‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling guilty that he’s probably my closest friend and I never have really taken the time to find out. I’ve always thought of him as just being across the street, but when I really think about it, I remember a big block of time when he wasn’t there. He hasn’t always been across the street, after all. ‘I should have known that he was sick.’
I can’t look at him properly anymore. My eyes start to itch, my vision blurring out of focus with each blink. I guess I’ve never let him grow up. If he was an adult, getting on with things, then I was the adult who wasn’t. His family had been the refuge for my father when he couldn’t stay in our house, which I felt divided us. As if being close to them meant not siding with my mother. Maybe that’s what had always obscured my view of him.
‘Mary’s like a little alien, right?’ I jest, trying to change the subject.
‘She’s got the whole thing in control,’ Milk says.
‘It’s like someone is whispering all the answers into her ear.’
‘I’m pretty sure we both know who that person is, and I wouldn’t call them answers.’
‘Truths are subjective!’
‘Good point.’
I park the car and the two of us head towards the steps Mary will soon be bouncing down, belly first, hair jumping, giggles abounding. Principal Chandler walks towards us, her smile fixed like a slice of summer melon.
‘Tabitha!’ she says with a plastic wave. ‘Is this your new boyfriend?’
Milk and I exchange an awkward look and at once say, ‘No.’
‘Oh,’ she says. Her hair is dyed red and too long for her age. It’s wrapped tightly in a low bun. I worry about how headache inducing it is; I want her to loosen the pieces pulling the skin around her temples, straining her eyes. She looks surprised, botoxed, stressed. A gray suit mirrors the color of her skin and the shade her hair would be under that masking red. ‘Mary mentioned there was someone special in your life. I just assumed.’
‘Really?’ Milk says, turning to me. ‘Who?’
‘I’ve got a lot of admirers,’ I tell the two of them.
‘I just have one thing to ask you, Tabitha,’ the principal says as I lean in, naturally. ‘Mary’s been getting bullied at school for telling preposterous stories that I must admit are pretty absurd. And I’m concerned.’
‘Oh really?’ I light up. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, she told one of her classmates the other day that her television only turns on when it detects enough food in her stomach.’
‘So?’
‘Well that’s a lie,’ she says defensively, feathers tangled. ‘All I’m saying is that these kinds of things will just get her into trouble. Kids love to make fun of other kids and these stories, well they’re just ammunition for ridicule and . . .’
‘Lies are a part of life,’ I counter. ‘I’m teaching her survival techniques. And it’s how I get her to eat enough. It’s actually quite smart. How does she take it? Does it upset her?’
‘The other kids laugh at her but she just sits there and smiles as if the joke’s on them.’
‘Sounds like Mary,’ Milk says, chest out.
‘Thanks for letting us know,’ I say, extending my hand.
‘There’s more,’ she starts. ‘I overheard her telling a group of girls during playtime that you’re her mother. She came up with this elaborate story about how her mom was arrested by the, and I quote, “boring police”?’
‘She used that phrase?’ A feeling of warmth and gratification sweeps through me, that I am maternal, that my stories are being heard, that I’m influencing another human being in a way that I think will make her happy, that it’s all paying off. ‘I’m so proud!’ But then, of course, it is quickly intercepted by a wave of guilt and sadness for my sister.
‘Tabitha, this is serious,’ she says. ‘She also told her classmates that a boy’s penis is in his heart and that’s why it gets bigger when he’s in front of a woman he’s in love with.’
Milk bursts out laughing as my hands cup my face with excitement.
‘That’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard! So romantic, right, Milk?’ I exclaim.
‘You’re insane all right,’ he chuckles.
The principal looks very concerned. She is aching to say something at this point, I can tell from the way her hands press up against her hips and the faltering start and stop of her lips, how they open and shut. Open and shut. ‘I’m afraid I think it’s extremely inappropriate and, frankly, unacceptable. If the other kids go home telling their parents they heard these things . . .’
‘Thanks for letting us know,’ I eventually say. ‘Her mom is going to be really pleased.’
‘But, but . . .’ she stammers until Milk interrupts her.
‘We’ll let her mom know. It was nice to meet you, Principal Chandler,’ he says. ‘Thanks again for looking out for Mary.’
The school bell rings and Milk looks over to me and pats me on the back with a ‘let’s go.’ Mary’s little legs do as they always do and bicycle through the air towards us. She’s hand in hand with Randall.
I grab her softly as soon as she’s close, bending down to meet her on eye level. ‘I need you to know something,’ I say.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘You’re magic. You’re filled with magic. All of you. Got it?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. I’ve been telling her this for so long it’s like I’m telling her the same knock knock joke over and over again but she never tells me she’s heard it before because her wisdom beyond her years reminds her it’s something she needs to hear. I want it ingrained in her, and that happens through repetition.
I look over and see Randall’s eyes pop with interest as he’s listening to me as some kids their age walk by.
‘Frog eyes!’ one kid says to Randall. He just stares back, emotionless, like he’s an extra in Children of the Corn, but I’m sure deep down it’s upset him.
‘Hey, kid!’ I yell, all riled up. ‘First of all, he has beautiful eyes. And even if they were frog eyes, frog eyes are awesome! You wish you had frog eyes!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Milk says before I morph into a salivating pit bull. ‘Take it easy.’ He turns to Randall and shakes the hair once settled on his head into a verifiable mess.
‘Hey,’ Randall says.
‘Kids used to make fun of me all the time . . .’ Milk starts.
‘Me too!’ I say, overly excited I fit into the conversation organically.
‘But you’re a tough kid. I can tell just from looking at you. They got nothing on you.’
‘You’re not just tough,’ I interrupt again. ‘You’re a little king, okay? You’re mighty. Don’t even listen to that mumbo jumbo. I certainly don’t and look where it’s gotten me!’
Mary, Randall and Milk all share a worried glance, but I know they’re just kidding. I look at the four of us, standing in the middle of the swell, and feel for the first time what it would be like to have a family. I imagine Milk as my husband (of course, that would be weird because I would never marry Milk) and Mary and Randall our children. Just as the moment glistens, Mary burps.
‘Aw gross,’ Randall says. ‘What did you have for lunch? Farts?’
Mary lets out a yelp of excitement, her hubris bigger than herself.
‘A little lady,’ Milk adds. He turns to me. ‘We ready?’
Ten minutes later we’re driving down the highway listening to Steely Dan and singing with pitch so astoundingly awful it could be used in a Guatemalan torture chamber to expel traitorous words from an innocent captive. It’s three in the afternoon and the rays of sun set the world on fire; we have to squint to see through the dashboard. West Hills never looked so good. It must be the light and the way we move around it because otherwise it’s just flatland with rows of pre-fabricated homes you could buy from a catalog. But right now, in this car, with these people, under this fulgent sun, it’s perfect.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mary says, detecting a different route.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re just taking a little detour,’ Milk says as he instructs me to make a left at the next light.
‘I’m so happy Milk is here!’ Mary screams out. ‘But why?’ she adds, unable to subdue her insatiable curiosity.
‘Tabby came to take a ju-jitsu class at my studio the other day,’ Milk says.
‘Why?’ Randall interrupts.
‘Because,’ Milk says but stops, looks over at me for a moment. ‘Well, I guess because she’s looking for someone as tough as her.’
‘So why is Milk here now?’ Mary asks again as she squirms around in the back seat. ‘And I thought fighting was bad?’
‘Depends on what you’re fighting for,’ I say.
Milk directs me into a side alley and I park the car in a nondescript parking lot off of Ventura Boulevard. The metal belt buckle is still hot from the sun burning its way through the window. It’s hot, this perennial desert weather, and nobody will tell you but this stagnant heat is tiring. The sun, it plays tricks on you. Sure, it’s warm, it brightens you, but too much of it slows you down. Especially in the summer. Especially in the valley, where we’re listless.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, my stare bolting from Milk to the sign in front of us for Monroe’s Restaurant and Bar, and then back to Milk. Then back to the bar. ‘This doesn’t look like fun.’
‘Follow me,’ he says, holding my hand for some reason. Like it’s some dramatic movie moment! Like I need to be led! I hate to admit it, but having my hand held feels quite nice. The four of us enter through dark wooden doors that reek of spray-painted cedar.
‘I’ll take Mary and Randall to the frozen yogurt place next door, okay?’ Milk says, his smile remarkably tender, concerned. ‘That way we’ll be out of your way. We’ll be ready whenever you are.’
‘Ready for what?’ I say until I turn around and see, to my amazement, my shock, my horror: my dad, serving drinks and laughing behind the bar with a couple of customers. As if my legs were attached to a different human, they buckle under me but Milk gingerly nudges me forward. Like a dad teaching his kid to ride a bike, it forces me to regain my center as I wobble towards the middle of the bar.
It’s mid-afternoon so the place is quite empty, quite dismal, depressing, even more so because there’s hardly any light. I can’t get my balance and feel like a dog walking for the first time in shoes, awkward and unsteady. I’m hot and tingling, slightly paralyzed. I’d seen my dad a few times over the years since he left, but the token visits only made us all feel worse. Eventually, they just stopped. He didn’t want to see me so why, how, could I put myself in front of him over and over again, torturing myself by trying to understand a man who didn’t understand us? I start to panic and turn around, but Milk, Mary and Randall aren’t there anymore.
I could kill Milk. I could leave right now before my dad spots me and I try, making baby steps. I don’t like this. Not one bit. I want to run. I want to scream at Milk for taking me here, for this miserable surprise, for forcing me to confront someone I was prepared to never see again. I want to run not just out of the restaurant but out of town, out of this world. And just as I’m about to, as I’m waving my hands around in defiance and anger, I subconsciously stomp the floor like a kid having a tantrum, making noise, and when I look up, my dad’s caught me.
‘Tabby?’ he says, putting the glass he’s wiping down. A tea towel is draped over his shoulder. He looks older than the man I remember crawling into bed with when I was little. My eyes are doing that itchy thing again, causing them to twitch and blink incessantly. It keeps happening. I can’t stop it. As I feel them throb, I’m speechless.
I take the closest seat to me at the bar because I can barely keep myself up.
‘Gary!’ a waitress calls out from the other side of the restaurant. ‘Two gin and tonics for table four.’
His unfaltering stare sticks to me as he calls out to her, ‘Just give me a minute, Francie.’ He walks slowly, stiffly, towards me, bending his neck and squinting as if to make sure I’m real.
I’m trying to remember the shape of his face when I knew it and if I could make sense of this new one, but I can’t. He was supposed to be depressed. He was supposed to be fat and dripping in alcoholic sweat with dirty clothes. But this man, he’s doing just fine. I liked my memory of him before, the idea he had gone downhill. This, this is unsettling. It’s downright unfair.
‘It wasn’t my idea to come here,’ I declare, protecting myself, my disappearing heart. Trying to prove I don’t care. ‘Milk brought me. I didn’t know you were working here.’
‘I’m so sorry, Tabby,’ he says. ‘I thought your mom told you. I wanted her to know where you could find me in case you asked.’
‘Well, she didn’t.’
We both just look at each other. I can feel my lip quiver, my eyes start to water, but I won’t let him see me cry.
‘Tabby, God, I’ve missed you. Wow, you’re so grown up. You look great.’
It’s all too casual, too easy. I wanted plates thrown. I wanted drama, but this felt like a normal afternoon chat with an uncle I hadn’t seen in a few months.
‘I thought you were supposed to be a loser,’ I say, still flabbergasted he is so well intact. ‘Well, you’re still a loser because you lost me and Brenda. And worst of all, you lost my mom, and ever since you left her, she’s been lost. Do you know that? She’s lost!’ The volume of my speech jumps from level to loud. It all starts coming out of me so fast, exploding like a bottle of Veuve. And damn, how I’d love a bottle of Veuve right now.
‘I know I was a shit dad,’ he admits, now in front of me, voice down. ‘And I don’t expect you to get that right now, although I hope you will one day, when . . . if . . . you give me a chance to explain.’
‘Is this how it happens?’ I ask. ‘I just waltz in here to quickly repair our nonexistent father-daughter relationship? I’ve tried to understand how a dad could leave his kids, his wife, on a flip, but sorry. I can’t.’
‘Look,’ he says, wiping his face with his hand, rubbing his chin in reflection. ‘Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to hear it now. This is your chance.’
‘It would have been worse if I stuck around. It would have been worse for all of us. I was doing it for us.’
‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m an adult, you know. I can recognize bullshit.’
He looks around the room, as if the answers were in the cracks, the wood, the floor. Why do people keep doing this?
‘Your mom exhausted me,’ he finally says.
‘Exhausted you?’ I am so mad, I’m trembling. How dare he blame it on her. She was the one who was left. She was the one who tried.
‘She literally took everything out of me. All my fight, my strength. No matter what I did, it was never enough, and after so many years, it broke me down.’ There’s this pain now in my chest as his words bury themselves into me like a tick in Woodstock.
‘But, you loved her at one point, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did. Who wouldn’t have fallen for your mother? She was this insanely beautiful, creative creature, like a bird, flying all over. She made you want to fly too. And I did, and it was amazing, but I got tired. You have to rest if you want to do long distance but she’d get sad when we weren’t up in the air, if that makes sense. She wanted fun and adventure not just every day but every second. When we were on the ground, it was my fault.’
He can see me wincing as I try to block the tears from falling. Memories flood through me from that morning when everything changed, when he stood up after breakfast, fetched his bag from the closet, and walked out. I hadn’t even finished my cereal. I don’t recall much except for my mother screaming as he walked through her, through the door and through us, and that when I returned to my breakfast it had wilted. Soggy and lifeless. I looked at those flakes of wheat drowning in milk now soured and wondered who would die first, the flakes or
me. Twenty-something years later and I’m still not sure which of us suffocated but I try to perk up so I don’t give him the idea that he was somehow responsible for the way I turned out. I am not here for me, I tell myself; I’m here for my mom. I’m here so I can look at her and tell her she was right and he was wrong, so she could finally stop all her frantic digging, shuffling, replacing. So she could just relax.
‘But you could have just brought her flowers, or written Post-it notes and hidden them all around to make her happy because you knew that’s what she wanted!’ I plead too loudly. People are staring. ‘That doesn’t seem so hard to me! It would have been so easy to make her feel like she was always flying!’
‘Gary!’ the waitress screams. ‘People are waiting!’
‘Goddammit, Francie! I said hold on a minute!’ he hollers, banging the bar counter with a fist. He turns back to me quickly. He’s talking like he’s running out of time.
‘Don’t you see? It wasn’t something that could be fixed with flowers. The minute someone tells you they want flowers, there’s no fucking way you want to give them flowers. If it wasn’t flowers, it would be something else. I could never get ahead of her expectations. How can you be spontaneous when someone has already mapped it all out for you?’
‘This sucks, you know!’ I yell back. ‘This is just the worst news of my fucking life!’
‘I know it’s hard to hear, because you’re so much like her, but the way she was made it impossible for me to make her happy. Her needs were relentless, and our reality could never live up to the fantasy of what she thought her life should be like. I tried, of course I tried, Tabby, but it wore me down. It made me feel useless because I knew no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be enough.’
‘But she was just fighting because you weren’t and someone had to.’
‘What are you talking about? I did fight, Tabby. I fought for years. I fought to keep it all together but it was like two roosters in a cage, tearing each other apart. We both were trying to make it work so badly that we lost sight of what we were trying to keep together.’
The Optimist Page 21