kept yelling at me to be careful, and I was crying so hard I could hardly see. Then he got really quiet and I looked over and he had passed out. For a minute I thought he was dead.
The funny thing is, that is exactly what I had been hoping for, but in that instant, I forgot all about it. I was in the middle of practicing parallel parking in front of Cardinal Ruffini High School and a couple of guys were just coming out. I started yelling, “Help, help!” to them and they came running. They checked Father. He had a pulse. One of them ran back inside to call an ambulance while the other two stayed with us.
I don’t remember if anyone said anything while we waited for the ambulance to show up—it didn’t take very long. All I could think was that God had heard my prayer and Father was going to die, and if that happened, would it be my fault? Would I burn in hell for eternity?
The paramedics put Father on a stretcher and told me to go get my mother and meet them at the hospital. They rushed away with the sirens going and they didn’t even hear me telling them that I don’t have a driver’s license.
The Cardinal Ruffini guys heard me, though. They said they would drive me home.
They were all wearing basketball jackets, so I know they’re on the team. One of them was really good-looking. I see him sometimes at church but I don’t know his name. He sat in the backseat with me and I couldn’t stop staring at him.
Eric, the one who got behind the wheel, was a terrible driver. Twice, he drove up over the curb. The first time, he scraped the side of the car in some bushes and the next time, we were inches away from slamming into a tree. That’s how I found out his name—the cute one yelled, “Eric, you almost just got us all killed!”
I didn’t find out until we were almost back to my house that Eric didn’t even have his permit. None of them do. By that time it was too late so I just thanked them and they walked off down the street. I hope I see him again soon. The cute one, I mean. Maybe I’ll dream about him when I close my eyes. I hope so.
For the first time I can ever remember, I don’t dread climbing into bed tonight. Father is staying in the hospital at least through the weekend. He had a heart attack.
Do you think God answered my prayers and punished Father because he’s evil? Do you think He’ll listen if I ask Him to make it so that Father never comes home again?
Chapter 6
O n a monochromatic Monday afternoon, Jen turns the car onto a wide boulevard near Delaware Park, where large houses are set against a sky the same shade as the dirty slush in the gutters. Absently noticing that the wet March snow is already starting to stick, she turns the windshield wipers a notch faster. According to AccuWeather, the temperature will have plummeted into the twenties by dusk, with well over a foot of new snow in the forecast before the thermometer boomerangs up into the sixties by midweek.
The storm started earlier than predicted, though. The meteorologists had said it would begin snowing late this afternoon, but already a coating of white dusts the rooftops, bare branches, and grass on meticulously landscaped properties.
If it weren’t for the unobtrusive wooden signpost and awnings that shade the tall windows and stretch along the front walk, the three-story white house in the middle of the block would look like any other. But it isn’t like them at all.
People live in those other homes. Some of the aging residents have been there since Jen was growing up on a nearby block lined with equally old, albeit far smaller and less dignified houses set much closer together than they are here.
But in her lifetime, no one has ever actually lived in the stately black-shuttered mansion with the signpost and the awnings. It’s been used for one purpose only, as evidenced by the signpost:
“CICERO AND SON FUNERAL HOME.”
Back in the old days, the sign read just “CICERO FUNERAL HOME.” But then Glenn Cicero
The funny thing is, that is exactly what I had been hoping for, but in that instant, I forgot all about it. I was in the middle of practicing parallel parking in front of Cardinal Ruffini High School and a couple of guys were just coming out. I started yelling, “Help, help!” to them and they came running. They checked Father. He had a pulse. One of them ran back inside to call an ambulance while the other two stayed with us.
I don’t remember if anyone said anything while we waited for the ambulance to show up—it didn’t take very long. All I could think was that God had heard my prayer and Father was going to die, and if that happened, would it be my fault? Would I burn in hell for eternity?
The paramedics put Father on a stretcher and told me to go get my mother and meet them at the hospital. They rushed away with the sirens going and they didn’t even hear me telling them that I don’t have a driver’s license.
The Cardinal Ruffini guys heard me, though. They said they would drive me home.
They were all wearing basketball jackets, so I know they’re on the team. One of them was really good-looking. I see him sometimes at church but I don’t know his name. He sat in the backseat with me and I couldn’t stop staring at him.
Eric, the one who got behind the wheel, was a terrible driver. Twice, he drove up over the curb. The first time, he scraped the side of the car in some bushes and the next time, we were inches away from slamming into a tree. That’s how I found out his name—the cute one yelled, “Eric, you almost just got us all killed!”
I didn’t find out until we were almost back to my house that Eric didn’t even have his permit. None of them do. By that time it was too late so I just thanked them and they walked off down the street. I hope I see him again soon. The cute one, I mean. Maybe I’ll dream about him when I close my eyes. I hope so.
For the first time I can ever remember, I don’t dread climbing into bed tonight. Father is staying in the hospital at least through the weekend. He had a heart attack.
Do you think God answered my prayers and punished Father because he’s evil? Do you think He’ll listen if I ask Him to make it so that Father never comes home again?
Chapter 6
O n a monochromatic Monday afternoon, Jen turns the car onto a wide boulevard near Delaware Park, where large houses are set against a sky the same shade as the dirty slush in the gutters. Absently noticing that the wet March snow is already starting to stick, she turns the windshield wipers a notch faster. According to AccuWeather, the temperature will have plummeted into the twenties by dusk, with well over a foot of new snow in the forecast before the thermometer boomerangs up into the sixties by midweek.
The storm started earlier than predicted, though. The meteorologists had said it would begin snowing late this afternoon, but already a coating of white dusts the rooftops, bare branches, and grass on meticulously landscaped properties.
If it weren’t for the unobtrusive wooden signpost and awnings that shade the tall windows and stretch along the front walk, the three-story white house in the middle of the block would look like any other. But it isn’t like them at all.
People live in those other homes. Some of the aging residents have been there since Jen was growing up on a nearby block lined with equally old, albeit far smaller and less dignified houses set much closer together than they are here.
But in her lifetime, no one has ever actually lived in the stately black-shuttered mansion with the signpost and the awnings. It’s been used for one purpose only, as evidenced by the signpost:
“CICERO AND SON FUNERAL HOME.”
Back in the old days, the sign read just “CICERO FUNERAL HOME.” But then Glenn Cicero
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