Descendant

by LJ Amodeo

Fulton J. Sheen

  After breakfast, I checked my phone and noticed five missed calls from Freddie. Sam was already in her car, waiting to drive me home. We really bonded, I thought, and to have a friend who understood me and who I was able to talk to besides Freddie, was a refreshing change for once. Samantha’s car radio blasted AC/DC’s “Shook Me All Night Long.” We sang as loud as we could, passing through the crowds of good Christian people who were making their way to mass. It had completely slipped my mind that it was Christmas Eve.

  I lowered the radio. “Sam, who are you celebrating Christmas with today?” I asked innocently. With her mother out of town, I thought I’d invite her to eat with me and my mom.

  “Celebrating? I don’t celebrate! Never did. That’s why my mom leaves town, to avoid all this bullshit.” She spoke with an inkling of sarcasm.

  “Besides, we have nothing to celebrate!” She replied blankly.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t Catholic and since you attend Houghton I. . .” I cut my words short as Sam’s jaw tightened, exploding into another one of her tirades.

  “I’m notanything, Elizabeth! I just exist! Me, alone in your so called God-fearing world! Besides, what’s it all mean . . . to celebrate him! Look at you! Look at how he’s protected you all these years! And you have faith in him! Really? Ha!” She blew up. “Open your eyes, Beth. Look around you, there are signs everywhere pointing to your destiny!” She abruptly caught her words, biting into her bottom lip to keep from saying anything further.

  As hard as it was to accept Sam’s twisted version of religion, I understood. I looked at the road ahead, watching the snow flurries fall to the ground; dustings of powder, swirling around in a dainty lyrical. I remained silent.

  "I didn’t mean that,” Sam huffed.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.” I whispered.

  “You’ve gotta understand that I stopped believing when my father was murdered. Aren’t you sick of the lies the church teaches you? Of everyone telling you that God never lets bad things happen to those he created. He has already judged you, Elizabeth. No matter how much good you do, your final outcome has been written in the scriptures since the beginning of time. Someday, you’ll realize that all the good you’ve done won’t matter. You should give it some thought. I know my judgment has already been cast. Therefore, I don’t have to pay homage or loyalty toanyone, let alone him.” Sam reached out to touch my frosty hand but hesitated.

  I forced a smile, feeling uneasy about her dark accusations toward the one I grew up believing was to be our redeemer and the truth that God has already decided my fate. Had my future already been prophesied? I feared Sam was right, I needed to think about at all the signs around me.

  Mom’s car was in the driveway covered with light dustings of snow when we pulled up to my house, which now resembled more of a hovel compared to Sam’s mansion. Prince was barking uncontrollably by the front window. My dog worried me. I wondered if he had become rabid or something, watching him viciously scratch at the front window, salivating with every bark.

  "What in the world has come over this dog?" I murmured.

  "Is that your precious pooch?" she asked, staring at Prince through the window.

  "Yes, that's Prince. He’s usually friendly. A bit overprotective, but generally a good dog. I’m not sure why he’s been acting so crazed lately.”

  "Doesn't seem too friendly.” She turned to face me. “Maybe it’s time you put the mutt down. Give Sophie a buzz," she winked.

  My mouth dropped open. I looked at her morosely, asking myself why we were friends in the first place. A year ago, I would have never considered making new friends, let alone one as implacable as Sam. But this year it was different. I was different. Something lured me toward her, almost craving her friendship. Prince was an important part of my life. I wouldn't know what I'd do if something happened to him. The thought of what Sam suggested made me angry.

  “That’s not a nice thing to say. It’s rather sadistic, Sam. Don’t you think?”

  “If you ask me, he’s a loose cannon. He may turn on you any given day. If I were you, I’d definitely consider getting rid of him. I have the dog slayer’s cell number if you’re still interested,” she stifled a smile. Her insensitivity and cold humor was tasteless and started to piss me off.

  “That’s effed up. I don’t find it funny and I think you should know that.” I tightened my lip.

  “Lighten up, doll-face. It’s a joke. Where’s your sense of humor?” She rolled her eyes, unaffected by my turmoil.

  “I gotta go. I’ll call you.” I muttered irritated by her remarks. I stared anxiously at my agitated guard dog.

  She reached for my arm but refrained. She pulled on my jacket instead. “Hey, I meant what I said.” Sam looked at me as if trying to probe my mind.

  I stared back at her, not sure if she meant to apologize for being insensitive about my dog or Sophie the Dog Slayer.

  Sam watched me walk across the lawn, revving her car engine as I passed her, smiling maliciously at me. If I had the good sense to do so, I’d tell Sam to go to hell. I unlocked my front door, stepping inside as the sound of Sam’s car faded in the background. Prince sniffed feverishly at my clothing. Again, he barked fervently for no apparent reason.

  I hung my coat in the hall closet as holiday ballads played softly over my mom’s humming in the kitchen. Prince was still panting, sniffing uncontrollably at my clothing. I patted his head to calm him down.

  “Stop it, Prince!” I scowled at my dog, pushing him aside with my leg. “Mom, I’m back.” I hollered over his barking.

  “Merry Christmas!” She kissed my cheek.

  “Merry Christmas, Mom.” I said, taking the special holiday plates from her hands and setting them on the table.

  “What time are we going to mass?” I asked.

  “We can go to the 7:30 mass or the midnight mass,” she replied between hums.

  “I guess midnight. We’ll keep tradition! Hey, Mom?” I paused at the dining room table. Things at home hadn’t been the same since my headaches surfaced, and the silence between us started to take its toll on me.

  “Is everything okay with us?”

  “Of course,” She said, unemotionally and detached as before. Remembering Sam’s mention of her mom’s great sadness during the holiday season, I suspected that my mother’s sadness was most likely due to my father’s absence.

  “How was your sleepover with Samantha? Did you girls have fun?” she asked, redirecting the conversation, like she’d done in the past.

  “Yeah!” I mumbled, with Sam’s words gnawing at my stomach.

  “Does she live in the dorms at school?” Mom asked still trying to make small talk.

  “No. She lives in Cuba with her mom. You should see her house. It’s incredible. It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen, with a hot tub and an infinity pool.” I tried sounding enthusiastic.

  “Really?” Mom replied while slicing the sweet potatoes.

  “There are these enormous fireplaces in every room, and you would love her kitchen, mom—totally state-of-the-art! Looks like something out of a magazine. Her house is surrounded by the most incredible views. She’s so lucky!” I recounted concealing my mood, as I set the kitchen table.

  “Really?” She paused with a puzzled look on her face. “I think I may have seen it or one just like it. Sounds very familiar. But, I can only imagine how exquisite it must be. I’m sure the Gavens do well for themselves.” Mom’s expression turned heartrending, as she looked at me. It was thatlet’s have a heart to heart look on her face. Yet the sadness in her eyes almost broke my heart.

  “Beth, I think it’s time for us to talk. I realize you may want the same beautiful things that Sam has in her life, but this is our home. As small and simple as it may be compared to hers, it’s ours. If I were able to give you anything you wanted, I would, but I can’t. The important thing is that we have each other. Considering what you’ve told me about Samantha, she is m
issing something in her life. Sadly so, her father was killed, yes, but her mother is hardly there for her like I’m here for you. Sam may look beautiful on the outside, but Lord knows that girl is bitter, lonely, and sad.” She held my hands.

  “How would you know? You haven’t made any attempt to meet her.” I replied, resentfully. She was doing it again. Trying to control my life, my friends. Me.

  “Beth, since you’ve become friends with her, I’ve noticed a change in you. You’re edgy and nervous all the time.”

  “I am not, Mom!” I scoffed, twisting my fingers around the hem of my tee shirt.

  “There you go, raising your voice to me! All I know is that she is lucky to have you as a friend. Maybe one day she’ll realize that. You, on the other hand, are very fortunate to have me as your mother. Remember that. You just seem . . . different.” She said staring firmly at me. I thought about my mother’s words.Different? I’ve always been different.

  “You’re right. I am lucky. I don’t need any of that stuff, but it would be nice not to see you stress over money anymore,” I muttered. I was ashamed at how shallow I sounded, knowing Mom did her absolute best to provide for us.

  “Elizabeth, are you happy with your life?” Mom asked.

  I paused for a moment, thinking about the hauntings, the voices, the images and Michael. If happiness meant I had to accept the cards I was dealt and having Michael in my life, then yes. I was happy.

  “Yep, I am.” I smiled, satisfied with my life. For now.

  “What time is dinner? I’d like to go take a shower. I’m sweaty,” I said.

  “Sweaty? In the middle of winter?” She asked bewildered. “It must be 15 degrees out today.”

  “Not in Sam’s house! It’s an inferno! Literally.”

  “Then go shower. Ham and sweet potatoes will be ready in about an hour,” she replied, humming again to songs of the season.

  “OK!” I shouted, darting up to my bedroom.

  “Oh by the way. . .” Mom yelled up the stairs, “A boy named Michael stopped by to wish you a Merry Christmas. He is very charming. How come you never mentioned him before?”

  My heart skipped a beat. I spun around my room in a tizzy, as if I’d lost a precious gem. A flood of emotions filled my head; thrill, elation, fear, excitement, anxiety, and confusion all at once. Stopped by? How does he know where I live? I thought to myself. Then I had an idea.

  I picked up the phone with trembling fingers and dialed 5...8...5...4...3...6...2...2...1. I couldn’t remember the last digit, pressing a number I imagined it would be.

  “Talk to me!” Freddie answered in his usual buoyant voice.

  “Freddie, by any chance, did you speak to Michael recently?” I pressed him to answer.

  “Hello to you too, doll face!” Freddie raised his voice. “And, yes, I did speak with him. He was asking about you last night at the Tree Lighting Ceremony. Why didn't you show up? Did the evil princess lock you in her dungeon?”

  “No, bonehead, Sam and I just got caught up in things.” I replied feeling guilty about missing the ceremony.

  “Oh! That’s why you wouldn’t answer any of my calls, and here I was thinking you’d never survive Sam’s wrath and B.T.W, I think we’re going to have to address the name calling thing.”

  “Freddie!” I howled.

  “Chill, Beth! When you didn’t show, Michael asked for your address. I gave it to him, thinking it was what you wanted. Don’t tell me you’re upset that I did that?”

  “Upset? Oh my goodness, Freddie! I can’t believe I missed the ceremony, and I wasn’t home when he came by! I never sleep out and the one night that I did . . . Argh!” I growled. My fingers dug into the phone.

  “Bethy, he’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. You have half a year left at Houghton with him. I’m sure he’ll be ringing your doorbell more often, now that he knows where you live. He seems interested in you.”

  “Thanks, Freddie. You’re the best! I mean it! See you at mass tonight,” I said excitedly.

  “Well, well, well, no harsh words like jerk, moron, or idiot this time?”

  “Yeah, about that, sorry, Freddie.”

  “Hey, Beth?”

  “Yeah, Freddie.”

  “You really like this guy?” he asked, his voice melancholy. I couldn’t find the right words to respond.

  I wanted to be completely honest with Freddie. I had lied to him about the voices and it was important for me to tell him the truth about my feelings for Michael. Freddie meant so much to me that I didn’t want his feelings hurt. Confused about my affection for him and now Michael, I responded simply by wishing him a Merry Christmas. I hung up the phone, holding back a scream. I felt exhilarated. I sat on my window seat, watching the snowflakes chase each other playfully on the frozen earth as the wind picked up speed, smiling moronically to myself.

  I wondered for the rest of the afternoon if Michael would return and ring my doorbell again, any time soon. I needed to find out.

  “Mom!” I nearly missed a step racing down the stairs.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asked in a panic, at the sound of me stumbling down steps.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sorry, missed last couple of steps,” I said, trying to cover my excitement and catching my breath.

  “Did he . . . did Michael say if he was coming back?” I waited impatiently for her to respond. My hands twisted vigorously at my tee-shirt.

  “Not that I recall. He only asked me to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  Disappointed, I turned away but something caught my eye and my interest. Mom followed my astonished gaze. “Oh, I almost forgot. Michael brought those for me. Aren’t they beautiful? How did he know I adore gardenias? And where in the world did he find gardenias in the middle of winter?” she said, walking over to the delicate flowers and caressing them like she would a child’s face. Slowly, I moved toward the windowsill. I leaned in to smell their heavenly aroma.

  Several hours later, after filling myself with our traditional Christmas meal of cornbread and cranberries, honey-drizzled sweet potatoes, fresh green beans with crispy bacon, challah bread, and Mom’s famous honey-baked ham, I napped on the couch. Mom woke me up with a light shove. “Beth, it’s almost time for mass.”

  I sat up on the sofa. “Is it that time already? I’ll get my coat.”

  Mom drove to East Caneadea Church. The church began to fill for the celebration. We greeted the dedicated churchgoers and smiled at the occasional visitors as we entered the church and took our seats in a center aisle pew. I stretched my neck for signs of Freddie. The bells sounded. We stood in unison for the opening procession. The clergy made their entrance into the church, while the chorus delivered the most beautiful rendition of “Mary Did You Know.” Father Ed was the celebrant pastor for the midnight mass. Freddie made his way into the chapel and stood next to me in time for the opening prayer. I smiled at him. He winked back. Mom held my hand through the first liturgy. Father Ed invited me to play the first hymn, “While Shepherds Watched.” Each year at Christmas Mass, I played a musical piece, which usually brought the parishioners to tears. But this year, it was I who was choked up by the beautiful sounds that echoed from the organ pipes as I pressed the smooth keys. Once I returned back to my seat, my eyes focused on the crucifix suspended above the polished marble altar. During the Blessing of the Gifts, an instrumental version of “Go Tell It on The Mountain” filled the room with melodic echoes.

  For some time, I wondered about the voices, my life and my new friends. I wondered about the schizophrenia and if Michael and Sam would understand and accept it if it were true. Or would they turn me away. I gripped my mom’s hand, tightening my grasp, letting her know how much she meant to me. She looked at me, her eyes showing her age, but masking her sadness. I knew she was thinking about my father, and so was I, as I felt a single tear trickled down my cheek. Without looking directly at me, Freddie had to have known what was troubling me. He, too, clasped my free hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Freely, I s
lipped my fingers through his. Holding his hand felt natural, comforting.

  “Bow your heads. Let us pray.” Father Ed’s voice echoed through the church. I bowed my head and prayed silently:

  Dear Lord,

  I am sorry if I’ve offended you in any way. All I ask is that you heal me from the voices inside my head. Deliver me from these evils.

  Tears flowed effortlessly down my cheeks before I realized that communion was already being offered. As thoughts of my disease consumed my mind, I shook my head from side to side, “It’s just not right,” I whispered. “I can’t be losing my mind,” I mumbled, while the tears poured over my lips.It’s not what my grandmother believed. I whimpered silently.

  Freddie, wrapped his arm around my stooped shoulders. “Stop beating yourself, Beth.” He whispered softly kissing my head.

  Mom prayed silently. Her eyes closed, as her fingers wrapped tightly around the rosary. I wiped my face and through saturated eyes looked at the crucifix again, this time with indifference. I felt betrayed, angry, and discarded. Bitterness packed my mind as I raked at the one person, the one God, who was to be my protector, my guardian against all things evil. All a disillusion.How can I TRUST him!My voice screamed in my mind. Placing my throbbing head between my hands, I tried to come up with reasons why we believed that God was good. I just wasn’t convinced.Was it possible that although Grandma Anne believed she had a gift, in reality she suffered with schizophrenia, too? Was my grandmother misled her entire life to believe she had the gift from God? Would that explain my father’s obsessions with foreign tongues, scriptures and symbols? And I, their descendant, did I carry the same gene. Am I crazy, as well?These thoughts pounded in my head, spinning in every direction. I could no longer bear the pain. I kept my eyes shut until mass ended. I knew from Freddie’s muffled voice and whispered conversation that he was talking about me to someone at the congregation. Someone other than Freddie or Mom took a seat beside me. A hand gently caressed my hair and continued to stroke it down to the small of my back. I recognized his scent immediately.