Evie had to have surgery on the ankle. They put a pin in it and couldn’t promise a complete mend. As part of her hospital care they ran a bone density scan and she learned that she does have some osteoporosis. That’s when she confessed to me that she lied about the earlier test; she’d known she was at risk for ten years.

Mike continued to try to prepare for the party after the accident. He and Jessie were working in the yard the following weekend, with Evie in the livingroom, weighty leg upon the hassock, when he fell. He broke his arm. His accident finally did in the party; the event was cancelled.

So the household consisted of a father with his right arm in a sling and cast, a mother immobile and in a noticeable degree of pain, and a hulky sulky daughter. They needed help; I started coming around again. That’s when the lid blew off their pot.

Not that I was a trigger. I was nothing but a witness. The night before last Jessie defined herself for her parents. With all the passion of her age, eyes and speech glaring, she told them she’s been called to God. “I’m serious,” she declared when Mike snorted in surprise. “For the first time in my life I know what I’m doing, where I’m going. I have been called.”

Evie said “But you’re just a kid! You’re going to go through more changes. Oooh,” and then she sank back as if those pale assertions exhausted her.

“I’ve been attending Sunday mass for months,” Jessie stated, her voice rising in obvious exasperation. Evie had told me she let Jessie attend a different church than the one to which the family belonged. Evie saw it as a healthy form of separation and said she so respected Jessie’s privacy that she never questioned where or what. “I’ve been cutting some classes so I can worship during the week too. I’m going to take the veil. You can’t stop me. Soon I’ll be known as Mary-Gabriel.”

Evie murmured “impossible” while Mike began to bluster, and Jessie/Mary-Gabriel strode toward them. Her face was engorged and her expression was murderous. I saw Mike flinch and Evie cringe and suddenly understood how bones were getting broken.

I jumped out of my chair. I shot to my feet without thinking and it was like my body interrupted Jessie’s storm. I tried to hold her and was almost floored by the force of her shrug. I managed to get her to another room, and we talked.

This belief she has may be an affectation. But there’s no question that she’s very confused and not flourishing in her home environment. Moving her out is recommended.

At least, that’s what the psychologist said.

In my opinion, it isn’t that truth is stranger than fiction; it’s cornier. An editor wouldn’t permit the puns I’ve seen, the dire consequences I’ve witnessed when friends have been a bit unwise. Maybe we can call the results ironic, but not elegant, not witty, not wise.

What’s irony, but divine sarcasm? What’s sarcasm but cheap wit?