But after our home had been raped, it was hard for me to believe and pretend happily like Mom—maybe because I have always been a skeptic, maybe because I am not as strong as she was, maybe because I am stupid, retarded, simple-minded, moronic.
The next day I felt very anxious, and so I went to Saint Gabriel’s and found Father McNamee in his office writing personalized birthday cards to every church member born in the upcoming months.
I asked him to promise that no one would ever break into our house again.
“You know your mother’s theory, right? The Good Luck of Right Now?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Do you believe it’s true?”
“I tried to pretend I did last night.”
“And?”
“It helped. I admit it. For a few hours. But I still worry that—”
“Pray.”
“For what?” I asked. “That our house will never be broken into again?”
“No. What happens to things is not important. Pray that your heart will be able to endure whatever happens to you in the future—your heart must continue to believe that the events in this world are not the be-all and end-all but simply transient unimportant variables. Beyond the everyday ins and outs of our lives, there is a greater purpose—a reason. Perhaps we don’t yet see or understand the reason—maybe our human minds are incapable of understanding fully—yet it all leads us to something greater nonetheless.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
He laughed in this good way, licked and sealed an envelope, and said, “Wasn’t it nice seeing our flock rise to the occasion last night? They had other things to do, you know. But when they heard what happened to you, their hearts instructed them, and they immediately sprang into action and simply helped.”
“So?” I said, wondering how that could protect me from future home invaders.
“You wanted to sleep in a urine-soaked bed last night, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, those people made sure you didn’t.”
“I’m not sure I understand how—”
“That’s also The Good Luck of Right Now. That’s also part of your mother’s philosophy.”
“I don’t get how it will protect us from future vandals,” I said to Father.
“You’re missing the point!” Father McNamee said, smiling and chuckling—like I was a young boy, like he was about to tousle my hair, even though I was a grown man.
“What is the point?”
“You’ll understand it one day, Bartholomew. Without my needing to explain it to you. You will understand. I promise.”
Richard Gere, I’m not sure I understand any better now than I did back then.
Even still, I’ve been wondering what good might have happened when Mom died to balance out the heavy bad of the hungry brain cancer squid ending her life. I’ve been trying to pretend that The Good Luck of Right Now produced something extremely beautiful when she passed, because Mom was full of love—enough to wipe out much, much bad. But I’m finding it hard to believe in her philosophy these days.
Father McNamee said nothing when I asked him about it on the beach the night after the funeral. And lately, given how manic he’s been acting, I’ve been too afraid to ask him again, or even say “The Good Luck of Right Now” to Father McNamee, because I get the sense that he’s having a hard time pretending himself, especially since he never brings up Mom’s philosophy anymore.
And yet, your being born during the same year that China became a threat to Tibet gives me hope, because maybe you were really conceived to equal out the bad the Chinese government would do to Tibet. It seems like proof. Too significant to be coincidental. Jung would agree here.
And if you were a response to China’s planning to invade Tibet, it helps me believe in Mom’s philosophy, which gives me hope for my own postmother future and life in general.
I found this Dalai Lama quote on the library Internet: “Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.” And it seems to agree with Mom’s mantra.
I also found this other Dalai Lama quote: “There is a saying in Tibetan, ‘Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.’ No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that’s our real disaster.”
What do you think?
Can we find some common ground here, Richard Gere?
Maybe our letter correspondence will be the good that comes of Mom’s death?
Maybe you will help me move on to the “next phase of my life,” like Wendy wanted me to do, when she was still around, before we figured out her secret?
Stranger things have happened, I suppose.
And this is the only hopeful outcome I have available to me at the present moment. So it’s important for us to continue the pretending, even if we can’t believe 100 percent.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
11
I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT TYPE OF MATH MAX WAS USING HERE, BUT HE SEEMED SO EXCITED THAT I DIDN’T INTERRUPT HIM
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
After Wendy left, Father McNamee ceased praying and began drinking even more heavily than previously described.
Jameson straight from the bottle—about a bottle a day.
He called it his “Irish purification ritual.”
Sometimes I’d hear him throwing up in the bathroom late at night, although he never left a mess. The toilet flushing over and over. And the retching reminded me of my mother at the end of her life, after the treatments—but, unfortunately, Mom hasn’t visited my dreams at all lately, so I haven’t been able to consult her.