Do-Overs

by Christine Jarmola

  Next to Uncle Harold was his new wife, Vanessa. Okay they had been married fifteen years—do the math and understand the situation—but in family vocabulary she would always be the new wife. And she wouldn’t ever be Aunt Vanessa, just Vanessa, “new wife.”

  People kept arriving: cousins, second cousins, cousins twice removed on Fridays with a full moon, friends and sometimes I suspected complete strangers who heard that the Lamberts put out a great spread on holidays. Hey, if the Obamas can have gatecrashers at their parties, the Lamberts could too. But none were the notorious relative I desperately needed to see. In all my years, she had never missed a family occasion, yet that was the Thanksgiving Crazy (or maybe not so Crazy) Aunt Charlotte decided to go AWOL.

  By noon there were around twenty relatives gathered in the den watching the football game and too many cooks helping to spoil the broth in the kitchen. My mother was in a panic because the turkey wouldn’t get done and was receiving every imaginable sort of unwanted advice on remedies for the situation.

  “Maybe we could stick it in the microwave,” was Vanessa’s suggestion. Obviously Uncle Harold hadn’t married her for her cooking skills. One look at her cleavage and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.

  “Humph,” was Aunt Maude’s thought on Vanessa’s culinary input and most anything else about Vanessa to be truthful. “Just turn the heat up to four-fifty. It’ll get done sometime. What time did you put it in?”

  To escape that brewing discussion I decided to wander to the front door once more and check for my crazy aunt’s arrival. She still wasn’t there. On into the den. There were plates of hor d’oevoures everywhere. I didn’t understand why my mom was stressed about getting dinner on the table. Nobody was going to starve in the Lambert household that day.

  My dad scooted over to make room for me on the couch. “Lottie, have a seat and enjoy the game with us. I’ve barely talked with you since you got home. How do you like your new school?”

  “There are parts of it I love and others . . .” at which point I was interrupted with shouts of “TOUCHDOWN!!!!”

  “Sure didn’t see that coming so quick,” my dad said.

  “That boy can just fly down the field,” added Uncle Harold. Soon everyone was giving his own play-by-play and color commentary. I decided to wander on to another spot.

  It was like my family knew at birth that I would be the odd-man-out. My parents, Julie and Julius, named my brother Jason and the twins Jennifer and Jessica. I’m Lottie. What, were there no “J” names left on the planet? My mother always tried to placate me with, “But, honey, Lottie was always my favorite name.” That doesn’t work when you’re ten and being constantly reminded by the other J. Lamberts, and equally observant people in the community, that you are an L. I felt like I should have had a big scarlet “L” on my forehead for Loser Lambert.

  There were a lot of ways I never fit with my family. I didn’t like football. That could be termed blasphemous in Oklahoma. Nothing against sports, I just didn’t get the point. Why was so much time and effort, not to mention money, put into moving a ball past another person to get it to a pre-specified location, while normal everyday people morphed into raving lunatics in the stands as if their shouts could change the outcome of the game? Needless to say, a significant portion of my childhood was spent with me whining as my family was packing off to see my siblings in yet another of their ballgames or gymnastic meets always in search of the next competition.

  Maybe that was the problem. I wasn’t competitive. My brother’s room was filled with trophies and plaques. The twins also had their share of medals, certificates and newspaper photos and clippings. Me—nada, never. In my entire life I had never won anything.

  To be completely honest I hardly ever entered anything that could be won. I contemplated so many times entering the writing contests at our library or my school, but was terrified the judges would laugh at my work. As long as I kept it too myself, I could always believe that I was a fabulous author.

  I guess I was competitive after all. It slowly dawned on me that I needed to give my family a break about their sports obsessions. We all had things that we felt passionately about. They just weren’t the same. That didn’t make the other person’s passion any less justified. Sadly it had taken me twenty years to start to understand that concept.

  I wasn’t having the most thankful attitude that Thanksgiving and decided it was time to make a mental adjustment. My life was good. My family loved me, even if I didn’t fit in perfectly. I had my health. I had my new friends at school. I had shiny manageable hair, and if I listened to commercials that was crucial for a happy life.

  “Turkey’s done,” came the shout from the kitchen. Wow, I must have been at my private pity party for an extended length of time or Aunt Maude had turned the oven up to the nuclear blast setting.

  “Can we wait for half-time to eat?” asked my dad.

  Oh no, here it came. “Julius Andrew Lambert,” my mother said. Including the middle name. “I have cooked for three days to get this feast together! You can TiVo that game! It’s not OU playing! It’s not that important!”

  “I was just giving you a hard time dear. We’re coming,” said my father. Would he never learn that there are just some things that were not joking material? My mother’s Thanksgiving dinner was top of that list.

  ***

  We all ate more than we should have and then had seconds. Pig fest. It was great.

  With the men folk back at the TV, the womenfolk began the cleanup ritual. Equal rights would never exist on Thanksgiving Day.

  Mom was digging in her stash of old Cool-Whip containers to find enough to store all the leftovers, while Aunt Maude was filling the sink with hot, sudsy water. Every year she and Mom would have an argument about the dishes. Aunt Maude was a rinser. One of those who practically washed the dishes before she put them in the dishwasher. Mom believed that was why you bought a dishwasher—to wash the dishes. Mom was a scraper. Just scrape them and put them in. Let the machine do the work. Rinsers and Scrapers do not work well with each other. We needed a distraction before the confrontation began.

  “Where was Aunt Charlotte this year?” I asked.

  “Now, that’s strange,” said my mom, head still submerged in the bottom storage cabinet searching for containers. “She never misses a holiday. Did anyone hear from her?”

  “She’s so spacey, maybe she’s doing the holidays on the moon this year?” giggled Jennifer.

  “Or with some tribe in Africa?” added Jessica. “Oh, mom that’s my phone ringing. Can I please have it back now? Please. Dinner is over.” My mom had confiscated the Double J’s cell phones before the meal in order to have a call/text free meal. She reluctantly gave the girls back their lifelines to civilization.

  Suddenly the kitchen seemed claustrophobic. Jason and friends had entered. “Mom, just wanted to tell you goodbye,” said Jason putting on his coat.

  “It was a great meal Mrs. Lambert. Thanks for including us,” said one of the teammates while the others nodded in agreement.

  “Do you have to go already?” Mom asked, knowing that they did.

  “We have a team meeting first thing tomorrow to view some films.”

  “Mom, that was Jeremy on my phone. He was wanting me to come over to his house later for dessert,” said Jessica.

  “Well, you better go. There’s not much food here,” said my mom. I doubt she meant the sarcasm to show as much as it did.

  With that all my siblings were out the door. The room filled with aunts, friends and Vanessa suddenly felt empty—lonely. And for a second I saw a sadness in my mother’s eyes I’d never noticed before. It gave me a Rachelesque insight. We were all leaving her. Even on holidays there was no time for mom. Jason couldn’t even come home for more than the time it took to inhale a meal and the twins couldn’t stay in place much longer. Life moved on too fast. For a brief second I saw through my mom’s eyes—toddlers and tweens and teenagers going through her li
fe. Then we were all but grown-up. And gone.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom,” I told her as I gave her a spontaneous hug.

  “Thanks baby,” she said, almost in tears. “You know you always were my favorite.” Once again the kitchen was full of laughter. That was a Lambert tradition. We all were my mother’s favorites.

  “And you were always my favorite too,” I replied.

  -20-

  Unreality vs Reality – Reality Zip

  “It was a nice day,” my dad said later as just Mom, Dad, and I sat in the den by the fire. All the various relatives had left. The dishes were done. The enormous amount of leftovers had been put away or given away.

  “Yes it was,” said my mom as she sipped her cup of tea. “I think next year for Thanksgiving we’ll go on a cruise and let someone else do the cooking.”

  “You said that last year,” I reminded my mom.

  “And the year before,” Dad added. “Well, I’m all tuckered out. It was a hard day of eating and watching football and then eating some more. You womenfolk don’t stay up all night gabbing,” Dad said as he made his exit.

  “This is the nicest part,” said mom. “I’m so glad you’re home Lottie Bug.”

  “I haven’t heard that name in a while,” I said with a smile.

  “Come sit close and I’ll share my afghan with you.”

  I moved over on the sofa with my mommy, just like I was three again. Life was a lot easier then.

  “I feel like we’re in one of those coffee commercials,” I laughed.

  “So, Lottie Lambert, decaf or regular?” my mom played along. “Seriously, I’ve missed you. I thought after two and a half years I’d get used to you not being here all the time. But some days I just miss you more.”

  “I miss you too, Mom. Especially when I have to do my own laundry or eat cafeteria food.”

  “It’s been so crazy since you got home. Now we have peace and quiet. And at least an hour before the Double J’s get home. So, tell me about your new school. Have you made new friends? Do you like your classes?”

  “Yes, I have made some wonderful friends. Yes, I do like my classes. You already knew all that from phone calls and texts. Ask what you really want to know.”

  “Okay, have you met any cute guys? Did you ever get to talk to that one you thought was really hot? What was his name?”

  “I’ve met lots of cute guys. Just not the right one.”

  “Lottie, you’ve got to give them a chance.”

  “I know mom. I just don’t want another episode like I had with the skank at OU. I’m making sure this time not to get hurt.”

  “I guess it is time for some wise momma words. I heard this saying once. I don’t know, maybe it’s a famous quote. But, it is some good advice. ‘A ship in a harbor is safe. But that’s not what ships are made for.’ Lottie Bug, you’ve got to step out there and live your life, whether it is to find Mr. Right or just meet some nice guy and have fun. Not every guy is deceitful and malicious like that jerk at OU. Some are pretty special, like your dad.”

  “My daddy sure is special.” I was thinking of poor Olivia and how evil in the form of her stepfather had shattered her innocence. I wanted so badly to confide this with my mother, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t my story to share. It was a conversation that had never happened and yet it weighed on my heart every time I looked at my beautiful suitemate—which made me all the surer that it was better that she didn’t know that I knew. What a burden it must be: not just the horribleness of having a tragedy in life, but to be constantly reminded of it by the over-sympathetic and pitying looks that surround your everyday.

  “Lottie, what’s wrong? You look heartbroken.” Yes, it was better for me not to know, as every thought I ever had instantly played itself out on my face. A poker player I would never be.

  “I’m okay, Mom. Just a sad thought. You know my transparent face better than anyone.”

  “Now my little tugboat, who is this guy you definitely don’t like and will never go out with?”

  And so I told her about Al Dansby, trying to make sure I only told the things that had happened in our current reality. Which wasn’t much. Because of the do-overs all that had really transpired between us was him helping my mother get my granny panties out of a tree, and him asking me out for coffee and not showing up. Not much of a love story in our current time sequence. What I couldn’t tell my mom was the spark of electricity there had been as our eyes met for the first time, before the flying spaghetti. Or how gallantly he picked up my books and the kindness in his words before Taylor announced that my pants were unzipped. Or how beautiful his voice was as we ordered coffee together in the student center. Those wonderful encounters that set my heart racing should have been the beginning to our happily-ever-after, yet they were just part of a fairytale that never happened.

  When I finished my short narration, my mother had a perplexed look on her face.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’d say he seems nice, but I guess not, as he stood you up. I’m just confused, Lottie. Not much to him but one conversation.”

  Right then I decided to explain to my mom about the magic eraser. If anyone would believe me, she would. If I could explain to her how I kept redoing bad situations, she’d understand.

  But she wouldn’t. No sane person could ever understand. It was just too farfetched. Only a crazy person could believe it, and she hadn’t shown up for lunch.

  “You’re right mom. He’s just a drop dead gorgeous guy who doesn’t have the common decency to tell me if he’s not going to show up for coffee. Who knows, he’s probably gay anyway.”

  On that my mom gave a rip snort laugh. “Oh, Lottie. That’s a different prospective. I hear the garage door. The girls must be home.” And as usual, the moment they returned the world quit revolving around me, and went back into its proper rotation around the twins.

  -21-

  Empty Platitudes and Purses

  The break ended too fast as always. The weekend had been taken up with an Oklahoma sacrament, the annual OU/OSU football game. My family made the holy pilgrimage to Norman without me. Although I did want to enjoy the tailgating festivities and see my OU friends, I just didn’t feel like seeing the ex-boyfriend or enduring the know-all looks from his friends. A quiet weekend of catching up on term papers and Lifetime movies was more therapeutic. Wounds were healing, but it would take more than six months to recover from the ex’s deceit.

  I returned to campus in panic mode, as there were only two weeks of school left to finish papers and finals. My first evening back major trauma erupted in the K’s suite that had nothing to do with boys or clothes—a rare occurrence.

  “No, no, NOOOOOOO!!!!” screamed Kyra. “It just can’t be!”

  We all ran out into the hallway to see what had happened. Who had died? Who had been dumped? Was it rapture time and we’d all been left?

  Kyra sat slumped in the floor of the hall cradling her laptop like an infant. The other K’s surrounded her with empty platitudes and words of sympathy.

  “I can’t believe it,” Kyra sobbed. “Not a week before finals. It just can’t be.”

  Kasha asked what the rest were too afraid ask. “Did you have your files backed up?”

  “No.” And then came the loudest sob of all. I discreetly slunk back into my room. Kyra needed space during this time of mourning. What we all hoped would never happen, yet we always knew could, had become a reality for poor, poor Kyra. Her computer had crashed and she had lost all her term papers.

  I looked over at Stina. She was frantically inserting a memory stick into her laptop. “There but for the grace of God go I,” she said. “It’s backup time.” I quickly followed her example. I felt bad that Kyra didn’t have a magic eraser too. But wait, maybe I could help her out. Where was mine? I’d rewind the last hour and just nonchalantly remind her to back her computer up and voila she wouldn’t lose all her work after all. I reached in my bag for my trusty friend. Not there. Wrong purse, I remembered. I’d put it in
my red one when I went home for the break. Red purse. Red purse. Where was my red purse? I would not have a meltdown. It had to be there somewhere.

  “Have you seen my red purse?” I asked Stina.

  “Not recently. Let’s see, I borrowed it two weeks ago to take to that party. But, I brought it back. I promise I did. I did, didn’t I?” Stina said losing confidence the more she spoke. She jumped up and started pulling dirty clothes out of the bottom of her closet searching for the purse that only thirty seconds before she was sure she had returned.

  I was doing likewise in my closet. There was that black cami I had been looking for and somehow my silver hoop earring was in there too. But no red purse.

  “I’m trying to remember. Yeah, you did. I used it last week. Think. Think. Think, what did I wear it with?” I mused. “I used it on Monday.”

  “Yeah, it gave just the right pop of color with your black pants and jacket,” said Stina suddenly channeling Stacey on What Not To Wear.

  “I remember, I was so pleased with how that outfit turned out, I took it home to wear on Thanksgiving. But, then I went with jeans and a hoodie. It was just one of those kind of days.”

  “The big question here. What did you do with it when you got back?” prodded Stina.

  I grabbed my car keys and started for the door to go and look if it was still in the trunk. Then it hit me. I didn’t bring it back. It was all still hanging in my closet at home. No red purse. No magic eraser. No way, no how could I fix Kyra’s computer disaster.

  The look on my face must have been horrific because Stina said, in her most comforting tone, “It’ll be okay Lottie. You can borrow my Coach knock-off if you want. I know it’s fake, but most people never realize it.”