by Lisa Acerbo
“We’re good friends.” At least my voice resonates normally when I answer.
“Right.” She shrugs off my response. She hooks my arm in hers like we are best friends. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
I’m nervous, but his brother and sisters are so accepting and friendly that the conversation flows even for someone as awkward as me. I’m sure the beer that Kyle puts in my hand when he returns from playing with the kids outside helps. Thanksgiving dinner, which is served at three different tables to accommodate everyone, includes the traditional turkey and sides, but each visiting household, from close cousin to distant relative, adds a dish. I sample everything from shrimp and fish and pasta to asparagus wrapped in bacon and creamy parmesan acorn squash. And, of course, turkey. Lots of turkey. By the end of the night, I’m stuffed and exhausted, falling asleep in Kyle’s car as we drive back to campus.
Chapter 5
December 14
Most people understand there’s a difference between love and lust, especially when you continue to love your parents even after they hurt you throughout your life. You probably believe that one is a purer emotion than the other. But what happens when the lines blur, and where does obsession fit into it all? Does your head ever hurt from trying to figure love out and realizing there is no concrete definition? You ever watch the movie Trainwreck? Amy Schumer talks about how she wants to marry the best sex guy.
Her sister replies, “No you don’t. That’s a creepy guy. Best sex you’ve ever had guy is in jail.”
Sometimes, a comedy movie has more insight than a Shakespeare play. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter because you’re not learning anything from either of them.
* * * *
I’m sitting in lab class twenty minutes before it starts. I’ve already read and annotated the material on bioethics, gene transfer, and cloning. The room is peaceful and lonely, just the way I like it. Jace has not stopped texting. Most of them are harmless, asking to get together as friends, but once in a while his anger leaks through. I open my laptop and Google ‘what to do when you have an angry ex-boyfriend.’ Some people recommend a restraining order, others say to carry a weapon. I’m not planning on purchasing a gun, but some mace in my backpack might be wise.
I’m so focused on reading the information, I don’t realize anyone is behind me until Rickey peers over my shoulder.
“What ‘cha looking at?”
I slam down the cover, as embarrassed as if I had been watching porn. “Nothing.” I lie.
“What do you think today’s lab will be about?” He sits down next to me.
“I didn’t scan the syllabus, but the bovine mutation last week was interesting.”
“Do you want to grab coffee after class? That way, we can bang the lab out and not have to worry about it later in the week. My schedule is really jammed.”
I shrug. “Sure.” I don’t really have anything important to do, and coffee is always a welcome plus. “Starbucks?”
“Too crowded. How about Jones’ Java?”
“Okay,” I say as other students start to enter the room and take their seats. The teaching assistant arrives not long after.
The lab goes well, and after class, we head out for coffee. Rickey was right. The place is quiet, with only a few students, noses in books, at assorted tables. We pick a large table in the back, lay out our books and backpacks to save our places, and go order. We get the actual lab work on fluorescent mice and Dolly the sheep done quickly. It’s fairly easy to calculate the data, and I offer to type up the lab and send Rickey a draft for the weekend to review. I’d rather type it up myself than trust someone else to do the work even though Rickey has always come through with assignments in the past.
“Are you graduating this year?” I ask as I finish off my second caramel latte. There’s enough caffeine and sugar buzzing through my body to make me feel light, full of life.
“Not sure. I’m pre-med and got a late start.”
I scrutinize him. He does seem older than the other students, and I’m shocked I’ve never noticed. Must be all the superhero shirts he wears.
“Pre-med. That’s impressive.”
He shrugs. “I was working with the elderly at a rehab facility and realized, without a degree, I’d be taking them to the bathroom for the rest of my life. I love the science stuff. It’s the people I have a hard time with.”
“What do you mean?”
He shifts his glasses back up on his nose. “Most people cause their own problems. How do you help a person who doesn’t want to help themselves? Take obesity. Instead of the person following a strict diet and exercise plan, we give them surgery.”
“Surgery works.”
He shrugs. “Does it?”
I’m too happy with my sugar buzz for a serious conversation. I thrust my mug aside. “All set?” I ask.
“Yup.” He stands and hovers as I organize my backpack and squeeze by the table. With his presence so close, I realize he’s taller than I originally assumed.
We stroll back to campus and talk about class and the school in general. He lives alone in an apartment, and next time we need to meet, the two of us decide to go there to get our work done. It will be quiet, and I can avoid the need to explain anything about him to Tanya.
* * * *
All too soon, I drive home for the Christmas holiday break. I can’t think of an excuse not to go. Three and a half weeks of family fun. Not.
In the car, I obsess over Brice. After the night in his office, I expect change, but the next day, it is as if nothing happened between us. Then I obsess over my family. It’s a long break, close to a month, and I have no idea what to do with myself, except deal with more crazy family. Uncle Ed was nothing compared to my father.
I fixate on grades. I checked my class averages online before leaving, and two hadn’t been posted yet. Public Speaking, as expected, is an A-, and I’m mad at myself for not trying harder. I hope the other classes balance it out. I’ll be devastated if I get more minuses. It’s stupid to care. People tell me to relax, but I can’t. I’ve failed myself and my parents when I let my grades slip. I vow to work harder, and then realize I better make an appointment with Sandra. This expectation of perfection could get out of hand.
Memories of the past haunt me and even the music blasting from the radio can’t banish them. Holidays are a time for family love and joy. Eggnog by the fireplace, toys under the tree, big dinners, and football games. Children are supposed to be happy, and I guess for some part, I was. But what I most remember is tiptoeing to the Christmas tree early in the morning.
“Don’t wake your father,” my mother would say, and my sister and I would listen, or else there’d be hell to pay.
Today, I’m focused on my early Christmas Eve day meal with my father at Mario’s Pizza Palace. I tell myself to avoid the memories of previous holidays and be optimistic that this year will be different. Yet, I’m alone and grudgingly so. My sister is seven years older, the reason my parents married and possibly divorced. Wisely, she lives Las Vegas and never visits, not even for emergencies or deaths in the family. We don’t talk, but we do send annual Christmas cards. I received one from her last week. Actually, it was a postcard of a fancy casino. So touching. She probably went out of her way to snag it off the freebies given to guests.
As soon as I arrive at the restaurant, I notice Antonio, my dad. He watches from across the parking lot as I exit the dented gray Toyota Matrix. It’s the car he bought for me when I left for college. He tries to be a good dad, but some days, it’s hard to put my family history all in perspective.
I dawdle. He waves and then slowly attacks the steps to the dark-paned, glass-front door of the restaurant.
As I follow up the cold, gray slate steps behind him, I notice he’s hugging the rail, slowly making his way with the gait of a man much older than his forty-nine years. He was born in Italy, the eldest son of a poor, uneducated farming family. At age fifteen, he fled his native country for a better life in America
and joined the Army until his temper led to a discharge. Then he met my mom at a church dance, and the rest is history.
A frown forms, and I wonder if he’s doing okay. He’s always been so robust, but judging by the way he huffs and puffs, that pack-a-day smoking habit can’t be good for him.
He greets me inside with gruff acknowledgement, every bit the stereotype Italian father. Olive skin, full head of once-black hair slowly fading to gray, brown eyes with a hint of madness mixed with intelligence, dimmed by years of smoking. Belted tan workpants hold a blue work shirt over his belly, which has only slightly rounded from years of large plates of pasta and hearty bread. Stenciled on the pocket of the shirt are the words “D & K Construction Services,” a tribute to his two daughters. I’m amazed we are related because Dad and I look little alike. My mom must have some stellar DNA or maybe I’m adopted. Or a lost princess. One can fantasize.
We find a booth and slip out of our coats. Feeling the need for order, I arrange the salt, pepper, garlic, and hot pepper in a straight line. The red checker plastic table cloth is sticky. I inch my paper place mat closer and make sure all the ends of the silverware on my napkin are aligned.
He sends me a smile. “I can’t believe you’ll be graduating in June.”
“It’s crazy, right? I’ll send you a ticket to graduation when I get them.”
“I’ll have to attend alone.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “I’m sure Mom wouldn’t mind if you sit next to her.” Then I remember the order of protection.
His voice snarls. “I’m not sitting next to her or her new husband.”
The words are said so viciously, I twitch.
“I want to send your sister some money. She wrote and told me she’s getting a condo, but with the divorce and buying your mom out of the house, I’m not sure how much I can give. I hope she can afford the place.”
“I’m sure she can,” I say. “She makes good money as a hotel manager. How is Katie? I haven’t talked to her lately.”
“She’s good. Sent me a Christmas card.”
“Me, too.” I envision the postcard with the Christmas tree and bright stars shining inside the atrium of a glittery gold casino. To me, it was her way of showing her perfect and bright her life is.
The message was simple, impersonal: “Merry Christmas, Sis.”
“If Norma and her family weren’t trying to ruin me, it might have all ended differently.” Antonio’s hand hits the table a little too hard. As usual, he’s wound up tight, itching for an excuse to get mad.
I stare at him, noticing his full head of hair greased with Vitalis, and wonder if he always had so many deep lines on his face. He’s so old. “Mom and Bob don’t really want to anything to do with the past. They’ve moved on and seem happy.”
“It’s all a lie they tell you. Bob’s as bad as your grandmother and mom.”
“Right.” The words are flat.
“This is the truth. Listen to me.” He drags a cigarette out of the box and puts it between his lips.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“I know,” he says. He picks up the menu and ponders his options.
Please don’t get loud and please don’t threaten to kill someone’s husband or wife or cousin with a baseball bat or steak knife, I silently pray as I stare at the menu, my eyes glued to the pasta dishes.
Panic builds behind my eyes, small shooting tornados about to take out the trailer park of my emotions. Luckily, part of my prayer comes true. He keeps his voice low and doesn’t threaten to kill anyone, at least not yet.
“Norma and her new husband are trying to hex me.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you mean by ‘hex you?’”
“Doesn’t matter. I have not forgotten how she got the neighbors to try and run me out of town. Didn’t work, did it?”
I use the best coping tool I know: distraction. “What are you thinking of getting? Want to split a pizza?”
Of course, he ignores my question.
“Remember when she tried to poison me?” His voice is low, a shared secret just between us. “I couldn’t eat anything she made that last six months before the divorce.”
I never believed for a moment my mom actually attempted to concoct a fatal poison. Truth is, she’s not that skillful of a cook. But she did keep secrets. Apparently, things between them went horribly wrong. She stayed because of me. Feel that guilt. Fun. When I left for college, my mother packed up all her belongings one morning and abandoned my father, which left me the only person around he confided in. Feel the joy.
The waiter arrives, and my dad orders coffee. I get water. When the drinks come, I watch him lift the coffee mug with nicotine-stained fingers. The effects of chain smoking and increasing poverty have welded lines on his face and silver to his hair, taken away his ability to breathe, but on the outside his body appears strong, muscles in his arms still evident from his years as a roofer and construction worker. It’s what’s going on inside that could be truly terrifying.
I can actually picture a few days from the long past when I happily watched my father put forth the foundation of the house he would build stone by stone. The memories are faded and dreamlike, pictures made of clouds. My smile sours as I remember more recent events.
As if reading my mind, Antonio launches into a tirade. “It’s your damned mother’s fault I’m struggling with the house. That will be yours one day, but the mortgage is so high now that I had to pay her half its worth. Her family drove us apart. Damn your grandparents for all their meddling.” His voice rises, and I scan the room, roses blooming in my cheeks. “Your mother and her family have been infringing on my rights since nineteen seventy-five.”
“That was before my time.” I snap my comeback, frustrated he can’t just sit here, eat a meal, and act normal. It’s Christmas, for hell’s bells sake. I try to engage the waiter. I fidget, nausea and anxiety on the rise. I want to order, eat, and leave.
“They started making trouble everywhere, double, triple. People all around me. Can’t trust anyone…”
Now I’m embarrassed and angry. “Too loud. Calm down before you get us tossed out.”
“Sorry, but they’re crossing people all the time. Your mother’s in charge of trying to kill me. She’s been at it for years. Her vipers are in the grass everywhere.”
“Lucky there are so many sidewalks for you to walk on.”
I stand. I’m frustrated his paranoia is out of control, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “I need to find the bathroom.” My hands shake a little as I flounder to the back of the restaurant. A dehumidifier in the corner runs, trying to lap up what must be a constant water leak. I avoid the puddle.
I’ve had enough and want to go home, but I can’t. I lock myself in a stall in the bathroom and take deep breaths. I check my watch and remind myself it’s only an hour, and I only visit my father a few times a year now that I live at school. I can do this. I wash my hands, staring at dusty art through the mirror.
I resolve to be strong.
“I’m back,” I say in an over cheery voice, “and starving. Let’s order.” I sit and peer at the menu.
My dad mumbles under his breath so softly that I’m unable to understand any of it, not that I want to. I peek up from the menu and into his watery, rheumatic eyes, which focus on me. I feel horrible for my unkind reflections and make a fist under the table, allowing my nails to dig into the flesh of my palm as penance.
“I have a Christmas present for you.” My dad gently pushes a badly-wrapped gift at me, and my mood dampens more.
“Thanks, Dad.” I open it to find a desk set complete with calendar, stapler, letter opener, pen holder, and gold pen. I’m touched by his thoughtfulness, but I want to cry. I don’t know how to cope. This mix of anger and love for my father, sitting here in public without the ability to deal with the situation, put me in a state of emotional overload.
“I’m getting spaghetti,” he announces.
My phone buzzes.
I haven’t heard from him for a while. I ignore the text.
Yes, this is my wonderful life.
#bestdayever
* * * *
After returning home that afternoon, I take Bitsy out for a walk before it’s time to head with my mom and Bob to my grandparents. The wiry rock- and mud-colored dog at my side is anxious to do her business on this steel-gray day. No snow, but the New England winter cuts through my purple jacket. I cover my mouth with my scarf, force my hat down on my head, and battle the icy wind as I round the corner near Mom’s boxy, raised ranch house in Shelton, Connecticut. I ignore the weather as I take a bunch of cute dog pictures, posting them to social media. I’ll add some holiday stickers to them when I get home and post even more. Home fades away, at least for the moment.
I’m not enjoying the prospect of seeing all my cousins later, and excuses run through my mind as I head down the road. The brief stroll from house to park is reassuring in its quiet. Sometimes, being alone is my only source of sanity. I climb a hill and loop along the sidewalk that borders the park entrance. Bitsy stops, intent on sniffing away the time, but I pull her forward.
Since it is Christmas Eve, my hope is that the park will be empty, but barking greets me. I stare, not sure what to do as I watch an unleashed dog scurry near, but then hear my name. I stare at the man calling me over until recognition dawns, and then I wave back at John, a fellow Catholic High School graduate. After graduation, he married at nineteen, bought a house with the help of his wife’s parents, and now works as a waiter. While not close, we keep in touch on Facebook. He signals me over with a shake of his hand as he watches his son repeatedly throw a ball to their border collie, who returns the ball with such force, the collie threatens to topple the four-year-old youngster.
“How are you?” He asks as Bitsy and the collie sniff each other’s butts. Bitsy tries to do the same with the boy. Wonderful. My dog has great manners.