by Kat Spears
This speech is delivered for Dr. Lineberger’s benefit. I’ve heard it all before. Mom wants everyone’s sympathy and doesn’t want to share.
“I get it,” I say loudly, projecting my voice to shut down anyone who tries to interrupt. “It was hard on you. But that’s all you ever say. You talk about how hard it was to manage the house or how worried you are about money, but you’ve never once just said you were sad that Dad is gone. You never once said you miss him or miss having him around. All you care about is yourself. You don’t give a shit about Dad.”
Our conversation degenerates the same way it always does, except now we were paying Dr. Lineberger for the privilege of having the conversation in front of her.
“I think,” Dr. Lineberger says calmly, as if there aren’t two lunatics in her office, “that it’s important to acknowledge that you are both grieving in your own way. And we’ve got plenty of ground to cover. Right now, I’m going to suggest that we start to wean Dane off the antidepressants by gradually reducing the dosage.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Mom says quickly. From the way she looks at me I know she would say more if I wasn’t there.
“I’m going to be there with you every step of the way,” Dr. Lineberger says. “I’ll meet with each of you individually at least once or twice so you can talk about your feelings without competing with each other. Then we can come back together and see what we can do to start mending some of these hurts. How does that sound to both of you?”
Mom shakes her head and presses her lips together as she sits back into the couch. She doesn’t look like she’s trying not to cry, more like she wishes she had strangled me at birth with the umbilical cord.
“I can help you to learn how to speak to each other in a way that gives validation for the things both of you are feeling,” Dr. Lineberger says. “Really, Trudi, Dane’s brain is still developing. Our kids look like adults at this age, but they still have a long way to go when it comes to mental and emotional development. I think we should try reducing Dane’s medications and really give talk therapy a chance to address the issues you face as a family. Maybe in the future we will decide that he really needs medication, but I think it has been provided as a crutch by doctors to avoid the real work that a healthy mental state demands. I’m going to give you some literature about mindfulness meditation and am going to recommend that we meet at least once a week for a start. How does that sound?”
“I’m willing to try,” Mom says.
“Whatever,” I mumble.
We leave Dr. Lineberger’s office in silence, the smell of the action figures now nauseating. When we get to the car Mom stops and, still silent, stands next to the driver’s side door without unlocking it.
“What?” I ask finally.
The silence continues, but now it looks like she can’t say anything, as if she is trying not to cry.
“I just…” She stops and sniffles and presses her finger to the corner of her eye, refusing to allow tears an escape. “I guess I just … I’ve never said it out loud before, what I’ve been thinking. I really have been feeling like you wished it had been me who died, instead of Dad.”
“Don’t be crazy, Mom. Please? Of course I don’t want you to be dead.”
“I just mean if you had to choose. I know you were crazy about him. He was a lot of fun.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He was. In fact, he would have found this conversation hilarious.”
Mom laughs at that. “Let’s go home,” she says. “We need to get dressed for the party.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Well, that’s too bad, I guess.”
* * *
Even though I’ve suffered through a Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s, each milestone a reminder that Dad is gone, it still hasn’t even been a year since he died. There are other milestones to dread. Dad’s birthday, my birthday, the anniversary of Dad’s death—all waiting in the not-too-distant future, looming shadows like monsters in the closet.
Tonight, another milestone, the annual party that Dad’s law firm, Feint (rhymes with “taint”) & Riley, hosts for clients and staff. The annual party started almost twenty years ago as a small happy hour and has grown into a full-blown black-tie dinner at the country club. In reality we are celebrating the fact that Feint & Riley, specialists in family law, have made a shit-ton of money by dismantling families, piece by piece. Even if Feint & Riley make you a winner in litigation against your former loved ones, you’re still a loser.
In McLean, divorce is a lucrative business because most people have plenty of assets to fight over. Kids, who are always part of the negotiations, are treated just like any other asset—or liability, depending on your worldview.
Before he died, Dad’s best friend and business partner was a guy named Charles Feint, who, for some inexplicable reason, goes by the nickname “Chuck.” Chuck and Dad had been friends since law school, though the way they talked made it seem like they spent a lot more time partying than studying law. They were also the best man at each other’s weddings and Chuck is my godfather, though my baptism was the last time I was in church before Dad’s funeral. I guess my parents thought it was only necessary to involve God in birth and death situations.
Chuck’s marriage ended in divorce, but, unfortunately, not before the marriage spawned a bad seed. Eric. Dad was Eric’s godfather so Dad had no choice but to act as if he really liked Eric, though liking Eric is almost impossible. I spent a lot of time with Eric when we were kids, when our families did everything together. Eric was one of those kids who makes up the rules to games as he goes, always strictly for personal gain. He fixed the system so that I could never be the winner, even though he’s only a few months older than I am.
Most of the time Dad judged people pretty harshly and wasn’t afraid to share his thoughts out loud. He would say things like, “Dane, half the shit-stains working for me have law degrees from top colleges, but they wouldn’t survive a day in the wild.” That was an important qualification for Dad, being able to survive in the wild. I think he was speaking strictly metaphorically because Dad’s idea of the wild was something like staying in a hotel that has a lower-than-three-star rating.
Eric has always been a jerk, but these days he’s a total mess. He is always high and always in trouble, even if most of the time he’s not getting caught for it. He’s also rich and good-looking, so he’s pretty much untouchable. His full initials are EFF, something his parents should have had the foresight to avoid, and so his Twitter handle is @EFFincool, which pretty much sums up his value to society.
Once, Eric stole a credit card from his ex-girlfriend’s dad and charged seven hundred fifty dollars’ worth of Uber Eats deliveries before he got caught. I’d like to think I have enough imagination to use a stolen credit card for something other than food delivery. Eric got caught because every time he used the credit card he had the food delivered to the same address—his mom’s house. Evidence suggests Eric is either the most epically stupid person on the planet, or the most confident. I believe he is both.
I think Eric only breaks the law because he’s bored and entitled, which is a lot worse than stealing because, say, you’re actually starving. If Eric wasn’t rich, he’d be in juvenile detention, for sure. But he barely even got in trouble for the whole credit card thing. All he had to do was earn back the money by interning in his dad’s office for part of the summer, the part he didn’t spend at the Outer Banks in North Carolina with his mom. The former Mrs. Chuck Feint got the beach house in the divorce and spends half the summer there with Eric, where both of them drink too much to avoid their feelings.
Tonight, Eric and I end up standing near each other in the crowded ballroom. It’s not as if he wants to be around me any more than I want to be around him, but we have both felt out the corner that is the farthest point from the podium where Chuck stands with a microphone to thank everyone for choosing Feint & Riley for all of their family law needs.
C
huck doesn’t give Eric or me special mention in the speech, mostly because we don’t have any particular accomplishments to celebrate. Eric’s not going to college next year either, instead taking a year to party in Europe before he starts college. A “gap year” in McLean is code for a kid who didn’t get accepted to his top choices for college. Chuck is paying for Eric to go on his trip to Europe, but I think that’s because Chuck really wants to pretend like Eric doesn’t exist, not that he has any hopes that exposure to culture will make Eric a better person.
I turn now to look at Eric, to gauge his reaction to his father’s speech. He catches my eye as he’s pouring whiskey from a flask into his ginger ale and gestures with the flask to offer it to me. I shake my head no, and glance around to see if anyone has noticed his illicit drink.
As I always do in the company of Eric, I feel insignificant and ugly by contrast. Even if he’s a complete tool, he meets every qualification for alpha male. He’s a few inches taller than I am, his shoulders a few inches broader, and, I’m sure, his dick is a few inches longer.
Chuck takes the time to talk about Dad, to tell a funny story about him from when they were in law school together. It’s a story I have heard many times, about the time Dad made homemade wine, which not only got you drunk, but later made whoever drank it have red pee.
Dad used to tell that story, but he included the part about how at first no one admitted their pee was red, all on their own convinced that they had some incurable sexually transmitted infection. Mom hates the story. She used to get irritated every time Dad told it at a social gathering. “Don’t, Craig,” she would say with a look that was at once annoyed and pleading, but Dad would just laugh and tell the story anyway.
In Chuck’s version of the story, he leaves out the part about the STI scare, and Mom doesn’t seem to mind the story now that Chuck is telling it. Then Chuck raises his glass and we all have a toast to Dad and his homemade wine. Which makes my throat tighten and my eyes fill with tears for about the tenth time that evening.
And then … the Announcement, the good news we’ve all been waiting to hear.
Now that Dad is dead, Chuck is going to sell the business they built together. Feint & Riley is about to be swallowed whole by the firm of Cargill, Cargill, Cargill & Cargill—possibly the least creative name ever conceived for a company, and a testament to the narcissism of wealthy people, that it isn’t enough to have your name on a company logo only once.
Chuck says how grateful he is for Mom’s support of the transition. She still has an interest in the business and owns Dad’s 50 percent share. Mom stands beside Chuck at the podium, smiling like a politician’s wife. Chuck thanks her for her support of him and the decisions he has made to run the business on his own through Dad’s illness.
Chuck puts a hand on Mom’s waist, just above her right hip, and holds her close, so their bodies touch from shoulder to thigh. It isn’t a brotherly gesture, or even a friendly one. As far as I’m concerned, they might as well be making out in front of the crowded room.
As insignificant as I am, no one notices as I study the faces of the guests. My cheeks flame with a blush as I search for their judgment. I expect to see heads dip together in whispers, to see shock or even disgust on their faces.
But, as I look around, I realize that no one thinks there is anything strange about Mom and Chuck as a couple. Eric doesn’t care. Chuck has been divorced from Eric’s mother for almost ten years and has had many girlfriends in that time. The fact that Chuck is now in a relationship with Mom probably seems like an upgrade to him.
What Mom and Chuck are doing is disgusting. But no one else seems to care.
I am alone in my horror.
Looking back now, I can see that Dad’s funeral was like a first date for Mom and Chuck. They got dressed up and had their friends around and even had the event catered by the Lebanese Taverna, which is really uncool because that was Dad’s favorite restaurant. Why would you have someone’s favorite food at their funeral? I feel like that should be a faux pas for the obvious reason that the dead person is the only one who can’t enjoy it.
Mom and Chuck being so close seems natural to everyone but me. And the party seems like a celebration to everyone. But me.
For me, this party is just another reminder that Dad is gone and isn’t coming back. And then I wish, perhaps for the millionth time, that I could leave and never come back, too.
* * *
After Chuck’s speech there is food and wine and champagne passed around on trays. If you want liquor you have to pay for it yourself at the bar, which is kind of lame. Mom made all of the arrangements for the party herself. She made such a big deal about how much work it was you would think she had an actual job. Between yoga and massages and facials and shopping, it seems to me the only real job Mom has is taking care of herself.
Mom and Chuck are moving through the crowd, mingling with everyone at the party, while Eric and I hug the edge of the room like we’re at a middle-school dance.
Eric offers the flask of whiskey to me again, and even though I want to take some, I say no. I worry about somebody seeing me, though I’m not sure why. Nobody here seems to even be aware of my existence.
“Shit, it’s already nine o’clock,” Eric says after checking his phone for what seems like the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes. “I want to get out of here.”
“So, go,” I say.
“I don’t want to listen to the bitching Dad will do if I leave too early.”
A waiter with a tray stops to offer us some appetizers and Eric takes his time looking over the little bits of food to pick the largest and best for himself.
By the time Eric finishes selecting his food the waiter has grown impatient and moves away without offering the tray to me. I’m hungry and start to raise my hand to take one of the appetizers rejected by Eric, but the waiter turns too quickly, and I am left with no other option but to pretend I had been raising my hand to scratch my neck.
“What are you doing tonight?” Eric asks when the waiter is gone.
“This.”
“This party is totally lame,” Eric says as he glances around at the crowd. Almost everyone at the party is really old, at least our parents’ age or older. They stand in small groups talking quietly. Eric’s upper lip twists in disgust as he surveys the room. “It’s like a wake but without a dead body to make it just a little bit interesting. No offense.”
“Everything that comes out of your mouth is offensive.”
“So, what are you doing later? It’s Saturday night. You’re not going out after this?”
“Why? Is there a party or something?”
It’s too late. He’s already forgotten about our conversation as he’s looking at his phone again. “Shit,” Eric says. “This girl will not stop messaging me. I slept with her, like, one time, and now she thinks we’re in a relationship or something. I’ve got to block her.”
“Well, if you don’t like her, why did you sleep with her?” I’ve never done so much with a girl that I could define it as “sleeping with her,” but if I did, I would be amazed if she messaged me after the fact.
Shortly after I started at McLean High School I overheard Eric bragging in the locker room about having already paid for two abortions. As if it was some kind of competition that he was winning. Just the thought of being put in that position myself is enough to keep me a virgin for the rest of my life. And yet Eric treated it as if it was a joke. I feel sorry for those girls. They probably slept with Eric, probably even did it without using protection, because they were so happy to have the attention of a popular, good-looking guy. And then they found out the hard way that he is an unprincipled dick who only cares about himself.
“She’s hot, I guess,” Eric says, dismissing the girl and the ability to sleep with any girl he wants as a minor irritation. “But I’m definitely going to block her, because next she’ll be messaging me something about how she’s worried because we didn’t use protection. As if I’m
going to infect her with something.”
I am not worried about STIs because I haven’t had the courage to even suggest the removal of pants on the two occasions when I’ve made out with a girl. It’s just one more thing to worry about. “Statistically speaking,” I say, “you’re more likely to contract an STI than to graduate from college.”
“It creeps me out that you even know shit like that.”
“It creeps me out that I have to share a bathroom with someone who will definitely contract an STI.”
“Girls are all the same,” Eric says with a weary sigh, ignoring my insult. “You know what I mean?”
“No,” I say with a mystified shake of my head. And truly, I don’t know. There’s only one girl I care about, but I’ve never told her because the prospect that she will laugh in my face if I ever did tell her is too real to even think about it. “I don’t go out looking for random hookups.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I’m not looking for a random girl,” I say. “I want the girl.”
“Sure. Okay,” Eric says. “That sounds exactly like something a guy who can’t get a girl would say.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Eric asks. “You’re even more depressing to be around than usual.”
“This is a party for my dad’s law firm. And my dad is dead. You have no idea what that’s like, okay? No idea.”
“I’m sorry,” Eric says, and for a second I think I’ve managed to make him feel bad. “I stopped listening as soon as you mentioned your feelings again. You’re always ear-raping people with your problems. Doesn’t your mom pay for someone you can talk to? Here. Hold this,” he says as he holds his drink out for me to take as he digs in his pocket for something. Once I’m not holding Eric’s drink for him he loses interest in me and interacts with his phone instead.
Mom catches me on my way to the bathroom and insists that I come and meet the Cargills, the family that will own the law firm Dad spent his entire life-energy creating.