They must have gotten her to eat something. She’d returned to her normal self.
“I ran into Luca outside,” I said, deciding not to lie.
“Why was he there?” Dad asked, holding out a plate of meatloaf for me.
I took the plate. How could I even begin to explain the truth? “I’m not sure. He’s kind of weird.”
“Let’s say grace,” Dad said, passing behind me as we joined the rest of the family at the table.
We all bowed our heads and recited, “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
Dad crossed himself and placed his napkin on his lap. “I agree he’s weird, but what about his behavior tonight makes you say that?” he asked.
“Because he’s totally weird,” I said, feeling sick at the thought of dead people in my yard. It was gross.
“That’s not a very good explanation,” Lisieux said.
“I’ve always liked Luca,” Avi added. “He’s quiet but nice, and I like him.”
“I definitely like him better than Thomas,” Lisieux added.
“One has nothing to do with the other,” Dad said.
I focused on my food, hoping they’d forget I hadn’t actually answered Dad’s question. How could I explain it? I could never tell them that Luca stands outside our house every night, watching for his dead mother.
“What did he do?” Gigi asked, her eyes unwavering.
I swallowed. “He said something weird, that’s all,” I said, trying to calm my feelings. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. It wasn’t his fault he was messed up.
“What did he say?” Gigi asked, putting her napkin on her lap. She wasn’t going to let this go.
I slowly chewed and swallowed to give me time to think. “He talked about how his mom wasn’t good,” I said.
Dad coughed. “That’s not a kind thing to say.”
“Sometimes,” Gigi said, “the truth and kindness are not always perceived to be the same. Samantha told me the same thing about her sister. She said she was very gifted in many ways, but chose not to use those gifts in the best ways.”
Dad set his fork on his plate. “That isn’t Luca’s fault,” he said. “Knowing that makes me want to be more patient with him. His grief must be so complicated.”
“What do you mean?” Avi asked.
“Think of how much you miss Mom,” he said to her. “And there is nothing complicated about your feelings for her. You love her, you miss her, we all do ….” His voice trailed off for a moment. “Now imagine what it would be like to love and miss her, and also be angry or hurt by her or the memories of her. It makes grief—which is already really hard—that much more difficult.”
“You’re right,” I said too enthusiastically, and everyone stared at me.
I put another forkful of food in my mouth, now understanding it was this complicated grief that drove his mind to make up the dead people. I felt sorry for him, but no longer angry or afraid.
“You seem awfully happy about that,” Lisieux said as they all focused on me.
“I’m not happy about his grief,” I said. “I’m happy he has a reason to be a little …”—I hesitated—“off.”
“Of course,” Dad added thoughtfully, “we didn’t know him before. His behavior tonight might have nothing to do with grief. He may have always been odd and still is.”
“That’s rude,” Avi said, defending Luca.
“No, Avila, it’s the truth,” Dad countered. “It would be unwise for your sister to dismiss his behavior as simply due to grief, when none of us knew him before his grief began.”
“Sam knew him,” Avi said.
“Not well,” Gigi said, placing her fork on her plate. “And she never spoke to me about him.”
“Luca said Sam lived with him and his mom until she moved up here,” I said.
“Really?” Gigi said, “I had no idea.”
“I thought you two are friends,” Lisieux said.
“There are some hurts too painful to discuss, even with your dearest friends,” Gigi said with great sadness.
There was silence for many minutes, until Dad spoke. “I think it would be nice if we all said some special prayers for Luca and his mom tonight.”
“Yes,” Gigi said, with a nod. “That would be nice.”
After several more minutes of silence, Avi brought up the fun of yesterday’s festival, of the friends she got to play with, and the crafts they helped the little kids make. Dad spoke of the great number of people who came and how he was sure all the vendors did well. Helping small family businesses was one of the things we were all proudest of.
After dinner I went with Gigi, Avi, and my dad into his office.
“Are you joining us?” Dad asked, pleased at my presence. It wasn’t that I never joined them, just not most nights.
“I feel like praying,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t make a big deal about it. And hoping I wasn’t lying about feeling like praying. I did want to pray, but more than that, I didn’t want to be alone.
“That’s wonderful,” he said.
Nothing made him happier than when we all joined him for prayers, like we used to do when we were younger.
I sat beside Gigi, on one of the leather couches, a children’s Bible on the coffee table in front of us. Avi handed it to Dad to read. He began the story about Jesus walking through the stone tombs where there was a man who was raving like a lunatic. Jesus took pity on him and drove demons from him. The demons then entered a herd of pigs. The demons killed the pigs by making them jump from a cliff, into the sea. All of them drowned.
“That’s a happy story,” Lisieux said sarcastically as she came and sat on the other side of Gigi. She wiped at her pants, her hands still damp from doing the dishes, and picked up her rosary.
“It is happy for the man who was possessed,” Gigi said.
“It’s strange how they thought mental illness was possession,” I said, thinking of how misunderstood things were in the times of Jesus.
“I don’t think Jesus made mistakes,” Gigi said. “The man he healed was not psychotic, he was possessed. There’s a difference. Even today, we understand that.”
“Possessions aren’t real,” Lisieux said dismissively, glancing at Dad for backup.
Dad picked up his rosary and the little book that went along with it. “Possessions are real,” he said matter-of-factly. “My Rosary intentions are for Luca and the healing of the hurt he feels towards his mother.”
Gigi said, “Mine are for his mother, that she may be at peace with our heavenly father.”
“Any others?” Dad asked, scanning our faces.
“For Mom,” Avi said softly. This was her intention every night.
“Yes, for Mom,” Dad said as Avi snuggled into him.
In truth, the Rosary was always for Mom. My parents had prayed this prayer together every day before she died, something he had supported and she had insisted on. My father continued it now out of his love for her. Like my knitting—this was his way of being close to her.