The Secret Life of a Funny Girl by Susan Chalker Browne Read Free Book Online

Billy and Bobby are some excited today,” I say, just for badness, eyeing Gran from my spot by the stove.
    â€œOh, don’t talk to me about the two of them!” She jabs fiercely at the potatoes. “Their problem is they don’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ It’s beyond me how Kay could run an entire school in St. Brendan’s but not be able to teach two small boys how to behave. Well, they better not ruin my Christmas Day!” She finishes this point with a sharp rap of the masher and a clump of fluffy potato falls back into the pot.
    I grin, and hide my face. This is a running theme in our family. According to Aunt Kay, Gran doesn’t understand a thing about boys because she never had any of her own. But I’m not totally sure about this. Billy and Bobby don’t seem like normal boys to me, always shouting and racing and breaking stuff. I know Mom nearly gets weak any time they come through the door. So I’m siding with Gran on this one. But maybe I’m wrong. I don’t have any brothers myself, so how do I know what’s normal?
    â€œIt looks like my kitchen has been completely taken over!” Mom suddenly appears in the doorway, all done up like a stick of gum. I turn around and smile at her. She’s wearing a snow white blouse, a red fitted skirt, and a pale green scarf knotted at the neck. All Christmas colours, of course—my family is big on this. Mom’s short dark hair is fringed around her face in a pixie-style, and her eyes look huge and wistful. She just seems so tiny and fragile standing there, you’d think the least little force would crush her. Sometimes I feel like an elephant next to her, and there’s nothing enormous about me.
    â€œCecelia, you’re supposed to be resting!” Gran’s grey eyebrows knit together in a straight line, the potato masher held over the pot like a weapon.
    â€œHow can I stay in my bedroom when all the fun is going on in here?” says Mom, moving toward me. “Here, honey, let me do that.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Mom. I actually sort of like doing this.”
    â€œAll right, then. How about I check the dining room table, make sure it’s all set for dinner.” Then she stops and looks at Gran, waiting.
    Why does this always happen? Why does Mom always wait for someone else to tell her what to do?
    â€œHow about you get back in that bedroom and finish up your rest?”
    Mom smiles gently. “Look, I’m all dressed now and everyone’s going to be here soon. It’s Christmas Day, for heaven’s sake; who wants to lie around in bed?”
    Score one for Mom!
    â€œHmmph!” Gran snorts and heads toward the stove for the pot of turnip. “Well, go ahead and check the table. I don’t think the knives and forks are out yet.”
    Mom winks quickly at me and slips into the dining room. Meanwhile, Gran is at the sink, pouring water off the turnip, turning her face away from the huge clouds of steam.
    â€œYour mother’s going to kill herself,” she says, more to the clock on the wall than to me. “She doesn’t know when to stop. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself.”
    I’m staring at Gran, her thick jelly arms stiff as two pokers, holding the heavy pot. Her pudgy face is fire-engine red and beads of sweat are bubbling out on her forehead. Gran’s the one going to collapse, it hits me. She’s the one who needs to take care of herself.
    Just then the doorbell ding-dongs through the house.
    â€œHoly Mother of God, they’re early!” Gran pushes back a limp strand of hair. “Well, they’ll all just have to wait, now, won’t they? Because there’ll be no dinner in this house until I’m good and ready to dish it out!”

    * * * * *

    At the head of the table, Dad stands tall with the carving knife, cutting into the turkey breast. Slices as thin as paper curl away. He