Very. I lost my mother when I was twelve and she lost her daughter. A common grief is supposed to unite people but she was already beginning to see in me something for which she had no name. She certainly didnt know that the word prodigy comes from the Latin word for monster. But the mental tricks I used to pull as a child werent cute anymore. I loved her. But sometimes I would catch her looking at me in a way that was pretty unsettling. The nuns pushed me ahead in school because I was such a pain in the ass. I never even finished the last two grades of grammar school. I’d pretty much stopped sleeping. I’d walk the road at all hours of the night. It was just a two lane country blacktop and there was never any traffic on it. One night I came back and the kitchen light was on. It was about three oclock in the morning and she was standing in the kitchen door when I came up the driveway. Before I reached the house she’d already turned and gone back up the stairs. I knew that it might be one of the last chances we would have to really talk and I almost called after her but I didnt. I thought that maybe when I got a bit older things would change. I thought about her and her life. About the dreams she must have had for her daughter and the dreams she got. I know that I cried over her more than she ever did over me. And I know that she loved Bobby more than she ever would me but that was all right. It didnt make me love her less. I knew things about her that I’d no right to know. But still I thought that if you had a twelve year old granddaughter who walked the roads at three oclock in the morning probably you should sit her down and talk to her about it. And I knew that she couldnt.

Why couldnt she? I’m not sure I understand.

I dont know what to tell you. How to put it. The simplest explanation I suppose would be that she knew the news would be bad and she didnt want to hear it. To say that she was afraid of me I think is a bit strong. But maybe not. I suppose too that she was afraid that no matter how bad things looked they were probably worse. And of course she was right.

And she raised you after your mother died.

Yes.

How old was your brother? At this time.

He was nineteen.

Your father was still alive.

Yes.

But you didnt see much of him.

No.

Did he come to your mother’s funeral?

No.

Really?

Really.

Was that upsetting to you?

No. I didnt go either.

You didnt go to your mother’s funeral?

No.

What did your family say? Did your brother go?

Yes. Of course. I was twelve. I was going through a religious crisis. I did not want to sit through a High Mass featuring my mother’s coffin in the center aisle of the church. I couldnt.