Curiosity ~ Lucidity ~ Humanity
Collage by Frankie Regalia
Editor's Note: Frankie Regalia read this story at the Moniack Mhor writers' retreat in December, 2025.
Rose, age 10
April 1967. Woodacre, California.
I wake up from my dream. The story of the princess kitten sisters and their friend Jesus Christ becomes harder to remember with every second. Dang, that was a good one. I hear the soft sound of my parents’ voices from the living room. I turn over and try to get back to sleep. Mama laughs loudly. I open my eyes and glance around the room. Dino is still asleep in his bed. His mouth is open, revealing the strange shape of his not- yet-grown-in adult tooth forcing its way between the baby teeth. I think about putting something funny in his mouth while he sleeps, but I change my mind when I think about Mama’s reaction. Daddy’s voice floats through the wall, low and comforting. I get out of bed and walk towards the warm light of the living room.
I round the corner of the hallway and watch my parents for a moment. They are lounging on the couch, giggling with one another. It’s nice to see Mama laughing and happy. Sometimes it's hard to tell if she’s going to be happy or mad. I smile–and then I spot the thing in the ashtray. My eyes dart from the ashtray to my parents, and back again. I sniff the air and my suspicions are confirmed. Sister Francis warned my class about this only the other day. Hysterical giggling, devil-red eyes, the smell of skunk spray, and hand-rolled cigarettes. It’s the Devil’s Lettuce.
My heart beats heavily in my chest. I had listened to Sister Francis in class, kinda worried but also certain that this sin would never affect my life. And now it has taken my parents. What do I do? Sister Francis told us that if we found someone smoking the Devil’s Lettuce we should tell our parents or our priest right away. But these are my parents and I don’t even know if I have a priest!
I remember the worst part of the lesson. Sister Francis told us what would happen to drug addicts in hell. Tears fill my eyes as images of fiery pits and cartoon devils crowd my mind. In the middle of the horrifying scene are my parents, their eyes red and their mouths hanging open with dribble.
I creep back down the hall to the safety of my bed and bury myself in the covers. I try to force myself back to sleep, praying that this has just been a bad dream. It takes a long time for me to drift off again. Every time I do, another burst of laughter from the other room wakes me with a jolt of fear for my parents’ mortal souls. Whatever those are.
The next few days are the worst of my life. At school, my days are filled with guilt and fear. Every time Sister Francis’ cold eyes pass over me, I feel convinced that the old nun will see the truth written on my insides. After school is no better. Nonna picks us up and I think about telling her. She seems to know a lot about what sends people to hell. But I remember one time she told me that all drug addicts should be taken out and shot because they are ruining the country. I don’t want anyone to shoot Mama and Daddy, no matter how many countries they ruin.
When I get home, I watch my parents with a sick stomach. Every giggle and shared look between them seems to confirm their sin and future damnation. Mama’s laughter turns to the screeching of hell-birds in my mind. I can’t even enjoy the fact that Mama seems happier than ever. Dino tries to whisper to me about it before bed, but I ignore him. I can’t tell him why she’s suddenly so happy. Once or twice during the week, Mama asks me what's wrong. I mumble that I’m tired, which isn’t a lie. At night, as I lay in bed, listening to my parents doing their drugs in the living room, I argue back and forth about bringing the evidence to the church. Is hiding their sin as bad as committing it too? Would my siblings and I be taken away and our parents be thrown in prison to await their judgment by the Pope?
Finally, after a week, I come to a decision. With the sound of my parents’ cheerful voices coming in through the wall, I get out of bed and stomp down the hall to the living room. I stop in front of the couch, hands on hips. The giggling stops immediately. Mama and Daddy’s looks of guilty surprise are the last straw. I’m going to save their souls.
“Baby, what are you doing up?” Mama’s voice is too happy. Daddy is trying to sneakily grab the ashtray and hide it.
I look into Mama’s soft brown eyes. All the fear and guilt and disappointment from the past week wells up inside me. I open my mouth to deliver the speech that would convert the Devil himself and–burst into tears.
“You and D-D-Daddy are...are doing drugs.” I drag out the last word with a great wail. “Sis-Sister Francis said you go to hell wh-when you smoke the...the Devil’s Lettuce.” It’s too much. I want to be strong for them but instead, I collapse into Mama’s outstretched arms. I cry there for several moments while Mama and Daddy shake with overwhelming guilt and nervous giggles. Finally, I control my crying to a few hiccuping sniffles and sit up to look at my parents.
“Is that why you’ve been acting so strange this week, baby?” Daddy says gently.
I nod soggily.
“Daddy and I aren’t going to hell for smoking this stuff. I’m sorry you were so worried about us,” Mama says, rubbing my back soothingly.
“But Sister Francis said…” I trail off, unable to even repeat the punishment out loud.
Mama and Daddy share a strange look. They seem to be having a silent conversation.
“Rose, you shouldn’t believe everything that Sister Francis tells you, okay?” says Mama gently.
“Really?” I say, uncertainly.
“Yes, baby,” says Daddy.
I take this in for a moment, turning the idea over in my mind.
“You’re not going to hell for smoking the Devil’s Lettuce?”
“No.”
“Sister Francis says that homosexuals, drug addicts, single mothers, Black people, Jews, prostitutes, and Protestants are all destined for hell. Is that true?”
For some reason, Mama and Daddy are fighting back laughter. Finally, Mama chokes out “No, honey.”
That’s not true either? Maybe hell is harder to go to than Sister Francis and Nonna make it out to be. But why would she do that? Why does she want us to be so afraid of hell? This is confusing. But I’ve stopped crying. And the sick feeling that has been in my stomach all week is going away. No one is going to hell. Not everything Sister Francis says is true. I wonder what else she lies about. I turn to my parents and grin, my eyes washed clean by the tears.
“Now, I think it’s well past time for you to be in bed,” says Daddy, attempting to be serious, but failing at it.
“Okay, Daddy. Good night.” I pull myself from Mama’s arms and walk down the hallway to my bedroom. As I lie down, I feel the tiredness from a whole week of bad sleeps fall down on me. In my half-asleep mind, the night with Mama in the car comes back to me. I think I was more frightened this week than I was that night. I hope I don’t get nightmares about this, too.
Bio-Fragment of Frankie Regalia: "I'm just one small step in the tradition of telling stories. There are so many things to be said about stories, the way and why we tell them, and their importance. But these have all been said before, so I'll just relay why I tell this particular story. It's in memory of a woman larger than life and as untameable as the sea. This is just a small portion of the entire story, which is in itself a way for me to process where I came from and the long line of wild women who came before me. The woman that this story is about will never read it, but I write it in the vain attempt that it would bring tears of joy to her eyes."