She watches me giddily as I peel off the yogurt’s foil top and set it to the side. “Bernadette?”
“I guess he was a little surprised. He didn’t really say anything about me looking older.”
“Well, he wouldn’t.” Ma pulls at the cuffs of her sleeves—first the right, then the left. “He’s a gentleman. Did you talk about anything?”
“No. I had to get to work. I took the sweater and I left.” I put a spoonful of yogurt in my mouth. When was the last time James ate? He must be starving. And thirsty. My God, he’s probably so thirsty.
“He didn’t ask you anything?” Ma is leaning forward on the table, her head tilted slightly to the right. “Nothing?”
“Ma, come on.” I put the spoon down slowly. “Gimme a break with the games here, okay? I know you forgot your sweater on purpose.”
She unclasps her hands, sits back in her chair. Fiddles with the hem of one sleeve.
“Didn’t you?”
“Oh, Bernadette.” She stands up, grabbing the yellow oven mitts hanging on a hook next to the stove. “Don’t use that tone with me. It’s not like I did anything wrong.”
“You did too! You lied!”
She whirls around, mitts on her hands now, both anchored firmly on her hips. “I did no such thing! I asked you to go get my sweater . . .”
“Which you purposely left behind, just so that I could ‘run’ into Father Delaney!” I use my fingers to make air quotes around the word “run.” “That was completely dishonest, Ma, and you know it!”
Ma steadies her lower lip with her teeth. “Father Delaney is a good man.”
“That is not the point, and do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Change the subject like you always do, so that you don’t have to take responsibility for anything.”
“Just what are you accusing me of?” Ma’s eyes are flickering now, the edges of her nostrils turning white. I know that if I say what’s really barreling through my head—that she is a scheming, calculating busybody—things will erupt into a full-blown war. It’s not worth it anymore; I never win these kinds of arguments, and more importantly, Angus is around. He doesn’t need to hear either of us spewing our vitriolic statements at one another. We’re supposed to be role models here, not bad influences.
And so I take a deep breath, attempt to navigate the conversation in a different direction. “Do you seriously think I’m just going to start going back to church because I happen to say hello to a priest I once knew as a kid?”
“Nothing happens by accident,” Ma says.
“Ma, come on! What is the matter with you?”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” she snaps. “And lower your voice. Gus is in the next room.”
“I know exactly where Angus is, Ma. And I have no intention of getting into a screaming match with you. But, please. For the thousandth time, please just stay out of my life. Especially when it comes to stuff like church and all that. Okay? I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I am not interested in any of it anymore. It’s not for me.”
She opens the oven door and sets the steaming pan of meat loaf on the counter, touching it lightly with the pad of her index finger. Then she looks up. “Well, Saint Monica never gave up on Augustine.” Her voice is unnervingly steady. Like steel. “And I’m not going to give up on you.”
If Ma has told me the story about Saint Monica and her son, Saint Augustine, once, she’s told me a thousand times. Augustine’s road to sainthood was an exceptionally long one. For years, he partied and slept around, leaving mounds of debt and bastard children in his wake. All the while, his mother, Monica, prayed for his conversion, begging God to help her son see the light. He did, of course, after hearing a voice directing him to pick up a scroll of sacred text and read it. There’s always a voice that descends from a cloud in stories like these—always. Soon afterward, Augustine went home and made amends for all the sins he’d committed, eventually becoming one of the greatest bishops in the Catholic Church. Monica was ultimately made a saint, too, since her son’s conversion was considered a direct result of her prayers.
I shake my head, draping both arms over the top of my head. “Oh my God, Ma. Why can’t you ever listen to the things I try to tell you? It’s like you don’t even have ears.”
“Don’t you shake your head at me.” Ma’s voice is still hard, but she’s losing ground, too; I can hear it in the tremor of her voice. “I’m not the one who’s throwing her soul away.”
She’s thrown the last dart, aimed directly for the jugular. Everything for Ma comes back to the soul, which she considers our true, eternal essence. We all have one apparently, some fluttery thing inside of us that never dies, a kind of eternal flame that we are responsible for keeping sterile and smudge free. When I was younger, I used to imagine my soul as a little white butterfly that lived beneath my rib cage. It slept when I slept, flittered around when I was awake, and smelled like me in the summertime—a combination of warm grass, peonies, and Dial soap. When the time came for me to die, I pictured it drifting out of my mouth and floating around the world, trailing my scent behind it. That scent would be my mark. My stamp on the world.
For a split second, I feel genuinely sorry for Ma. I stopped believing in all that hokey stuff years and years ago. Aside from it being completely weird, it doesn’t even make sense. Butterfly souls? Eternal scents? But she believes in the Catholic faith so desperately, even though she’s never stopped to question any of it, not once, that it makes my heart break to think about it. Because what if she’s wrong? What if Father Delaney and the Catholic Church and Saint Augustine got it all wrong and there is no God, there is no soul, there is no anything except this, right now? What happens then? Where does that leave her?
“The only part of my soul I’ve thrown away,” I say slowly as the moment passes, “is the part of it that’s gotten gangrene from listening to all your crap. Which is why, in thirteen days, Angus and I are moving into our own place at the lake.”
Ma opens her mouth to say something, but shuts it again when I point my finger at her. “I’ve told you this a hundred times since we’ve been back, Ma, and I will say it one final time. Stay. Out. Of. My. Life!” I scream the last word, which causes Angus to come running in, eyes wide, looking first at me and then at Ma.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why are you yelling at Nanny, Mom?”
Everything inside that raised its head just moments earlier about not making a scene in front of Angus flies out the door. All I can see now is red, like an EXIT sign flashing on and off in front of me.
“I’m yelling at Nanny because she’s out of her fucking mind!” I’m already at the stairs, and I take them two at a time, moving like a bull, as if the soles of my feet have springs attached to them. “And she’s about to make me lose mine!”
I SLAM MY bedroom door behind me and then sink against it, still holding on to the doorknob. It’s been a long time since I’ve said anything that harsh to Ma, and realizing just how harsh it was makes me wince. It hurts, feeling that way about her, even if it’s true. I’m ashamed of myself, too, and sorry that Angus had to see me like that. I know better, of course; I always know better. Now if I could just get to the part where I do better. Ma reminds me all the time that I’m an adult now—a mature woman with real responsibilities. But the truth is that I don’t feel like a woman; I don’t think I ever have. Not even giving birth helped me turn that corner; in fact, the primary reminder reverberating through my head afterward was how young I was to be having a child, not that my female body had just created and nurtured a human being for the past nine months. When I think of real women, I think of Mrs. Ross at the probation office. Or Mrs. Vandermark, who owns the house out on the lake. And Jane Livingston. Each of them possesses a surety about themselves, a kind of innate self-knowledge that I don’t have, that I might not ever have. Sometimes it feels like everything just stopped at fifteen, after Dad’s car accident. Like the world around m
e—and inside me—shut down at that moment and never started up again. And it’s never more apparent than now, when shit like this happens and I fly off the handle and start screaming like a bratty teenager.
I fall down heavily on my bed, push my face into my pillow. I kick the mattress hard with the tip of my foot, lift my arm, and punch the space next to my ribs. One, two, three, four. Pause. Five, six, seven, eight.
“Mommy?” Angus’s voice, small and worried, slides under the door. “Are you okay in there?”
I flip over, stare at the ceiling. I’m panting a little; a buzzing inside my head goes on and on like an irritated fly. But I’m okay. I have to be okay. My boy needs me.
I get up and unlock the door. “Hey, Boo,” I say softly.
He scrambles up from his place on the floor and brushes a stray curl from his forehead. “Are you okay?”
I pull him into my lap, drape his legs over my thigh. “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry.” He nestles in, fitting his head under my chin, pressing his tiny form against mine. I push my nose into his hair, inhaling the faint scent of his coconut-scented shampoo. Close my eyes. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Angus. I really am. I shouldn’t’ve yelled at Nanny the way I did. It wasn’t nice.”
“Were you crying?” Angus asks.
I open my eyes again. “No. I had my face in the pillow because I was frustrated. But I’m okay. I promise.”
Angus twists his head then, looking up at me. “What’s ‘fustrated’?”
“Oh, it just means I was feeling sad. And mad, too.” I brush my fingers across the space between his neck and shoulders. It is the color of vanilla pudding and just as soft. “Do you ever feel like that? Sad and mad at the same time?”
“Yes.” Angus kicks one of his magic shoes. The laces have come undone; his little white socks droop around the ankle. “Today I did.”
“Today? When?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, really.”
“Okay.” I squeeze him with both arms. “When you’re ready, you tell me.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Then: “Nanny’s crying, too. Downstairs.”
Shit. It takes a lot to make Ma cry. The last time I saw her get anywhere close to it was at the beginning of Dad’s funeral, when a lady started singing some song about angel’s wings. It was just a single tear, too, which she wiped away quickly with a piece of blue tissue. For the rest of the day, her face stayed dry. “She is?”
Angus bobs his head up and down, just as concerned about Ma right now as he is about me. It’s one of about ten million things that I love most about him. “I heard her. She went into the potty and blew her nose, even. It was really loud.”
“All right.” I lift him off my lap. “We should go down and cheer her back up, then, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Angus reaches out with both hands to pull me up. I play along, letting him think that he is lifting me off the ground, and stagger back up to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go quick.”
But Ma is putting her coat on when Angus and I come back downstairs. She’s applied fresh lipstick, too, and is tying a red silk scarf around her throat. She raises her eyebrows at Angus, giving him a quick smile, and then turns back around, pointedly ignoring me.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To church.” She snatches her purse off the table in the hall, yanks it up along her shoulder. “There’s a service tonight. I’ll be back later. The meat loaf and potatoes are staying warm in the oven, if you’re interested.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. I grab Ma’s arm. “What service? They don’t have church services at night.”
Ma looks at my hand on her arm until I release it again. “They do when they’re having Forty Hours.”
Forty Hours. That’s what Father Delaney was talking about earlier. The church will be unlocked until Saturday. You can come any time, Bird, even if you just want to sit. Should I let her go? Is it safe? Maybe James isn’t even there anymore. He can’t be. It’s been at least nine hours. He’s had to have found a way out, if only to get water. He wouldn’t stay there in the loft. Would he?
“You know what?” I grab my coat off the back of the kitchen chair, reach for Angus’s, which is still on the floor. “I think we’ll go with you.”
Ma looks startled for a moment, and then her face hardens. “Why?” she asks.
“What do you mean, why?” I stammer. “I thought you’d be happy!”
“I don’t need you to do any favors on my account.” Ma levels her gaze with mine. “And I certainly don’t want your pity.”
“This has nothing to do with favors or pity.” I grab Angus’s jacket from the hallway. “Father Delaney said something earlier about just coming in and sitting, and that’s all I’m going to do.” I shove Angus’s arms into the sleeves of his jacket. “Angus, too.”
She still looks suspicious, but a softness has emerged from behind the creases in her eyes. I have to shove her a little to get her out the front door. “Go, Ma. Come on.”
I get Angus in his booster seat in the back, then come around and slide in the front.
I’ll just go to make sure Ma is safe. That’s all.
In the car, Ma reaches over and squeezes my hand. Then she lets go again—quickly—as if I might swat her.
But at the stop sign, I reach over and squeeze it back.
Chapter 13
The front three rows in the church are packed. And despite the fact that we stopped at a McDonald’s on the way over since Angus hadn’t eaten yet, and we are a good fifteen minutes late, Ma strides directly up the middle of the aisle in full view of everyone and sits down. If she had a fur, I think to myself, she would toss it over one shoulder, wave to her adoring crowd. It’s no secret that Ma is beloved in this congregation; aside from being a faithful parishioner for almost thirty years, she has also been part of every planning committee from picnics to the annual garage sale fund raiser, and her one night out on Wednesdays is spent in the basement here, playing bingo with her fellow churchgoers.
I follow grudgingly, holding Angus’s hand, and stare straight ahead. People are probably wondering who the hell I am. Or more likely from the knowing looks they are giving Ma, they already know who I am and are sending her eye messages that say: “See? We told you! That Saint Monica can do anything!” Father Delaney is up on the altar saying Mass. He’s dressed in white-and-gold robes that come all the way down to his feet, but when he sits down, I can see the tops of his black sneakers. The light from the candles flickers across his face and the rich, spicy scent of incense hovers in the air.
I don’t dare look behind me. Or up. I don’t dare look up. If James is still in the choir loft he’s got to be freaking out with all these people so close by. Crazy thoughts start flying through my head: What if he stands up when Father Delaney lifts the Eucharist and shoots him? Ma told me about something like that happening once to a priest down in Ecuador. Shot right through the heart as he lifted the host. A martyr for God on the spot.
Or what if James comes down and orders all of us down into the basement? There are only about fifty people here, maybe less. Most, if not all, of them look to be around Ma’s age or older. He could hold all of us hostage easy. Especially with that good-looking gun of his. I shake my head. Ma’s the one who loves martyr and criminal stories; there’s no need for me to get carried away.
Angus tugs on my arm, and points at Father Delaney, who is swinging the incense chamber around a large gold cross on the altar. “What are they doing?”
Ma moves his finger away—gently, deliberately—and then leans over, putting her lips to his ear. “They are venerating the Host, Gus.” She says the words with such seriousness that I almost laugh out loud. Angus has never been inside a church before. Does she really think he knows what she’s talking about?
“What’s ‘venerating’?” Angus whispers loudly.
“Shhh . . .” Ma says. “No talking in church. I’ll tell you later.”
Angus sits back qui
etly and then wrinkles his nose. “What stinks?”
Ma looks over at me aghast, like it’s my fault that Angus has asked such a question. I take a deep breath, exhale. “It’s just a spicy kind of perfume, Boo. Don’t talk anymore, okay? It makes Nanny upset.”
He glances up warily in Ma’s direction, and then settles back in against my arm. The next twenty minutes tick by, slow as syrup. I’d forgotten how long Mass can be. Especially, apparently, when it’s kicking off an adoration service. After the incense swinging, Father Delaney takes a seat. Then another guy—dressed in green robes and a flat, multicolored scarf—comes out from the back and starts talking. I catch something about the Eucharist being exposed for the next forty hours and how Jesus Himself is really inside that tiny chamber over there in the corner, waiting for us to come over and say hello, but my head is upstairs in that damn choir loft. I can’t help it. He’s so close. If he’s still up there, I mean. I have to find out. I have to at least see if he’s okay. And if I don’t do it now, I won’t get another chance.
I reach over, tug on Ma’s sleeve gently. “Bathroom,” I mouth. “Be right back.”
“Now?” Ma looks horrified.
“I want to come!” Angus says loudly.
Two elderly women look over their shoulders at us, then turn back around. Ma stares straight ahead. A vein in her neck quivers.
I shake my head quickly, push Angus back. “Stay here with Nanny. I won’t be long.”
The stairs to the choir loft are just to the left of the outer vestibule; on the other side is another set leading downstairs to the bathrooms. I pause, my hand on the railing. Am I really going to do this? I don’t have to. I could just cross over to the other set of steps, run downstairs, pee, and flush. Come back inside like nothing ever happened. My eyes flick back and forth, coming to rest finally on the basin of holy water at the feet of the Blessed Virgin. I stare at it for a few seconds, then start up the choir loft steps on tiptoe, holding my breath and the front of my purse at the same time. Holy shit, I think to myself. What the hell am I doing?
The Odds of You and Me Page 11
