“Okay, I’ll go with you.”
She kissed me and called me an idiot. Then she left with a tray of desserts after saying goodbye to my mom. Paul’s mom watched her leave with a raised eyebrow. She pronounced the word “Filipino” weird, slowly, making sure that every syllable hit her shriveled tongue as the word slid out of her mouth. I tried to ignore her.
Everyone loved my desserts. And everyone squealed with glee when Paul showed up “unexpectedly” with roses, which my mom graciously accepted and put into the vase that was waiting to receive them. It had been Mauve’s idea, and my mom didn’t argue, even though she hates flowers.
When everyone else left, Paul’s mom started talking. “Well, that was a lovely turnout. We didn’t have quite so many contraptions for our children when Paulie was growing up.”
My mom murmured her agreement and only cringed a little when she heard her call him “Paulie.” She thinks it’s obnoxious when grown men still sport their cutesy baby names.
“You know,” Paul’s mom said in that annoying, whiny voice she adopts whenever she’s about to make a point, “it’s really time you start talking about living arrangements for when the baby comes.” My mom and Paul were both trying to figure out how to set up the baby swing they’d just gotten, and it looked like they didn’t really process what she was saying. “You can’t just pretend you don’t hear me.”
“No one is pretending that, Mother. We’re just waiting for you to make your point,” Paul said.
“Where is he going to live when the baby is born?” She looked directly at me when she said it, and I swear I heard my mom hiss.
That did it.
It might have been a pleasant, laughter-filled afternoon before that moment, but that was all over now.
“I sincerely hope you’re not talking about my son.”
My mom is nice. Mostly. But she can get scary real quick.
“No, of course she’s not,” said Paul. He glared at his mother, who did not flinch.
“Like hell, I’m not,” she said. “If you’re going to endanger the life of my grandchild—”
And from there it got pretty heated. Like, really heated. I didn’t even have time to get angry about her accusation, because my mom immediately came unglued and my unborn brother or sister was treated to some surprisingly salty language. I was a little proud. Paul had to remove his mother from our house before my mom killed her.
I sat at the kitchen table with Mom for a while without saying anything. She squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. But we were silent. I think she thought that if she tried to speak, she’d cry.
Paul came back home, and my mom went directly to their bedroom to lie down without saying a word, slamming the door behind her.
Paul sighed and grabbed a beer, and I asked him something I knew he was probably thinking about.
“Are you worried that your kid might turn out like me?”
“Like you? No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yours is not the influence I worry about. I think it’s safe to say that on her most normal day, my mother could out-crazy you.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and I think he knew that when the words left his mouth, but we both laughed anyway, grateful that my mom wasn’t there to ruin the moment by being offended. But somewhere in the back of my head, all I could think was, Challenge accepted.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Reducing dosage to discontinue.
MAY 8, 2013
I feel fine.
One of the many reprieves from our actual education is the annual visit from the Knights of Columbus. Maya says they visit all the Catholic schools in the state, and they’ve been coming to St. Agatha’s since she was little. There were three old men with papery skin and knobby knees from the local chapter standing together with their little navy-blue suits and lapel pins. As a Columbian Squire, Dwight had to stand at the front of the room with them, wearing his own navy-blue blazer and lapel pin. He looked mortified. Ian was standing next to him, along with a few other boys, but Ian didn’t look embarrassed. He just looked bored.
It’s hard to waste too much energy disliking these old guys, though. They do a lot of charity work and put a lot of money back into local businesses. They’re also mostly harmless old men who are just in a club because it was something their fathers wanted them to do, and they’re too ancient to cause trouble. And yet there’s something. Definitely a creep factor.
I remember their signs outside our grocery store. I remember the way my mom shook her head and pushed me toward the car before one of the Knights could offer us a button. There was something my mom didn’t like about them. I think it’s the way they protect family values, but only families that look like theirs. I think it’s also the way they like to quote Leviticus.
The oldest and frailest of the group opened his mouth to speak. For a second, I was sure that nothing but dust was going to trickle out, but he was feisty for an old guy. “We’re here today,” he said in a voice that sounded like every FDR recording I’ve ever heard, “to talk to you about becoming Columbian Squires. Or Squirettes, as the case may be.” He grinned at the girl in the front row, then proceeded to tell us about the history of the organization and the essay contest they sponsor every year.
Here’s my problem. I feel guilty about thinking bad things about old people no matter how much I don’t like them. It’s like I’m programmed to respect old age as a virtue all on its own with the exception of Paul’s evil mother. Respect your elders. When shouldn’t it be…respect everyone?
But the thing I forget when I look into their sad, pathetic, cataract-filled eyes is that being old does not make you a good person. Old age is not, in itself, an admirable quality. Sometimes it just means you haven’t had the sense to let anything kill you.
My mind might have already started to wander at this point. Rebecca sat straight up and reached for my hand. She always knew when something was going to happen before it did. A second later, two men walked through the door, and I understood her anxiety.
I’ve only seen them a handful of times. In fact, I’d nearly forgotten what they looked like. These two hardly ever show up when I’m alone, and they never do anything quietly. In fact, they kicked the door open so hard that it crashed against the opposite wall, knocking imaginary items off the shelves. And not to sound too philosophical, but I know why these hallucinations come around. They come around when I want to argue but can’t.
They’re both tall, older gentlemen in three-piece suits. One is thin and the other is fat. And they’re both British because I guess if my subconscious is going to win an argument it’s going to be with an English accent.
The thin man is called Rupert and the fat one is Basil. Their names popped into my head the same way they did. Quickly and without explanation.
“Right,” said Rupert, leaping onto Sister Catherine’s desk and kicking papers to the floor. “I can’t believe they do this in a school. They should actually be learning something, yeah? Something useful.”
“You’d think so,” said Basil, stuffing a muffin into his mouth. “But these gentlemen look like they’re half dead already. What a shame.”