by Jo Knowles
“Let me make you some coffee and we’ll get started,” Larry says, leaving me alone with them.
I sit in Larry’s usual chair and realize my hands are shaking. My parents sit across from me on the couch, carefully pushing our stocking stuff aside. But there’s still so much crap to move, they end up sitting right next to each other. They’re so close, their shoulders and legs are touching.
“What?” my mom asks.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring at us,” she says.
“Oh. Uh, I’m just, you know, surprised to see you.” Especially together.
“We couldn’t not see you on Christmas!” My mom looks so nervously happy. Like she’s afraid I might yell at her.
Part of me wants to.
I don’t know why. Not really. It was nice of them to come. To make the four-hour drive, they must have had to get up at, like, five in the morning. On Christmas. But ten minutes ago, I was feeling happy. And right now, I feel like I have a weight in my chest, pulling me back against the chair cushion. Trapping me.
“We wanted to bring Rosie, but she’s having so much trouble getting around. We thought it might be too much,” my mom says.
“Is she OK?” I ask.
“Oh, sure. She’s fine. She’s just getting old.”
“She really misses you,” my dad says. “She sleeps in your room every night.”
“Really?”
My mom smiles, then gives my dad a warning look, I think to let him know he’s going too far on the Rosie thing. Because I know my eyes are watering up, and I feel like the worst son on the planet for not visiting them all this time. Not even at Thanksgiving, which I spent with Larry volunteering at a homeless shelter, just like I used to do with my mom. I knew it would’ve made my mom proud, but I never even bothered to tell her. I never bother to tell them anything. But let’s be honest. It’s partly because in the past, they never asked.
My dad shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “So, you doin’ all right?” he asks, changing the subject. “School OK?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s fine. I aced my midterms and everything.”
“That’s great! Wow. Aced ’em, huh?”
I try not to feel offended by how surprised he is, because mostly, he sounds proud. And that is a first.
“We’re so impressed with how hard you’re working, Josh,” my mom says. “You’re doing so well here.” She looks happy and sad at the same time.
I’m not sure how to reply. I’m doing well in school, yeah. I’m doing well in karate. But am I doing well in life? Would she say that if she knew about the two a.m. wake-up calls? Would she say that if she knew me well enough to be able to look at me and see beyond my mask? Isn’t that what most moms do? Instead, I feel like she’s looking at me for the first time. Maybe they both are. At this new me they think they see — hope they see. But I’m not new. I’m the same old me. Why can’t they see that?
Luckily, Larry comes back in to interrupt the most awkward conversation ever. “Coffee’ll be ready in a jiff.” He sits on the arm of my chair. “How was the drive? Any traffic?”
“Nope. Interstate was dead,” my dad says.
Larry nods.
My mom scans the apartment. She looks about as comfortable as I feel.
“So,” Larry says. “How’s the music goin’, Hal?”
“Ah, you know. Same ole, same ole.” My dad taps his hands on his knees. For a minute, I see him back home, sitting on the couch on that hot summer day when everything changed.
When I left the hospital that awful day, I walked all the way home. By the time I got there, I was dripping in sweat and all I wanted to do was stand under a cold shower. And maybe drown myself. Before I opened the screen door, though, I heard music coming from the living room. My dad was playing a lullaby he probably thought no one but Rosie could hear. I remember standing outside. Outside looking in. And wishing he would never stop.
“Why don’t you open your gifts?” my mom suggests.
“Great idea!” Larry says. He hops up and grabs some presents and piles a bunch at my feet. Then he hands one to each of my parents.
Wait. How long has Larry known about this little secret?
I pick up a smallish box and check the tag: For Josh From Mom & Dad.
“Oh, wait,” my mom says. “Why don’t you save that one for last?”
“Here, open this!” Larry says, reaching over and choosing another package. “It’s from me!”
It feels like a book, but when I open it, I pull out a picture frame. What Is a True Karate Man? is written in beautiful calligraphy.
“So you won’t forget,” Larry tells me. “Do you like it?”
I read the words I’ve finally been able to memorize. The words that define Larry. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. It’s great. Thanks!” I smile at him so he knows I mean it.
“I want you to hang it on the wall near your bed and read it every day,” Larry says, getting all serious. “Because that’s who you are, Josh. A true karate man.”
I feel myself blush. Hardly.
“Let’s see,” my mom says, reaching for the frame. She and my dad read it at the same time. Larry beams at me.
“That’s lovely,” my mom says, handing the frame back. My dad nods quietly.
“Josh is making great progress,” Larry says. “We should show you some of our moves after dinner.”
That is so not going to happen. Karate seems cool when I’m with Larry and Stella. But the thought of doing katas in front of my dad seems totally lame.
“Here,” I say, reaching for a package for Larry in an attempt to change the subject. “Open this.” And please shut the hell up about karate. No offense.
Larry tears off the paper. It’s a set of new white T-shirts, because I am so tired of his sweat-stained disgusting ones and I’m sure he is, too. He laughs, which seems like a good sign.
But all of this feels weird. Larry and I, we’ve been together for such a short time, but we already have all these private jokes and stuff. My parents and me? Zero. Zero private jokes. I know why they are here. They love me. And I love them. But I wish they had asked. I really wish they had asked. Because, selfish as it is, all I want to do is hang out with my uncle and share a few stupid private jokes and for one freaking day not think about anything else.
But that’s not going to happen now.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe I don’t deserve that day, anyway.
I don’t have any gifts to give my parents, because I mailed them all home and I guess they didn’t arrive on time, because my parents didn’t bring them. But of course Larry is prepared and urges them to open the gifts he handed out. For my dad: a set of guitar picks, a couple of CDs, and a new collar for Rosie. For my mom: a book he heard about on NPR, a pillow you heat up and put around your neck to de-stress, and some new slippers. Not bad.
Finally, I only have the one gift left from my parents. They already got me a bunch of great stuff. More than any other year. There are a few moments when I feel like they bought me extra gifts out of guilt, but I decide that’s not it. I decide they just miss me. And I feel bad for being so mad at them.
“You guys really went overboard,” I say.
My mom smiles at my dad. “It’s not much, really.”
I tear off the paper slowly and find another frame, similar to the one Larry gave me. But when I turn it over, I see a photo of me, Caleb, and Dave when we were little. Rosie’s in it, too. She was just a puppy. I remember this was the day we adopted her and we were all playing with her in the front yard. In the photo, we’re laughing like crazy. I’ve got my arms around Rosie, and she’s reaching her head up, licking my face. I feel my mouth turn into a smile, just looking at us. But then I feel this horrible ache in the back of my throat. It’s as if the three of us have come back from the past to remind me of how we used to be. What I left behind. What I lost. It makes me feel more lonely than I’ve felt since I got here.
“I was going through all t
he photos I never bothered to print,” my mom says. “I was thinking of making some photo books, since Irene at work told me how easy it is. Anyway, I wanted to at least sort through the really special ones. And . . . well, I came across this, and I thought you’d like to have it.”
“You boys were so inseparable,” my dad says. “Little troublemakers.” But he says it in a proud way.
“I love it,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” When my mom looks at me, I see something in her face I haven’t seen in years. Maybe I’ve only seen it in pictures. It’s not so much what I see, but what I don’t see. What’s not there anymore. The stress and worry that used to make her knit her eyebrows. She just looks . . . relieved. But I don’t know why. Relieved that things turned out different for me than they did for her and my dad when they made the same mistake? Relieved that I’m here and not home, saddled to a girl I don’t love and a baby I don’t want?
She reaches out and puts her hand on my knee. It feels weird.
“This is so great!” Larry says enthusiastically. “Being all together for Christmas. Too bad Mom and Dad aren’t here anymore, huh, Hal? They’d love this, man. Just love it.”
My dad nods and gets a sad look on his face. He fidgets with a ribbon from one of my mom’s presents. I keep watching them sitting next to each other, as if they belong that way. I can’t believe the thought enters my brain, but maybe they do.
“How ’bout some eggnog while we put dinner together?”
“Oh, uh, me?” My dad’s face turns a little red. “Nah.”
“Since when have you ever turned down a drink, bro?”
My mom gets this really uncomfortable look on her face. It’s the way she looked back at home all the time. Maybe things haven’t changed that much after all.
“Uh, I’m kinda takin’ it easy these days,” my dad says.
Excuse me? I’m glad my dad doesn’t see my mouth drop to the floor.
“Oh! Wow. Well. That’s awesome, man! Hey, you should try these smoothies I make . . .” He grabs my dad’s arm and pulls him up and toward the kitchen.
My mom glances over at me, relief flooding her face.
“Seriously?” I ask under my breath.
She nods. “Let’s not make a big deal out of it, though. OK?” she whispers.
“But —”
“I know it is,” she interrupts. “Obviously. But I don’t want him to be self-conscious about it. He’s still struggling. A lot.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“He’s been so — determined. Since you left.”
“What do you mean?”
“To be better. To prove to you —” She stops. “Oh, I don’t know.”
But I can tell she does. “What? Prove to me what?”
“That — that things —” She looks up at the ceiling, as if the words she’s looking for are written up there. “That how things were — with your dad — with your dad and me, wasn’t your fault. They didn’t have anything to do with you. And that your life isn’t over, Josh. Things can — things will — get better.”
I hear Larry laugh in the kitchen and wonder what my dad just said.
“What, seventeen years from now? That’s how long it took Dad to get over me ruining his life?”
“Why would you say that?” She looks genuinely hurt. “You didn’t ruin anyone’s life. Your dad and I were in love. We probably would have gotten married whether or not I got pregnant. Did you change things? Of course! We didn’t have the same kind of freedom. But Josh, your presence isn’t what pulled your dad and me apart.”
“Then, what did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “Even if you don’t want to admit it.”
“You can believe what you want, Josh. But what difference does it make now? Do you know what matters? That we’re here. Now. We love you.” She wipes her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “Your dad was heartbroken about what happened, don’t you see that? He feels like he failed you. Didn’t talk to you enough about how to be careful. It’s killing him. We know why you wanted to leave. But that doesn’t mean we were happy about it. We miss you. Nothing is the same without you.”
“Yeah. Everything is better.”
“No!” She cringes at the sound of her raised voice. “No,” she whispers.
“Yes, it is,” I say. “Dad quit drinking? You took time off from work for Christmas? These aren’t normal occurrences.”
She sighs. “Fine. Things are getting better. But that’s only because you showed us what matters. You did that. For the first time in years, we can finally see again. We can see how awful we were to each other and — to you, Josh. We weren’t there for you when you needed us the most.”
“You couldn’t have done anything.”
“We could have been there.”
“You didn’t know.”
“Maybe if we’d paid more attention, we would have sensed something was wrong. We could have been there for you sooner. When you needed us.”
“It’s OK,” I lie.
“No. It isn’t.”
We’re both quiet for a minute, mulling that one over.
“But we want to be better now,” she finally says. “Your dad is trying so hard. And I am, too. You’re right. Things are different. Better. But we have a long, long way to go. And there’s still something missing.”
“What’s that?”
She smiles at me in her sad way. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I don’t know what to say.
“You, of course. It’s terrible not having you home with us.” She looks like she’s going to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t come home.”
“I know, honey. I know.” She leans toward me and hugs me and it feels awkward, but good, too.
“Why don’t you show me your room?” she asks when she pulls away from me, wiping her eyes.
When we stand up, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’ve grown so much in just four months. I can’t believe it.” Her eyes get all watery again.
“C’mon, Mom. Get yourself together.” I smile to show her I’m joking.
When we go into my room, my mom takes it all in. “I see Larry decorated it for you.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of like a shrine in here.”
“Kind of,” she says, looking at all the movies and trophies and other karate crap displayed on the bookcases.
“What happened here?” she asks, touching the rip in the Jackie Chan poster. “Did Larry get carried away?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It was already there,” I lie. I’m getting good at this.
She shakes her head. “Your uncle is such a character.”
“Yeah.”
“But he’s been good for you. I can tell.”
“Yeah,” I say again. “I guess so.”
Yeah.
I guess he has.
She sits down on the edge of my bed. “It’s so good to see you, honey. To see that you’re all right.”
I lean back against the wall, feeling her last words choke me.
This lie is just too big.
It’s like we’re pretending all over again, but instead of pretending that it’s normal to never see each other, we’re pretending it’s normal to be together. Seeing each other. Only maybe we’re not. Maybe we’re only seeing the pretend us. She doesn’t see the real me. She doesn’t even know who the real me is.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. Her worry line creases down the middle of her forehead.
She touches my arm, but I brush it off.
“I can’t do this,” I say. I understand now. This is why I didn’t want them to come. This is why I didn’t want to see them.
“What?” she asks.
“Pretend.”
“But I thought —”
“That everything’s fine,” I say guiltily. “Yeah. I know.”
“Josh, what’s wrong?” She looks genuinely surprised to learn that maybe
things aren’t as rosy as she thought. And I feel bad. Because we played the game so well earlier. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing since I got here. Except at night. Except when the baby wakes up and I freak out and —
“I thought you of all people would understand,” I say. “What it’s like. Why I’m here? Why I had to get away?”
“Josh, I —”
“Don’t you wonder?” I ask.
“Wonder what?”
“About him,” I say. “Your grandson. Don’t you think about him? Doesn’t it feel weird to know he’s out there somewhere?”
She looks away from me, as if I just slapped her across the face. And I feel so bad. So bad when I know she’s here because she loves me. But coming here was wrong. She should have asked. She should have talked to me and asked what I wanted for once. What I needed.
“Josh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you were —”
“Better? Right. Look at me, Mom! Where am I? Am I at high school with my best friends, living it up? No. I’m here. Yeah, I’m doing well in school. Whatever. But things are never going to be fine. OK? This isn’t something I can just put behind me. It’s in front of me. It’s beside me. It’s hanging over me. Can’t you see that? It will never go away. For the rest of my life I have to carry this. Just like — just like Ellie. And it’s all my fault.”
She starts to cry.
“Don’t!” I yell. And I feel like such a jerk for it. But it’s not fair, her crying. She’s not even supposed to be here.
“Hey,” Larry says. He’s standing in the doorway. “Everything OK?”
My mom wipes her eyes and shifts away from him so he can’t see her face.
“Josh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Everything’s OK. Everything’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.”
“Maybe Josh is right. Maybe we shouldn’t have come,” my mom says.
He turns on me. “What? You said that?”
“Not exactly.”
“What is wrong with you, Josh?” He walks over and sits next to my mom, putting his arm around her.
“I’m an asshole,” I say.