Free How I Saved My Father's Life (and Ruined Everything Else) by Ann Hood Page A

hint.”
    â€œNot everything fits under a magazine headline,” I told her. “You can’t buy a personality at Tar-jay.” Then I said, “I bet Daddy would understand.”
    â€œYour father,” my mother said, shaking her head, “has ruined everything for everybody.”
    I started to go to church every Sunday. My mother thought I was just getting some fresh air, something she put far too much value in. My research revealed that even though I hated to admit it, she had been right about something: Saints were all Catholic. So Catholic that they died defending the religion. These were called martyrs. I liked the idea of martyrdom, but I didn’t want to die. So I started giving uplittle things: Twizzlers, for one. Sleeping late on Sundays, for another. Instead of staying in my bed, piled up with blankets the way I liked, I got up and put on a nice skirt, and went to church.
    One day in spring, with everything draped in purple for Lent and somber white lilies up on the altar, I found myself sitting next to Antoinetta Calabro. The first thing I noticed about her was that she was alone, too, like me. Most kids our age were squeezed into pews with their parents and little sisters and brothers. The next thing I noticed was how different she looked from anyone else I knew.
    Antoinetta had long dark hair that fell in about a million curls all around her head. Her nose had a bump on the bridge, smack in the middle, and her eyebrows were dark and heavy. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Much more beautiful than the pale blond Sophie from next door, or Eliza Harrison with her short bob and perky smile. Antoinetta had an air of tragedy around her, like she had already suffered a great deal. Like she was a martyr.
    During the Lamb of God part, Antoinetta finally noticed me looking at her and she frowned. Another good thing:She took church seriously. I watched her solemnly walk up to get her communion. If only I were Catholic, I could go up there, too, walking as slow and steady as this girl, head bowed, my mind preparing to receive the body of Christ.
    When the mass ended, Antoinetta slid out of the pew so quickly that I had to run to catch her.
    â€œHey!” I said at the front. “I’m Madeline. Do you want to go get a hot chocolate or something?”
    â€œI’m Antoinetta Calabro,” she said, shaking her head. “My father’s out in the car waiting. He doesn’t come in anymore.”
    â€œHe just sits in the car?”
    â€œEver since my mother died he says he doesn’t believe in church anymore. After he went to San Giovanni Rotundo and made an offering for her to get better and she died, anyway, he says he doesn’t believe in anything anymore.” She sighed. “He will, though. He just needs time. That’s what faith is, right?”
    She started to walk out again but I grabbed the sleeve of her beautifully ugly purple coat and stopped her.
    â€œPlease,” I said. “Maybe I could come home with you or something. I need to talk to you.”
    â€œTo me?” She looked completely surprised, as if no one ever needed to talk to her. I wasn’t letting go, so she shrugged. “Okay,” she said.
    Out in front in a big Oldsmobile, Antoinetta’s father was waiting. He had a droopy, sad face, a dead wife, a car that smelled of stale smoke, and a Christmas-tree air freshener. I thought this must be exactly what heaven was like.
    I closed the back door firmly and settled in the backseat alone, so happy I practically started humming the Ave Maria, my all-time favorite hymn. Also the only one I knew. When I glanced up, he was staring at me in the rearview mirror, puzzled.
    â€œI’m Madeline Vandermeer,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
    â€œWhat are you? Dutch?” he said. His voice was gruff and gravelly.
    â€œA little,” I said. That was one of the oddest questions I’d ever been asked.