But even so, at the very center of her, there was a little kernel of self-esteem that would not die. Blighted as it was, the essence of Anne Marie Fahey would not give up. When Brian was home or whenever her other siblings came over, they stood between their Annie and her father’s fury. When they weren’t there, she managed to survive on her own.
Brian was a freshman in college when the inevitable happened and there
was
no house for them to live in. It had been in the process of foreclosure for a long time and went up for a sheriff’s sale in 1980. Their father had long since stopped paying the mortgage, and their home sold for far less than its actual value. Over the years and now in this final eviction, they had lost almost everything of sentimental value. “There are some pictures,” Robert Fahey recalled, “but our house was so torn up, there was such chaos, that things that mattered were lost—even my birth certificate.”
A NNE M ARIE was almost fifteen and a sophomore at Brandywine when she literally had no home at all. She had done a lot of baby-sitting for the cousin of one of her girlfriends, and when the woman, whose name was Carol Creighton, found out that the Faheys had lost their house, she told Anne Marie that she could come and live with her. Their father and Brian were moving into a small rental in a city west of Wilmington—Newark, Delaware. She had lost everything else, and Anne Marie wanted desperately to stay in her high school. She talked it over with Nan, who thought that it would be best for Annie to accept Carol’s offer, but she cautioned her not to cause Carol any trouble.
As grateful as she was to have someplace to live in Brandywine Hundred, underneath, Anne Marie would always feel that she didn’t belong in Carol’s home, that she was only an interloper who was living on somebody else’s charity. Carol certainly didn’t feel that way, and the rest of her extended family considered Anne Marie to be oneof them. But Anne Marie herself felt especially guilty about eating Carol’s food because she was in no position to buy any groceries herself. She began to worry excessively about leaving her room—or any place in the house—messy. While most teenagers clomp around and leave a path of destruction through a house, Anne Marie tiptoed, figuratively wiping her footprints clean behind her.
She had never been obsessive about neatness or about food before, but now she was. She kept her room spotless so that Carol would never have to clean up after her. And she often left the table while she was still hungry because she didn’t want to eat too much of her benefactress’s food.
Anne Marie was still playing field hockey and basketball at Brandywine, and Brian often drove from Newark to give her a ride home afterward. He knew how she felt about accepting so much from Carol, and he always made a point of taking his younger sister out to a restaurant so she wouldn’t have to eat supper at Carol’s house. Although no one picked up on it then, Anne Marie was actually eating less and less, figuring the cost of every bite of food she put into her mouth and trying not to impose on anyone.
She was at the peak of adolescence, at the most vulnerable age a girl can be, and yet Anne Marie was trying to make herself inconspicuous rather than bloom as she deserved. There was no place where she felt she really belonged. She was grateful for everything people did for her, but inside, she must have raged sometimes that she
had
to be grateful. She had no mother, no real father. To make herself less and less of a burden, she ate less and became compulsive about being neat. It was the beginning of a lifelong pattern of behavior.
A ROUND Thanksgiving of the year that Anne Marie was a junior at Brandywine, Carol told her that she could no longer put her up. There was no place for her to go but Newark, with her father and her brother Brian. She begged to be allowed to graduate with her class at Brandywine,
Brian was a freshman in college when the inevitable happened and there
was
no house for them to live in. It had been in the process of foreclosure for a long time and went up for a sheriff’s sale in 1980. Their father had long since stopped paying the mortgage, and their home sold for far less than its actual value. Over the years and now in this final eviction, they had lost almost everything of sentimental value. “There are some pictures,” Robert Fahey recalled, “but our house was so torn up, there was such chaos, that things that mattered were lost—even my birth certificate.”
A NNE M ARIE was almost fifteen and a sophomore at Brandywine when she literally had no home at all. She had done a lot of baby-sitting for the cousin of one of her girlfriends, and when the woman, whose name was Carol Creighton, found out that the Faheys had lost their house, she told Anne Marie that she could come and live with her. Their father and Brian were moving into a small rental in a city west of Wilmington—Newark, Delaware. She had lost everything else, and Anne Marie wanted desperately to stay in her high school. She talked it over with Nan, who thought that it would be best for Annie to accept Carol’s offer, but she cautioned her not to cause Carol any trouble.
As grateful as she was to have someplace to live in Brandywine Hundred, underneath, Anne Marie would always feel that she didn’t belong in Carol’s home, that she was only an interloper who was living on somebody else’s charity. Carol certainly didn’t feel that way, and the rest of her extended family considered Anne Marie to be oneof them. But Anne Marie herself felt especially guilty about eating Carol’s food because she was in no position to buy any groceries herself. She began to worry excessively about leaving her room—or any place in the house—messy. While most teenagers clomp around and leave a path of destruction through a house, Anne Marie tiptoed, figuratively wiping her footprints clean behind her.
She had never been obsessive about neatness or about food before, but now she was. She kept her room spotless so that Carol would never have to clean up after her. And she often left the table while she was still hungry because she didn’t want to eat too much of her benefactress’s food.
Anne Marie was still playing field hockey and basketball at Brandywine, and Brian often drove from Newark to give her a ride home afterward. He knew how she felt about accepting so much from Carol, and he always made a point of taking his younger sister out to a restaurant so she wouldn’t have to eat supper at Carol’s house. Although no one picked up on it then, Anne Marie was actually eating less and less, figuring the cost of every bite of food she put into her mouth and trying not to impose on anyone.
She was at the peak of adolescence, at the most vulnerable age a girl can be, and yet Anne Marie was trying to make herself inconspicuous rather than bloom as she deserved. There was no place where she felt she really belonged. She was grateful for everything people did for her, but inside, she must have raged sometimes that she
had
to be grateful. She had no mother, no real father. To make herself less and less of a burden, she ate less and became compulsive about being neat. It was the beginning of a lifelong pattern of behavior.
A ROUND Thanksgiving of the year that Anne Marie was a junior at Brandywine, Carol told her that she could no longer put her up. There was no place for her to go but Newark, with her father and her brother Brian. She begged to be allowed to graduate with her class at Brandywine,
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