Dreamsleeves

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

  He’s heading up to Canada. He likes to canoe and fish.

  I take a bite of cake and then another. “Mmm, this is delicious, Mom.”

  Beck says something funny and Father Reilly laughs and my father locks eyes with the priest as if to say, “I know, don’t I have the cutest children?”

  After a second cup of tea, Father Reilly stands. “I really must be leaving. I have a hospital visit to make.”

  “I’ll walk you out, Father,” my dad says.

  Good. Now Father Reilly will be able to speak with Dad in private and tell him to stop drinking, or else. Picture that hot place worse than purgatory, buddy. You know where.

  “Would you take an extra piece home with you, Father?” Mom says, extending a plate wrapped in foil.

  “Oh, yes, Maggie. The cake was delicious. I’ll enjoy this tonight after dinner.”

  “See!” Callie says, giggling, clapping her hands. “I told you it would work!”

  “Yes you did, little one,” Father says, patting her head. “Yes, indeed.” He pulls the sticker out of his pocket. I lean in to read it. A second piece of cake.

  I wink and smile at Callie.

  “Here, now you try it,” Father Reilly says, handing the dream tag to Callie. She takes it happily and sticks it on the sleeve of her dress.

  “Now if I might just have my coat,” Father says.

  When I hand the priest his raincoat I try to lock eyes with him, but he is saying good-bye to the little ones. He makes the sign of the cross on their foreheads with his thumb, blessing them. My father watches all of this, face beaming.

  I want to whisper “thank you” in Father Reilly’s ear, but I don’t get the chance. No worries, I’ll stop by the rectory tomorrow.

  My dad turns the knob, opens the door, “After you, Father,” and then they are off down the never-used staircase.

  I go to my phone-bench perch in the dining room and watch them walk across the lawn and down the driveway to the priest’s car. It’s big and black and fancy.

  They talk for a few minutes. My father’s head droops down. He puts his palms on the hood of the priest’s car and leans over. The priest touches my dad’s back. Father Reilly gets in his car. My dad looks up at the window. I pull back quickly. Mission accomplished.

  Mom is so pleased with how things went. I help her clear the dining room table. “I think I’ll have a second piece of cake now, too,” I say.

  Then in a flash, my father rushes into the dining room. He picks up the heavy crystal vase and smashes it on the table, glass cracking, flowers flying, water spewing everywhere.

  “What the hell were you thinking of?” he screams at me. “Embarrassing this family. Lying to that priest!”

  I’m standing across the table from him, shocked and shaking. He moves toward me. I move away. He runs and lunges. I move faster. He’s chasing me around the table. “Come here,” he shouts, “come here!”

  “No!” I scream, terrified.

  “Stop it, Roe!” my mother shrieks. She’s holding the kitchen broom high up in the air as if she might strike him with it. “Stop it this instant or I’ll call the police.”

  My father freezes. He looks at my mother. “Yeah, right,” he says.

  “I will,” my mom screams, her face crumbling with anger and fear and love and loathing. The broom is shaking in her hand. “I swear as God is my judge, Roe O’Neill, I will.”

  My body shudders as if I’ll explode. B, C, and D are huddled in the corner crying. Baby E is yanking on his crib, screaming for someone to get him.

  My father makes a sound like he’s spitting. He grabs his blue jacket, the one with the muffler company name on it from when he won that trip to the Bahamas, and he storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  It’s so quiet you could hear a flower grow. Something like peace settles over the room. My mother and I lock eyes. There’s broken glass and water drip-drip-dripping off the table, but neither of us is rushing for towels or a mop.

  My mother opens her arms and I go to her. As she hugs me, I feel Dooley wrap his arms around my legs, hugging me so hard he’ll cut off my circulation. “It’s okay, A,” he says. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Callie runs to hug me, too. Beck helps E out of his crib.

  I tell my mother about the dream I wore in church. “I thought Father Reilly could fix things,” I say, sobbing. “But all he did was say grace and eat our cake and get me in trouble with Dad.”

  “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart,” my mom says, stroking my hair. “No. Your father is the one who’s in trouble.”

  The President last night had a dream. He was in a party

  of plain people and as it became known who he was they

  began to comment on his appearance. One of them said,

  “He is a common-looking man.” The President replied,

  “Common-looking people are the best in the world: that

  is the reason the Lord makes so many of them.”

  — JOHN HAY, DESCRIBING PRESIDENT LINCOLN

  In the morning, I search everywhere again for Frisky, not willing to give up hope.

  “Maybe he walked to the river,” Beck says.

  “Yeah,” says Callie, “turtles like rivers.”

  I feel awful. Frisky was my one and only and probably forever pet. My dad won’t let us have a cat or a dog. He says they stink and have fleas and bite.

  My father is sitting at the kitchen table looking all sheepishly remorseful. He stares out at the bird feeder. He goes to the refrigerator. He pours a glass of milk for breakfast instead of his usual liquor. He doesn’t look at me directly. He doesn’t tell me he’s sorry, but I can tell he is. He’ll probably go to the store later to buy potato chips and cookies to try and make it better.

  When the little ones run loudly through the house, he doesn’t yell at anybody.

  He goes to work and comes home on time for dinner.

  Walking into the living room, I see my father kneeling on the couch in his usual spot, shoulders hunched over, staring down at the cars going by. I stand there watching him. He looks so lonely, so all alone. What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Are you finally going to stop drinking? Why are you so strict with me? Why do you keep me imprisoned here? What are you afraid of? What? I love you, Dad, despite it all. I do. But tell me, Dad, do you love me?

  In this moment it occurs to me that my dad is in prison, too, the prison of dead dreams. He once was the King of the Prom, a handsome young man who won dance contests and drove a stunning red convertible, top down, fast, with no cares in the world, his whole bright life ahead of him. Now he’s bloated from drinking and he’s losing his hair. I don’t think he’s danced in years. His car is rusted and the next one will have to be a station wagon, not a Cadillac. There will never be ocean vacations or that house in the country with the stream and the apple trees. He’s lucky he can feed and clothe his family. He is a hubcap collector.

  Maybe Dad drinks to forget his dreams. Maybe they haunt him like nightmares.

  Two more days go by and there are no more outbursts. Dad has one can of beer after dinner, that’s all. Maybe Father Reilly got to him. Maybe my plan worked after all.

  Maizey calls all excited about Sue-Ellen’s party. When I put down the phone I say, “Dad, I can still go to Maizey’s camp, right? Her mom said she’ll come pick me up.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he says. This gives him a chance to get back on my good side without saying he’s sorry for what he did. “Unless something comes up.”

  “Thanks, Dad!” I go to my room, try on my bathing suit, practice kissing my hand again. A whole sunny afternoon with Mike Mancinello. I can’t wait!

  The third night, my father is drinking again, the hard stuff, the brown liquor. He’s out cold asleep on the couch at seven. And so it begins again.

  How could I have been so stupid? The past few days were just the calm after the storm. My father erupts and there’s thunder and lightning and hitting and crying and then whoosh the wind
blows through and the sun appears and nobody mentions the hurricane. We’re all just so grateful we survived the storm, we all imagine we see a rainbow.

  No. No. Not anymore. I will not let this happen again!

  “Can I go out for an hour?” I ask my mother.

  “Sure, A,” she says, sighing, tired, not even asking where I’m going. “Just be home before dark.”

  I bike straight to Maria Carroll’s house.

  “Oh, good, A, hi. Come on in,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for you. I told Leo if you didn’t come by tonight I was going to your house.”

  “It’s better I came here,” I say.

  Maria nods. “I know. I know.”

  She pours us glasses of iced tea and sets out a plate of lemon drop cookies. My heart is pounding, my head hurts from worry. I want to tell her everything, all the bad things in my house, but what if Dad finds out? What if this only makes things worse?

  “A,” Maria says, leaning across the table to rest her hand on my arm. “I saw what you had written on that label in church. That was very brave of you. I am proud of you. Whatever you want to tell me will be held in the strictest confidence. Trust me, I understand these things. You have my solemn word.”

  Ahhhh … I let out a loud sigh of relief, feeling better already. Nana says a sigh is good for the heart. It’s an Irish thing.

  Then as if I just now learned to speak the language and finally have a way to communicate, I say everything, everything that has been happening to me … all the bad things going on at my house … all my fears … all my worries for myself and my mom and the little ones … Dad throwing up blood … it all gushes out like Niagara Falls.

  Maria listens like she is a professionally trained listener, like she should be teaching college classes in how to listen. When I am finally done talking, Maria sighs. She smiles at me. She nods her head.

  “Thank you, A,” she says. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me.”

  Then Maria confides in me that her father is an alcoholic, too. And that she can relate to much of what I’ve told her. She says “alcoholism is a disease, a ravaging disease like cancer.” And that my father “isn’t behaving like this because he is a bad person or because he doesn’t love you.” It’s that he has this disease and he needs help.

  Leo comes into the kitchen. “Well, if it isn’t our favorite teenager,” he says, with a smile. Lee takes a cookie and chews it. “Mmm, good, babe,” he says, kissing Maria on the cheek. “How’s your summer going, A?” He takes another cookie and sits down. Maria touches his arm and tilts her head toward the doorway.

  “Oh, I get it,” he says with a laugh. “I know when three’s a crowd. I’ll leave you ladies to your gossip.” He stands up. “Are we going to see your family at the Town Picnic, A?”

  “Yes, we’ll be there.”

  “Good thing. I want you on my team for tug-of-war, okay?”

  Maria tells me about a group that helps people who can’t stop drinking. It’s called Alcoholics Anonymous. “If your mom or a family member or friend can encourage your dad to go to a meeting, that would be a good first step.”

  She slides something across the table. “I picked this brochure up for you.”

  “Thanks, Maria.”

  “And here’s a list of places where they have AA meetings right here in Troy.”

  I look at the list, tears filling my eyes. Why do I feel like I’m betraying my dad?

  “The hard thing for us to learn, A, is that no matter what we do or how much we love him, we cannot change the alcoholic. We cannot make him stop drinking.”

  A sob escapes, my throat clenches.

  We cannot make him stop drinking.

  “I tried so hard,” I sob.

  Maria hugs me. She hands me a box of tissues. She strokes my hair. “I know, sweet girl, I know. We cannot control the person who’s drinking. All we can control is our reaction to his or her behavior. I know this may be hard for you to understand, A. It takes time. We have to protect ourselves and take care of ourselves. That’s where this other group called Al-Anon comes in. It helps support the family of an alcoholic.”

  She gives me another brochure and a sheet with meeting times. “I go to this one,” she says, pointing. “I’d love to take you and your mother with me next week.”

  When I get home, I tell Mom to come to my room. “It’s important.”

  I give her the brochures and tell her what Maria told me.

  “Thank you, A,” she says. “Maria is a good neighbor, a good friend. This is very helpful.” Her eyes fill up with tears. “Let me think about this. Let me see what I can do.”

  The phone rings. Mom stuffs the brochures in her smock pocket and turns to go answer it. I follow her out of my room.

  My father has reached the phone first.

  “Hello?” he says, looking out the dining room window. “Who’s this?” he says loudly.

  The tone of Dad’s voice makes me freeze.

  “Mike? Mike who?” my father says angrily.

  Oh, no.

  “She’s not here,” Dad says, slamming down the receiver.

  He turns around. “Who’s this boy calling you?”

  “Nobody,” I say, my heart pounding. “Just a friend from school.”

  “That long-haired guinea who showed up the day you nearly killed Dooley?”

  “No, Dad,” I say, getting angry again.

  “You know the rules. No boys. No boys till you graduate.”

  “I know, Dad. I know.” Please, God, don’t let him say I can’t go to Maizey’s.

  My father gets a drink. He comes back. “And don’t forget you’re grounded.”

  “But, Dad” — I try to be calm — “you said I could go to Maizey’s camp, remember?”

  “Forget it,” my father says.

  “But, Dad,” I plead.

  “Go to your room,” he shouts.

  “Dad, please.” I look to my mother for help, but like always she keeps silent, trying not to make him angrier, trying to “keep the peace.”

  Just for once, Mom, just for once. Couldn’t you take my side?

  I force myself not to cry, try to sound respectful. “Dad, please, you said I could….”

  “That’s before you almost let your little brother get killed and shamed this family with Father Reilly and started sneaking around with boys.”

  “I’m not sneaking around!”

  “Shut up!” he says, case closed, judge’s gavel pounding down.

  The prison door slides shut, clank, and the iron bolt locks into place.

  Dreams are necessary to life.

  — ANAÏS NIN

  It’s the day of Sue-Ellen’s pool party. Sunlight is streaming in the window. It will be a beautiful, blue sky, picture-perfect summer day. Uggh…

  I roll over and stare miserably at Clarissa, Jeffrey, and Flop. They stare back at me silently. The drone of a motor revs up outside. My father is mowing the lawn.

  I think about my new pink bathing suit and cover-up and flip-flops and straw bag. I think about how Mike and I were going to hold hands or even kiss, under that swooping willow tree that I am certain is at that country club.

  Mike already knows my father is a tyrant; when he finds out I can’t even go to a pool party, he will probably break up with me. Who wants a girlfriend who can’t ever go anywhere? Who wants a best friend who can’t ever go anywhere? I’ve probably lost Maizey to Sue-Ellen for good.

  I lie here hopeless and dejected, overwhelmed with the injustice of all of this. I say a prayer and then another, but what’s called for here is a miracle.

  Then I hear “Dreamsleeves” in my head.

  Dreamsleeves. Dreamsleeves.

  Is that you, God, answering me?

  I rip a piece of paper from a notebook on my desk. I write:

  The Pool Party, Please!

  I find a safety pin and attach my dream to my sleeve.

  This dreamer needs a dream-helper.

  Maybe sometimes th
e one person who can make your particular dream come true is a stranger you pass on the street, or a nice lady you know from church who just needed a clue, or maybe sometimes, that person is standing in your own kitchen.

  I take a deep breath and go.

  My mother is at the stove sticking a fork into one of the peeled white potatoes bobbing around in the tall silver pot. Potato salad for dinner later, probably.

  I walk over to her, touch her arm, and lock my eyes with hers. I point to my dream and she reads it. She pierces another potato.

  “These need a few more minutes,” she says, setting the fork down.

  “Mom, please,” I say. “I’m begging you. I have to go to this party. I’ve been looking forward to it all summer. All my friends are going. Please.”

  The lawn mower drones closer as my father reaches the border of the lawn by the kitchen window and then grows fainter as he turns and heads in the other direction. The freshly mowed grass smells hopeful.

  Steam is rising up on my mother’s face. She closes her eyes and sighs and for a moment she looks younger, like a fancy lady enjoying a sauna at a country club. The slightest bit of a smile moves across her lips as if she’s imagining something pleasant. The bubbling water rises to the rim of the pot and some water splashes over and down the side, making a sizzling sound when it hits the burner.

  Mom opens her eyes and looks at me.

  It’s as if she sees me for the very first time.

  “You are going to that party,” she says. “If it kills me, you are going.”

  “Oh, Mom, thank you!” I hug her, giddy with excitement.

  Mom turns the burner off. She looks out the window, then up at the clock. “I’ll make him a big roast beef sandwich when he comes in,” she says. “There’s a show on he’ll want to watch. Get ready and wait in your room and when I tell you the coast is clear, run to Maizey’s and grab a ride to the party. But you’ve got to come right home afterward.”

  “Oh, Mom, thank you, thank you.” I hug her.

  I phone Maizey and tell her the good news.

  “What did you get her?” Maizey says.