back too. Uncle Joe left to pick up Mom from the hospital. Even though they got back in time to eat dinner with us, Mom went straight up to the guest bedroom and went to sleep without seeing us. I wondered if she was mad about what I’d said at the hospital, about that not being Dad. Uncle Joe said she didn’t feel well, and we should try to keep it down.
I had been in Mom’s room earlier that day, and it was very messy—clothes that she had borrowed from Aunt Kate were all over the place, and an old bra was hanging over the back of the chair. By the bed was a beautiful crystal vase with one perfect red rose in it. The rose was a few days old now; Uncle Joe had bought it for her over the weekend. The tips of the petals were turning a little bit brown, but they were still velvety soft.
That night, Aunt Kate made something for dinner that smelled horrible. “You like meatballs in spaghetti, right?” she said to me. “This is just like a meatball, a big meatball,” she explained, putting some on my plate. It was meat and some kind of a red sauce. The meat had all kinds of things in it, like ground up leaves or something. Everyone else was eating it, but even the smell made me feel sick.
“Oh, Cylin, you’re skin and bones. Eat something,” Aunt Kate finally said.
I looked over at Eric and Shawn and saw them happily eating the meat and pasta on their plates. I put my fork down and sat quietly, trying not to breathe through my nose. “How about a bowl of cereal?” Uncle Joe asked, and I nodded. As he got up to fix my cereal, Lauren said, “That’s not fair! Why does she get to eat Cocoa Puffs?”
“She had to see her dad in the hospital today. Leave her alone!” Uncle Joe snapped. But I didn’t want cereal because of Dad—I wasn’t even thinking about him. I just hated my aunt’s cooking. Still, it made me feel special that I was getting my way without even trying.
After dinner, I helped Aunt Kate clean up and load the dishwasher, just like I always did at home. I liked cleaning up; I got some satisfaction from scraping the leftovers into the garbage, where they belonged. I was glad the battle over this meal was done. When I was finished helping my aunt, I went into the TV room where Lauren and Cassie were watching TV with mybrothers. “Your mother has had a nervous breakdown,” I heard Lauren tell Shawn.
“I know,” Shawn said. He looked very serious. We had a priest at our church back on the Cape named Father Mark. He was my favorite—he was everyone’s favorite. When he first came to Saint Patrick’s, it was like he woke the place up. Sunday was no longer boring. He would ask the kids to all come and sit up front during Mass. He really talked to us about God and Jesus and religion and made it seem like it was actually something to care about. He had a nice face, but he wasn’t so handsome that you were scared of him—brown eyes, dark hair, a trimmed dark beard. And sometimes, when it wasn’t Sunday, we would see him in town wearing jeans with his shirt and collar. This was totally unheard of for the other priests at our church. Dad liked Father Mark too, and he especially liked that we now had doughnuts and coffee after church in the basement—Father Mark’s idea of “building community.”
We all came to count on Father Mark for a lot. Then one day, he just wasn’t there. Everyone in the congregation was whispering about him. “Where’s Father Mark?” I asked Dad.
“He’s sick,” Dad said. But when we got home, he told Mom a different story. Father Mark had had a “nervous breakdown,” and according to some folks in the church, it wasn’t the first time. There was something wrong with him, and he had to go away to get better. I asked about him every Sunday for a few weeks after that. The old priest who took his place was crusty and dull, andhe quickly did away with the coffee and doughnuts, saying that it was too expensive. After a while, we just stopped going to
I had been in Mom’s room earlier that day, and it was very messy—clothes that she had borrowed from Aunt Kate were all over the place, and an old bra was hanging over the back of the chair. By the bed was a beautiful crystal vase with one perfect red rose in it. The rose was a few days old now; Uncle Joe had bought it for her over the weekend. The tips of the petals were turning a little bit brown, but they were still velvety soft.
That night, Aunt Kate made something for dinner that smelled horrible. “You like meatballs in spaghetti, right?” she said to me. “This is just like a meatball, a big meatball,” she explained, putting some on my plate. It was meat and some kind of a red sauce. The meat had all kinds of things in it, like ground up leaves or something. Everyone else was eating it, but even the smell made me feel sick.
“Oh, Cylin, you’re skin and bones. Eat something,” Aunt Kate finally said.
I looked over at Eric and Shawn and saw them happily eating the meat and pasta on their plates. I put my fork down and sat quietly, trying not to breathe through my nose. “How about a bowl of cereal?” Uncle Joe asked, and I nodded. As he got up to fix my cereal, Lauren said, “That’s not fair! Why does she get to eat Cocoa Puffs?”
“She had to see her dad in the hospital today. Leave her alone!” Uncle Joe snapped. But I didn’t want cereal because of Dad—I wasn’t even thinking about him. I just hated my aunt’s cooking. Still, it made me feel special that I was getting my way without even trying.
After dinner, I helped Aunt Kate clean up and load the dishwasher, just like I always did at home. I liked cleaning up; I got some satisfaction from scraping the leftovers into the garbage, where they belonged. I was glad the battle over this meal was done. When I was finished helping my aunt, I went into the TV room where Lauren and Cassie were watching TV with mybrothers. “Your mother has had a nervous breakdown,” I heard Lauren tell Shawn.
“I know,” Shawn said. He looked very serious. We had a priest at our church back on the Cape named Father Mark. He was my favorite—he was everyone’s favorite. When he first came to Saint Patrick’s, it was like he woke the place up. Sunday was no longer boring. He would ask the kids to all come and sit up front during Mass. He really talked to us about God and Jesus and religion and made it seem like it was actually something to care about. He had a nice face, but he wasn’t so handsome that you were scared of him—brown eyes, dark hair, a trimmed dark beard. And sometimes, when it wasn’t Sunday, we would see him in town wearing jeans with his shirt and collar. This was totally unheard of for the other priests at our church. Dad liked Father Mark too, and he especially liked that we now had doughnuts and coffee after church in the basement—Father Mark’s idea of “building community.”
We all came to count on Father Mark for a lot. Then one day, he just wasn’t there. Everyone in the congregation was whispering about him. “Where’s Father Mark?” I asked Dad.
“He’s sick,” Dad said. But when we got home, he told Mom a different story. Father Mark had had a “nervous breakdown,” and according to some folks in the church, it wasn’t the first time. There was something wrong with him, and he had to go away to get better. I asked about him every Sunday for a few weeks after that. The old priest who took his place was crusty and dull, andhe quickly did away with the coffee and doughnuts, saying that it was too expensive. After a while, we just stopped going to
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