipe the frowns off them faces right now! Take it from your grandma, it’ll all be over ‘fore you know it.” He looked back at his wife’s coffin and shook his head. “In the end, all we have is our memories…good or bad…and your attitudes will decide which. You best start puttin’ more effort in.” The sharp words stung like a slap, but getting reacquainted to Grampa John’s penetrating gaze hurt even more. They watched as he trudged through the snow back to the house. Even Three Speed stayed clear of him. Grampa John was back, and he was angry.

Fate was working against little Brian Mauretti. The food that was meant to nourish him was poisoning him instead, and the doctors said the damage was devastating and absolute. Fate had written off Brian. But fate didn’t count on a woman as determined as Brian’s grandmother, Angela DiMartino – who everyone knew as Mama. Loving her grandson with everything she had, Mama endeavored to battle fate. Fate had no idea what it was in for.

An emotional tale about the strength of family bonds, unconditional love, and the perseverance to do our best with the challenging gifts we receive,
Goodnight, Brian
is an uplifting tribute to what happens when giving up is not an option.
 

Readers always ask me, “How did you come up with the idea for
Goodnight Brian
?” The truth is, the novel was inspired by a true story; I have a dear friend whose cousin suffered terribly from being poisoned by baby formula. The vast majority of the story, however, is fiction. In fact, Mama (the matriarch and central point of the story) is a combination of my grandmother, my mother, my mother-in-law, as well as a few other women I’ve met in my life who have inspired me.

When Brian is first diagnosed with metabolic alkalosis and the family is told that the infant will never be able to walk or talk, his tiny Italian grandmother—Mama—takes a defiant stand. She vows to make it her life’s work to prove the doctors wrong and immediately sets off on a course of tough love to do just that.

Goodnight Brian
is an emotional tale about the strength of family bonds and the perseverance to do our best with the challenging gifts we receive. It is also a tribute to what happens when giving up is not an option. But mostly, it’s a story about unconditional love in its truest form.

The novel’s excerpt depicts two powerful scenes of progress—Brian clapping and then speaking his first words.

While Brian’s family—to include Mama—look on, Brian sings, “Ma…Ma…Ma…”

Mama wipes her eyes. “We just need him to string them together a little quicker and he’ll have my name down, too.”

“Then can we work on Dada?” Frank asks, playfully.

She nods. “I guarantee it.”

“Oh, I believe you,” he says, “And I’ll never doubt you again.”

“And from what I can tell, he’ll be crawling by the first snowfall,” she says with a wink.

Summer 1978

Mama’s house was the kind of place where each summer became the best summer of your life. And each year, Heidi, Steph and Ross spent the better part of the summer months at the cottage. It started off as weekends, but after enough begging on behalf of the kids these eventually turned into full weeks. By late August, their parents had finally surrendered and it was one giant slumber party.

Mama’s front yard was plain—except for the four trees she’d planted to celebrate each grandchild’s birth and a two-seat glider built by her late husband, now gone for ten years.

At the front of the house was the beloved three-season porch where the grandkids slept on air mattresses during spring and summer. At twilight, to the sound of rushing waves, they could hear whispered conversations in the darkness; neighbors sitting out, enjoying their safe little world. In the morning, they were usually greeted by robin red breasts foraging for food, or the occasional seagull begging for handouts just outside the screens. Beyond the screen house, at the very tip of the property, was a small wooden deck filled with mismatched chairs painted in different pastel colors.

A statue of St. Jude, the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes, welcomed all guests at the beginning of a brick pathway that led to Mama’s sanctuary in the back yard. A day never passed when Mama didn’t kiss her index finger and place it on his weather-beaten head.

Plants and wild flowers sprung up everywhere. Just past the rose-covered arbor sat a small concrete bird bath with a weather-beaten Adirondack chair facing it. The chalk-red brick meandered in several different directions, but each path led to a round table in the middle of the courtyard, protected by a giant maple arbor. This table hosted hours upon hours of card games, rounds of Parcheesi and priceless conversation.

Fire-red sea grasses grew out of black mulch. Mama loved ceramic frogs and there were a dozen or so carefully placed around the secret garden. There were also a half-dozen bird feeders hanging about. Dragon flies and everything from blue jays to yellow finches claimed the place as home—or at least their summer home. The occasional seagull screeched overhead, drowning out the portable radio that Mama stuck in the window to listen to the Red Sox—or “my boys,” as she called them. An outdoor shower abutted the house and, if you came in from the beach, you weren’t allowed in the house until you got under it and rinsed off every grain of sand.

Bees pollinated the hydrangeas surrounding a big green lamppost that came on at dusk, creating even more atmosphere. Some nights, Heidi, Steph and Ross spent time there in silence, listening to the crickets and peepers. Most nights though, they chased fireflies with empty mayonnaise jars, while Mama sat in her chair cheering them on.

It was such a magical place that even the occasional horsefly attack was worth the risk of spending time there.

While Mama hemmed a laundry basket filled with men’s slacks, Heidi, Steph and Ross played in the backyard. Mama placed a blanket on the grass and put Brian on his belly. She then dropped his favorite toy—a plush puppy that squeaked when you squeezed its belly—on the far side of the blanket across from him. For hours on end, it looked like he was swimming, but going nowhere. “Eventually, he’ll learn to crawl,” Mama promised. To the untrained eye, this would have appeared awfully cruel, but Mama cared too much not to give him the tough love that he needed to make progress.

After spending countless hours struggling and failing to crawl, Heidi finally spoke up in her tiny cousin’s defense. “Mama…please. It’s too hard for him.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “It looks like he isn’t going anywhere, but he’s actually learning about perseverance; about never giving up.”

Steph looked down at the blanket to find Brian paddling hard to nowhere. “Well, he hasn’t given up yet,” she admitted.

“And he won’t!” Mama promised. She took a break from her mending and searched each of their tanned faces. “Here’s the real secret to succeeding in life: You get knocked down, you get back up. You get knocked down again, you get back up. It’s not getting knocked down that’s the problem. Life does that to everyone. It’s when you don’t get back up that you’re in trouble.” She looked down at the struggling toddler and smiled proudly. “Fortunately, Brian refuses to stay down.”

As if on cue, Brian looked up, grinned and then set his sights on the stuffed puppy again. Legs kicking, arms stroking—he continued to give it everything he had.

“That’s Mama’s boy,” she told him. “You just keep pushing, Brian. You’ll get there.”

The summer went by in a flash and it was perfect. After each breakfast, Heidi, Steph and Ross left the cottage and played all day, taking their lunch in the backyard and washing it down with the water from the garden hose. They didn’t even consider going in until the streetlight came on. They climbed trees and fell from branches. They suffered their cuts and bruises, cried for as long as Mama allowed it, and then headed back out into the wild to eat worms that squirmed out of mud pies. They made friends with kids up the street and were allowed to walk to their houses, as long as they “stayed together.” And, as a treat, they sometimes shared a cola, drinking from the same green glass bottle and learning how to share as they did.

By late July, both Heidi and Steph finally learned how to ride their bikes without training wheels—or helmets. Mama threw a backyard cookout to show off the girls’ new skills.

They also spent a lot of time down by the bay. The girls watched Brian in the shade, while Mama taught Ross how to swim. It didn’t take long for the daredevil to paddle off in the shallow water—all by himself.

While the girls joined Ross in the surf, Mama grabbed Brian, painted him white with sun block and then marched him into the water until she was up to her waist. For the longest time, she just stood there holding him in the water, while he flopped and flailed around.

Standing in the surf, Steph nervously asked, “What are you doing, Mama?”

“Taking away Brian’s fear. Once the water starts to feel natural to him, then the swimming will come natural to him. Right now, we’re just removing the fear.” She looked down at him. “Right, buddy?” she asked.

Brian contorted and thrashed, struggling violently against the water.

It was the last week of August when the kids—Heidi, Steph and Ross—presented Mama with a priceless gift. “Come out to the yard,” Heidi, the group’s elected representative, told her. “We have something we want to show you.”

Expecting to sit through another one of their backyard plays, Mama stepped out into the yard to find Steph and Ross kneeling before Brian on the blanket. The baby was propped up on his bum, with a rolled towel wedged behind him, allowing him to stay seated.
But there are no costumes or props
, Mama thought. As she and Heidi took a seat on the blanket beside them, the old lady looked at the kids and shrugged. “What’s up, guys?”

Ross began giggling and couldn’t stop. Heidi grabbed him by the shoulders, “Shhhh, Ross. Let Steph show her.”

Intrigued, Mama looked toward Steph. “Show me what?”

Steph never answered. Instead, wearing a giant smile, she turned toward Brian and clapped twice. Nothing happened. She clapped twice more. “Come on, Brian,” she whispered, obviously pleading for him to comply.

The little guy looked directly at Mama, brought up both of his hands and quickly clapped them together.

Mama’s mouth dropped open, but before she could get a word out, Steph clapped at the baby again. Brian responded with another clap. This time, he added a laugh.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Mama gasped, and her eyes immediately filled with tears. This was no small feat.
Brian’s learning to mimic
, she thought. “He’s learning!” she said aloud.

The kids looked up at their grandmother for her approval.

“It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received!” she cried out and meant it. While Brian applauded, she hugged each one of them.

After a half hour of clapping with Brian and round after round of tearful kisses, Mama stood and stretched out her creaky back. “We need to call Aunt Joan and Uncle Frank.” She shot them a wink. “And after that, I’m treating you guys to McRay’s for supper. Whatever you want to eat, it’s yours!”

“Anything?” Heidi asked.

“Anything,” she said, smiling. “You’ve earned it.”

Once Brian returned home, the other three kids ate enough sugar to launch any one of them into a diabetic coma. It was a glorious—and somewhat discreet—celebration.

As the leaves turned from green to bright red and orange, a yellow school bus sadly carried the squeals of summer down the road. Life went back to normal and the family returned to Mama’s cottage every Wednesday and Saturday night. Inspired by Brian’s recent progress, the kids kept their promise and spent hours working with him on developing his speech.

“Say Ma, Brian,” Heidi told him.

“Say Ma,” Steph repeated.

“Say Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma…” Ross added.

It was mind numbing to listen to, but the relentless repetition was exactly what he needed. Occasionally, Frank would chime in, “No, say dah dah,” but he didn’t have a shot in hell with the overwhelming push for the boy to say “Ma.”

Before long, Frank began to miss some of the weekly get-togethers. As time went on, his absences became more frequent and Joan’s excuses became less believable. No one ever commented on it—not even Mama.

The weeks turned into months and countless hours were spent trying to teach Brian to utter a word; hours upon hours spent failing again and again.

“Say Ma, Brian,” Heidi told him.

“Say Ma,” Steph repeated.

“Say Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma…” Ross added.

Brian refused to speak. Still, not one of the kids gave up. Each one of them refused to stay knocked down.

It was a Sunday afternoon in early November, a few short months before Brian’s third birthday. Frank was out in the backyard, taking a break from raking the few remaining leaves on the ground to teach Ross how to swing a golf club. Joan was in the kitchen, cleaning up from the pumpkin carving when Brian looked up from his oversized high chair and said, “Ma.”

Joan spun on her heels to face the baby. “Did you say
Ma
, Brian?” she gasped, hoping against all hope that she hadn’t been hearing things.

He banged a spoon on his tray, but didn’t repeat it.

With a heavy sigh, she reluctantly dismissed it as nothing and turned her back on the little guy to finish the cleaning.

He didn’t like it. He threw his spoon and yelled, “Ma!”

She dropped the sponge onto the floor and hurried to him. “You did call for Mommy!” she said. “You’re learning to talk,” she squealed in joy. “Can you say it again?” she asked. “Can you say…”