How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  I open it randomly in 1985.

  Josie was saying she felt like she was in the middle between me and Peggy. I told her that I thought she was pulling away and I felt that it was hard talking with her. In regards to Peg it’s been about 9 months since she’s talked to me, even at Maureen’s daughter’s Shower and Wedding in April it was obvious to everyone there that she was ignoring me. I’m having a real hard time with it, but it’s something I’m going to have to deal with. I’ve been praying a lot and asking God to lift it from me. I’ll try not to wait so long before I wright again. Time is just going by so quick…

  I stop reading momentarily, and close the diary shut. Shawn Mendes catches my eye. It’s the content of what the latter section of that page implies, but never states, about the trouble between her and my aunts Josie and Peggy – that awful, sick time. Like the tip of a sharp blade prodding at my chest, it forces me to close my eyes and take a deep breath before reading on.

  Can’t believe it’s 1985 already. Jo’s been working lots of extra hours now trying to save up for the school year. She’s already taken a loan but needs more to get by. I’ve been having some counselling with Wendy the therapist (Ron). This stuff with Peggy and the whole business with that husband of hers and Jo is hard. I still pray to God for help. I’m tired now, Got to get up extra early to let the car warm up for work. Need to buy stamps this week.

  I stop reading, confused then shocked. My mother’s handwriting has a break in the middle of the word therapist so it reads as two words: the rapist. Or has my brain done its own editing? Even after reading it twice I still see the same thing, the rapist (Ron), then, the whole business with that husband of hers and Jo.

  I think of Uncle Ron when he took me home in his truck that time, still a blur even now. I flip fast through the rest of the pages, re-read the letters she sent me over the years in search of more, but it’s the last of any mention of the troubles between her and Auntie Peggy. And that husband of hers.

  Four

  1985

  I’m twenty-three years old when I pull into the driveway of the little brown, two-bedroom family home where I grew up. The flawless, powder-blue sky shines through the dusty windshield of my mustard-coloured, two-door Gremlin. It feels like spring, a welcome time after a hard New England winter, although it’s still only February and the temperature is an unusual 55°F.

  I step out and pause, breathe it in. It’s been a good afternoon at my part-time job, but it’s not long after I’m through the front door when I sense something is different about Ma. She smiles too much, is a bit too interested in hearing how things are going with me, her eyes fixating on mine as I offer up details of the mundane. Her usual stoicism, aided by the calming effects of her smoking habit, is absent. My mother is most at ease with a cigarette in one hand and its best friend in the other, an alcoholic drink – a frosty beer at a summer barbecue, after work at the kitchen table. As years pass this will change to a large wine glass filled with her favourite, a pretty pink Californian Zinfandel. I too enjoy my cigarettes. A drink or two. Or three, even more. We are a family like many others around us who cosy up over cheap booze within the confines of smoke-filled rooms. On this occasion her speech is quick and her hands shake when she lights up. She opens up eventually.

  ‘Now, I want you to know first that I’m always going to be behind you. In whatever you say, whatever you do, OK? I don’t want you ever to forget that I love you, right? Please, Jo, just tell me you know that.’

  ‘Well, yeah, OK, but what do you mean, Ma? Understand what?’

  ‘I just want to say that first because I don’t want you to feel bad with what I’m going to tell you. OK, so please promise me, Jo, that you will always know I love you and I’m behind you all the way. Always.’

  I guess this may have something to do with her ongoing troubles with my father. Will they stay together? Will she divorce him? But she’s quick to dismiss my assumption.

  ‘It’s not about Dad. He’s something else altogether, he is,’ she sighs, looking at the ceiling, then returns her gaze to me. ‘I haven’t told you that I’ve been having counselling with Wendy. You know, Wendy, the one who did the family sessions with us when your brother was in the hospital? You remember her, right?’

  It would have taken a lot for me to forget the pale, stick figure of a woman whose love of shorter skirts drew attention to her bowed legs. We – my mother, my brother and I – spent a few years in weekly family therapy at the fancy private mental hospital, paid by my mother’s work health insurance plan, with bendy-Wendy-the-therapist trying to steer us out of our mess. My father stormed out on the third session, never to return.

  At this later point, we are done with the family therapy stage but it looks like my mother has now found a way to attend to her own issues. This seems to me a good thing.

  ‘Wendy? You’ve been seeing her for therapy on your own? That’s great, but why didn’t you tell me?’ I have turned on my encouraging voice.

  ‘I’ve been going a few months now, just for me. You know, I’ve had trouble with stuff, like knowing what to do about my sister. I’ve been wanting us to be sisters again. To be close again.’

  I nod. I’ve assumed, after seeing Auntie Peggy and my mother together at various times over the last few years, that their troubles are over and everything has resumed to its previous state of absurd normalcy. I’ve played along too, trying to pick up where my aunt and I left off, acting as if nothing ever happened, like we were as close as we were before, smiling over coffee or tea, but it’s never been the same.

  She hesitates at points to take long drags of her cigarette. I do the same. She sips her instant coffee then continues. ‘So, Wendy’s been good for me because I’ve needed to work some things out, figure out what to do. You know, I’ve been feeling really bad about everything. But Jo, what I’m going to say doesn’t mean anything about the way I feel about you. You know that I’ve always believed you, right?’

  Ma’s words take me back, fill me with dark thoughts. My body feels heavy suddenly. I feel my mouth drop open, I bring my elbows to the table, sink my head into my hands and keep it there a minute. I fight back the urge to cry.

  ‘Oh, Ma.’ I let out a heavy sigh. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Ma? What do you have to figure out?’ I ask with growing impatience, head and eyes still lowered. ‘I thought everything was OK now.’

  ‘Well, your Auntie Peggy said…she said she wants me to apologise to her, to say that everything you told me about Ron was a misunderstanding. She wants me to say this to her as a condition for us to be sisters again. She wants me to sign something, an agreement between me and her. Peggy will write it. But Wendy said I should talk to you first. Make sure it’s OK with you.’

  She’s looking at me with questioning eyes, waiting, trying to read my expression, but I can’t hold her gaze. I’m aware of an odd physiological change, the sort of thing that might preclude a speechless moment. A pull at the throat, a tight banding sensation across the chest. An increase in body temperature works its way up to my neck and face.

  Ma sets her unsteady cigarette hand onto mine. Her pale, blue-grey eyes are now watery and almost fearful. Her upturned brows cause slight wrinkling in her otherwise smooth forehead. She wants my blessing, my permission to say it’s OK to sign an agreement, one that my aunt will write. It will be my mother’s admission that her daughter, Jo, when she was fifteen years old, told an untrue, imagined story about her sister Peggy’s husband.

  Everything happened gradually over a few months in 1976 when fifteen-year-old me was babysitting for Auntie Peggy and her husband, Ron, who had three boys. The story went something like this:

  Auntie Peggy had to get going fast with babies as she married later than the other sisters at the ripe age of twenty-nine. The little ones are sweet, lively things, all born around a year after each other, age three, four and five. Billy is the oldest, Matthew or Matty is the middle, and Christopher, Chrissie, is the littlest. Their faces are flawless in t
heir innocence, but it’s Chrissie who stands out. He’s the one with the curious big-brown eyes, long eyelashes, and delicate curls. He doesn’t seem to resemble the others at all, not even his parents, and I make up all sorts of stories in my head about why this must be, an angel sent from heaven. But they’re all special when they’re this young, when they look up to me in awe, tell me I’m so pretty, and are captivated when I read to them. It will all change, I know, but just to hang on to the way they are now is enough.

  Over the past month or so it becomes apparent that Uncle Ron has his eyes on me. His interest grows obvious over a series of provocative looks and gestures. Hey, you look nice tonight, got a date later? You got a boyfriend? Why don’t you have a boyfriend? What do you do for fun on weekends? You wanna beer? I won’t tell. It’s nice and cold. There you go.

  This all occurs while I wait for Auntie Peggy to return home from her weekly bowling night. They don’t have much money, can’t afford to pay too much, so they like having me to babysit because I help them out on the cheap. Uncle Ron arrives earlier from his job as a mechanic fixing eighteen-wheeler trucks and Auntie gets back around thirty minutes later, although sometimes he tells her to take her time, have a drink with the girls, he says. Then when she’s home Uncle Ron usually drives me back and he’s ever so friendly and interested in me and all I have to say about the world, and sometimes he takes the long way just so we can finish talking. But it’s an unexpected visit from him one Saturday afternoon on an unusually hot day in May at the local pharmacy where I work one day after school and on Saturdays, that confirms he’s up to something. He’s never bought anything there before.

  ‘Just passing by,’ he says, all smiles, hovering by the register with some shaving cream. ‘Hey, I can give you a ride home later. Got some errands to do. Can take you home at two when you finish.’

  I smile back, wondering what kind of errands he has to do. I spend a quick second with this, but the question leaves my mind when I think how nice it would be to get a lift home, no one’s ever offered before. And it’s only a few minutes away by truck.

  ‘OK thanks Uncle Ron.’

  ‘I’ll be right outside,’ he says, holding his smile.

  Later the ride home turns into a longer detour out to the quiet, tree-lined streets of the pleasantly fragrant suburbs to get an ice-cream, where large, luscious green parks are in abundance.

  ‘What’s the big rush?’ says Uncle Ron. He pulls up to an ice-cream stand next to the corner shop that displays three old-fashioned gumball machines in the window, all full of pink and blue gumballs. I remember chewing mouthfuls as a child and having competitions with friends to see who could blow the largest bubble. Without looking at me, he says, ‘What kind do you want?’

  I pause for a second. ‘Chocolate’s my favourite. And I like sugar cones. Can I have it with jimmies?’

  He turns to me with a little grin. ‘You can have anything you want. You wanna sundae? Banana split? Anything you want. My treat.’

  ‘No. Chocolate’s good. The soft kind with jimmies. In a sugar cone.’

  He catches me watching him hand over the money, then winks. He returns with the ice-creams, his a soft vanilla in a small cup that he passes to me.

  ‘Hold that for a second.’ He starts the engine, puts on his sunglasses. ‘Let’s go somewhere nice and eat these things.’

  It only takes a few minutes to find a secluded spot off the main road near the woods. There’s talk about what I’m studying at school and what I usually do during my leisure time, and I feel a strange uneasiness and a sense of freedom simultaneously. Following this, as I relish the smell of clean air, indulge in the taste and cool relief of my ice-cream with jimmies, Uncle Ron begins to tell all. It appears he and Auntie Peggy are having troubles. I am now his confidante.

  ‘It’s this Irish-Catholic thing of hers. She’s like that, wanting all these kids, right? Kind of uptight, doesn’t want to do things that are natural for couples.’ Then, in a slightly deeper voice I don’t recognise, he says, looking straight ahead through the windshield, ‘Why can’t people just express their love in the bedroom?’

  A rush of heat travels to my face as I imagine my aunt and uncle in bed together. I blush harder when I think of my drive-in date Tommy Stewart’s reaction last weekend after I told him I wouldn’t give him a hand job.

  Uncle Ron turns to face me now, takes off his sunglasses so I can see that his dark eyes mean business with those deep laugh-line creases surrounding them, but I try not to look. He’s quiet, waiting for an answer, then reaches over me, slowly, opens the glove compartment, searches for his cigarettes, touches my knee with his other hand, accidentally of course, but lets it sit there for a few seconds. Maybe longer. I respond a bit too late with the nervous laugh I have now mastered.

  ‘Huh,’ I giggle. ‘Wow. I don’t know what to say.’ I try hard with my tongue to catch the melting chocolate ice-cream as it drips over the sides of the cone onto my fingers.

  He sits back and lights up. After a quiet few drags he passes the cigarette to me and I look at it in front of me, surprised. He’s teasing. He’ll pull it away when I reach for it. ‘Go on. I won’t tell,’ he says.

  Cone in one hand, I take the cigarette in the other and try to look cool, but Lucky Strikes aren’t like the Marlboro Lights I usually smoke; harsh against the back of my throat, it hits me like a sudden wildfire and I cough uncontrollably.

  He laughs. ‘Gimme that thing.’

  But I hang onto it and our fingers touch as I recover and try again, show him what I’m made of. A long inhale, slow exhale. A wave of dizziness. I close my eyes. When I open them I see he is staring at me. He searches his cigarette pack again and now he takes out a joint.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, surprised. ‘How’d you get that?’ He doesn’t respond. ‘That’s not a cigarette.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you can tell the difference, a grown-up girl like you.’ His eyes are steady on the joint, only casting a quick, knowing glance and smile my way. ‘I got my ways.’

  ‘You smoke pot, Uncle Ron? Wow. Bet Auntie Peggy wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘No. She sure wouldn’t, so don’t go telling her. I only do it now and then. Just a little buzz. Nothing wrong with that, right?’

  When it’s my turn I inhale deeply and hold it down as long as I can. We pass it between us until half is gone.

  ‘Can’t smoke the whole thing,’ Uncle Ron says. ‘It’s way too potent to do it all in one go.’

  And I laugh, my head feeling lighter. What a riot. Uncle Ron, getting high with his niece. More laughing. I can’t stop myself.

  After he stubs it out, he moves closer while reaching over me again to put the cigarette pack in the glove compartment. His arm brushes against my left shoulder and breast. This tickles just a tiny bit, but I manage to hold back the giggles. He closes the compartment door and lowers his hand to my knee again. This time he doesn’t take it away. Then he moves it slowly up my thigh and down again.

  ‘Nice legs.’ His eyes study them. ‘Nice.’

  He coughs a little, clears his throat. His hands are clean but I notice his fingers are oil-stained under the nails and at the tips. I’m wearing a short denim skirt and feel the heat of his hand on my skin when he squeezes my thigh, and it’s so, so hot in the truck, even with the windows open, even after eating the ice-cream. He’s wearing a T-shirt and it’s the first time I’ve noticed the muscles in his arms, the way they flex when he squeezes me.

  I’m feeling weak and giddy. The remnants of the ice-cream, Lucky Strikes and weed, settle, sticky and dry in my mouth. There’s a force holding me back from forming coherent words. ‘No,’ I giggle. ‘My legs are fat. They’re fat.’ I let my head fall back and my eyelids flutter shut.

  ‘Don’t have to stop the fun there,’ he says, sitting back. ‘Got me thirsty now. I got some cans of Coke in the back. And some whisky.’

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, puts on his sunglasses and makes a move outside to the back of the truck. I
t’s a two-door pick-up, the same kind my dad drives with a closed back storage area to keep tools and things like a cooler box. I close my eyes again and hear him fumbling, but it seems to take him a long time. I giggle some more and think, whisky sounds good. With Coke. I like the sound of that. Why not? I’ll try anything once.

  He shows up at my passenger window and without speaking hands over my drink in a tall plastic cup. I watch him sweep his free hand, the one that’s not holding his drink, through his hair as he saunters in front of the truck on the way to his side. I think to myself how those sunglasses make him look so much younger.

  ‘Just what we need,’ he says, getting in. ‘Go ahead and try it. Bet you’ve had whisky before.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Sure I have.’

  In a quiet, serious tone, he says, ‘Bottoms up.’ When he reaches to tap my cup with his he holds his there for longer, his face still and expressionless.

  The drink is strong, but mixed with the cold, sweet Coke, it goes down easily. Wow, I think, he must have just bought the cans nice and cold before picking me up. And while I’m pretty stoned now, I know I’m always up for an alcoholic buzz.

  ‘Yeah, this is good,’ I say, licking my lips, looking into the cup. I take another couple of swigs. ‘My friends would…they would really, really like this.’

  He says nothing, leaning back on his door, and continues to stare at me.

  I knock back more and say with a noticeable slur, ‘I really…yeah, really like it.’

  It doesn’t take me long to finish. Uncle Ron goes to the back of the truck again and returns with another one for me, not him.

  ‘This is soooo good, Uncle Ron. Ron. Ronny! Hah. Ronny. Does anyone ever call you that? That sounds funny.’

  I notice he smiles a little but keeps quiet while he watches me laughing hysterically over nothing, almost to the point of tears.