Ireland, but my father seemed to have become American the minute his feet hit Massachusetts soil. He was tall and he stood up straight. He always wore a three-piece suit, rarely drank, and had a firm handshake. He was a successful man who managed four-star hotels in major cities. He had met Franklin Delano Roosevelt and played golf with Babe Ruth. He was a wonderful father.
My mother, on the other hand, had only seemed to grow more Irish, and more eccentric, with each year in the States. Her brogue became so strong that only our family could understand her. During thunderstorms, she hid in the coat closet and prayed at the top of her lungs. She carried a rosary in every pocket; most days she had two or three on her at a time. She would nervously touch the front pocket of her dress, and then her handbag, and then her closed right palm, checking on, reaching for, the ever-present beads. Seated at the breakfast table in our hotel suite, she would often address the empty chair by the window as if it were filled by whomever she was missing most from Ireland just then. Her mother, or her sister Nancy, or her girlhood friend Diandra. “Look, girls,” she would say, “see the smile your aunt Nancy has on her face? She always did love my tea best. Say good morning to her, girls. Mind your manners, won’t you.”
My father would play along. If he’d just walked into the room, he would act pleased to have the chance to chat with Nancy. He behaved as though my mother had done him a favor by delivering her to our hotel suite. “How’s the weather in old potato land?” he would say to the empty chair by the window. “Can’t say that I miss the gray skies, but I do miss your lovely face, Nancy lass. And I can’t tell you how much Lorna longs for your company.”
I knew my father did not really believe that my aunt was sitting there under the ray of sunlight, the way my mother did. And as much as I loved him, I could never understand why he pretended to share her delusions. Why did he appear to love my mother more for providing him with her silly games and fantasies? Why did he encourage her? It made no sense. When my mother insisted that I address Aunt Nancy, or Diandra, or some other person I had never even laid eyes on, much less spoken to, all I could do was smile stiffly at the empty chair. I was never rude, but I refused to play along.
On my thirteenth birthday, when my father had taken me out alone for an ice cream, I asked him why he didn’t lay down the law with Mother and tell her she was acting crazy.
“You’re not doing her any favors, Papa.” I sat up straight on the counter stool, so pleased that I was finally an adult, and could finally have this discussion with my father. We could speak openly, as one grown-up who had put up with my mother for many years to another. “She thinks it’s acceptable to act the way she does because you don’t tell her otherwise. If you told her to stop it, she would. Then we could be a normal family. We could talk about normal things. We wouldn’t be forced to offer tea and dinner rolls to her, to her”—I struggled for the right word—“her ghosts.”
My father put his elbows on the counter, then folded his hands under his chin. His movements were measured and calm. “Another root beer when you have a moment please, ma’am,” he said to the waitress. “Catharine, your mother simply brings more life to the room. She is not crazy. She’s Irish in a way you and I are not. You must treat her with respect.”
I gasped. I was never reprimanded. I never did anything wrong. I couldn’t bear for him to think I did. “I love Mother,” I said. “I do respect her.”
But the second part was a lie, and I never got over feeling badly about that. I tried to make up for the lack of respect by loving her even more. I concentrated on how to love her better. I showed her my love every day by running errands, by buying a single yellow daisy to sit in a cup on the windowsill. I gave orders to and fielded complaints from the hotel maids, because