The People We Choose

by Katelyn Detweiler

  “Then tell me.” I take a breath. “About your parents.”

  “I haven’t talked about it in years.”

  The waitress comes over then, a tired middle-aged woman lacking Ginger’s uniform flare, and I wonder if the moment is lost. She tops off our coffee mugs to the rim.

  I order first, and then Elliot says, “Same thing, minus the blueberries.”

  As she walks away, he looks over at me and smiles. “Good call on the extra syrup. Even if it’s the fake plastic-tub kind that’s more corn than maple. All delicious in my book. Sugar is sugar.”

  Mama would of course passionately disagree. I don’t tell him this.

  He takes a minute, fiddles with the top of a creamer container and then sips his coffee black before saying, “I thought we’d be talking about lighter things today. But might as well dig right in. My dad—your biological grandfather—was a drinker. To put it mildly. Always was, even when I was a boy, but it got worse every year. More constant. He was a mean drunk, as drunks tend to be, headstrong and pushy. Had an opinion about everything. And he was never wrong. Never. He found a new reason to scream at my mom every night. She took it. Probably for my sake. I didn’t realize that then, though, and got angry at her for being so weak. Some son I was.”

  His eyes are fixed on mine the whole time he talks, but he’s not really looking at me. I could slip away under the booth and he probably wouldn’t notice. He’s looking backward, into the shadows. A time and place he hasn’t thought about in a long time. The expression on his face makes my skin prickle. I asked. I brought this on. This dark, heavy sadness.

  “I was fourteen when it happened. It started just like any other fight. I can’t remember what they were yelling about, the snippets I heard over my music. I’d lock myself in my room with Guns N’ Roses blaring every night. Practically shaking my walls. The fight was so loud, though. So angry. Enough to rattle me, and I had a thick skin by then. I remember feeling so scared for my mom—it was just this overwhelming feeling that took over me. Something bad was coming. I knew.” His eyes close, deep wrinkles fanning out from the edges. I can see his age in a new way. He wears his experiences—they’ve left marks, not all invisible. “I watched then, through a crack in my door. They were on the staircase, and Dad was screaming, and for once—for once she was screaming back. He got in her face and she backed away… and her foot slipped, I guess. Missed the next step. There was no stopping her. Or if there was, my dad’s instincts were too dulled from all the booze in his blood. She fell backwards, and…” He puts his hands over his eyes, kneads his fingers into his temples.

  There it was. The story.

  The Jackson tragedy.

  Not a murder. But a woman did die.

  “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He lowers his hands. His eyes are damp and red-rimmed. “The cops filed it as an accident. And he didn’t push her—not with his actual hands—I could vouch for that much. But still, it was his fault and we both knew it. We didn’t have any family really, and she’d been kind of a recluse, at least in the end. So, no funeral. Just my dad and me watching her get put in the ground. I probably said ten words to him in the next four years. Then I graduated, and I never looked back. College and then law school and then Philly. I put myself through and the bills were real. That’s why I—why I ended up at the cryobank. You know the rest: I wasn’t dad material.”

  “Your dad, old man Jackson, as locals called him. I saw him a few times, growing up—at the grocery store, walking down the road. He didn’t seem to leave the house much. Or talk to anyone when he did. I know he died, but what happened?”

  “Drank himself to death. Seven or eight years ago now? Something like that. No funeral for him either. I suspect some townies would have come out of curiosity, but no one actually knew him. No one cared. Even I didn’t mourn. I hadn’t talked to him since I walked out the door at eighteen. He didn’t know I was married. Didn’t know he was a grandfather. Twice over. I thought about calling him the day Max was born, you know. Thought about it. Never did. He didn’t deserve any life updates.” He stares into his nearly empty mug, his knuckles white from gripping it so tight. I take a sip of my own coffee, because I need to do something. Anything. “Anyway,” he starts again. Lifts his mug up and drains the rest of his coffee in one swig. “I hired someone to clear out most things from the house, and that was that. Joanie and I couldn’t decide what to do with it. We talked about leaving the city so many times. Fought about it so many times. I hate that house, I do, but it’s more complicated than that. Work was good, I wasn’t hurting for money. So, it was locked up, put on hold, until we finally decided to move this summer. And here we are.”

  I nod. Here we are. But instead of moving on, for some reason I think about that fireplace mantel—the nails where somebody might have cared enough at one time to hang stockings and garlands. “I have one more question. Then I’m done, I promise. You can eat in peace. But your dad, did he carve the banisters? The fireplace? Or was that there when they moved in?”

  The lines in his face ease. There’s a small flicker of light in his eyes. “That was him. It was his wedding gift to my mom. He was so talented, my dad. Makes it all even sadder, doesn’t it? I don’t remember when he stopped carving, but it was a shame. I think Max inherited some of that talent, though. And that precision and drive. Hopefully that’s all he inherited from his grandfather.”

  “Thank you. For—telling me all that. You didn’t have to. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

  “It’s okay. Being here in Green Woods, in that house, it brings it all back. It’s not just you. I haven’t faced any of it since I was eighteen. Just a kid. Maybe if I’d talked to people about it more, I’d be less of a mess.”

  The waitress brings our nearly identical plates. We eat without talking. I don’t think either of us is capable of pleasantries.

  My grandfather wasn’t a murderer after all. But he was an angry drunk. And my grandmother died because of him, just as Max said. It’s hard to imagine Elliot, fourteen years old, a boy still, watching his mom die. Spending the next four years with a man he’d never forgive. None of it’s an excuse for being a shitty husband and father. But I understand him more now. I wish he’d worked through his demons sooner, or at least tried. For his family.

  Our plates are both empty, and we’ve drunk more cups of coffee than I can count. I feel the jitters snaking through my veins. I want to leave, but I also don’t. Once was one thing, but I don’t know that there will be other breakfasts. This could be it.

  “Just give it some time,” he says, leaving a pile of bills at the end of the table. When I reach for my purse, he waves me off. “I hope you can be friends again someday. You and Max. It’d be a shame if you two had to be strangers after this.”

  “I hope so, too. But he’s busy running away from the truth right now. Away from me.”

  Elliot nods slowly. “I know. We talked about it. Max and me. The one conversation we did have this past week. We sat down with Joanie to tell her. And then—Marlow.”

  Marlow.

  I’ve been so busy mourning Max and me, I’ve almost completely forgotten about the other half-sibling involved. She was only a fleeting thought. I made this all about me and us and tuned everything else out.

  Marlow.

  “It was a shock. For all of them. As you can imagine.”

  “Yeah. Max said it was pretty ugly. Do they hate me?”

  “You?” He frowns, shaking his head. “Not at all. The wrath is all focused on me, as it should be. Joanie was upset she never knew about me donating, but it was before I met her. Not exactly first-date conversation—explaining I didn’t want to ever have kids, but I’d donated so other people could. I knew at that point there’d been a confirmed pregnancy from the donation. It was the only confirmation I ever received, for the record. And then a few months later Joanie was pregnant. Quite the surprise for both of us. That was the only baby I could think about.
I should have told Joanie sooner, though. I haven’t been honest enough with her, about this, about lots of things. We’re not fighting because of you, Calliope. We’re fighting because I’ve had a bad habit of keeping things to myself. Of not putting in the work to be a better partner and father.”

  I let that sit for a minute. Spin my empty mug in a circle. It’s a lot to take in: No other donor pregnancies. Elliot’s admission of guilt. “And Marlow? Is she… curious about me?”

  “I think so. But she’s a tough one. Acts tough, anyway.”

  A sister. I have a half sister who lives next door. A half sister I know nothing about, except that she loves her shoes and dresses.

  “Should we head out?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  The drive home is quiet. When he pulls up to my house, I’m preparing goodbye lines in my head. He shuts the car off. I turn to look at him, but his eyes are focused straight ahead. “Are your moms home?”

  I debate lying, saying they’re both at the studio. Most Saturday mornings they do work, but they’ve been using subs for more shifts. To be around for me, they didn’t have to say. Mimmy made a point yesterday of telling me they’d taken off today to tackle some end-of-summer yard work.

  “I was thinking,” he continues when I don’t respond, “that I could pop in and introduce myself. A quick hello, shake their hands. Nothing big. It just feels a bit odd, doesn’t it? We’re neighbors, too, after all.”

  He’s right. Mama asked again this week about meeting him, and Mimmy shot her a warning glance. Said it was up to me, on my terms. Knowing Mama, she’ll ask again soon.

  Both cars are parked in the driveway. It would be hard to lie anyway.

  “Okay.” I’m sweating already, even in the car’s lingering AC.

  “Okay.”

  We walk toward the house and I push the door open, hoping fervently that they’re strolling in the woods or out on their bikes. But no such luck. Mimmy’s cheerful face appears instantly in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey, sweetheart, you slipped out this morning! We were wondering where—” Mimmy’s mouth is still open, but the words stop coming. “Oh.”

  “This is Elliot Jackson,” I say awkwardly, as if it’s not immediately evident.

  “Oh.” She is frozen in place, a dishrag hanging from the tips of her fingers. The only movement is the sporadic drip of excess water from the rag. She grips the cloth tighter, more drops falling.

  “And Elliot, this is my mom. Margo.”

  Elliot clears his throat behind me. “I thought it would be nice to drop in and say hello.” He steps up to Mimmy, arm extended, reaching for her free hand.

  Mimmy looks at his hand for a minute before nodding and putting out her limp fingers. It’s a very sad shake. Nothing like the power shake Mama taught me when I was still in elementary school. “Every woman needs to learn to shake with authority. First step to cracking that glass ceiling wide open,” she’d said. I hadn’t understood. What glass ceiling? And why do I want to crack it? But I’d mastered the shake anyway. Mama had been proud.

  “Let me get Stella,” Mimmy says, pulling her hand back. “She’s out in the garden.”

  We’re alone for a minute, me and Elliot, while Mimmy is outside. “She was the easier of the two,” I say. “Just to warn you.”

  “Excellent. Thank you for the heads-up.”

  Mama steps through the kitchen door first. Her skin looks pale under the tips of pink on her nose and cheeks, already burning from her morning in the sun. The contrast of color makes her expression even more formidable. She is steeling herself, her face pulled into tight lines to mask the softness underneath. She thinks she’s good at pretending the softness isn’t there, but she’s never as good at it as she thinks.

  “Hello,” she says with a curt nod. “It was thoughtful of you to stop by.” Unlike Mimmy she initiates the shake, and, also unlike Mimmy, her grip is firm and assertive. Too firm. Too assertive. Elliot winces before he can catch himself. A victory for Mama. She will make permanent note.

  “I don’t want to intrude. Today, I mean, and also generally speaking. But I was glad when Calliope asked me to breakfast this morning.”

  “Oh, she did?” Mama lifts an eyebrow, leveling her gaze at me.

  “Yes. I thought it would be helpful.”

  “And was it?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Good.”

  We are in an impromptu staring match. I will not blink. I will not.

  “Anyway,” Elliot continues, and Mama breaks, turning back to him. “I won’t push for other meetings, of course. It’s all what Calliope and the two of you are comfortable with. I’m here if she wants to talk more. Otherwise, I’ll keep to my side of the woods. I know what my role is here. And what my role isn’t. I don’t want you to worry about that.”

  Mama seems to sag a bit, like some of her fire has dissipated. Mimmy is just nodding, nonstop, a human bobblehead, her arms wrapped tight around her chest.

  When no one else speaks, Elliot adds, “I’m happy to know that Calliope has such a strong family. And she seems like an amazing young woman. You two must be so proud.”

  “Oh, we are,” Mama says.

  “Well, then…” Elliot glances back over at me, looking flustered. He needs help. I would expect more confidence from a lawyer.

  “Maybe we can all have dinner sometime.” I say it without thinking, grabbing at the first thought that comes to me.

  “That would be nice.” He gives me a nervous smile. “Though it might have to wait until my family starts speaking to me again.”

  “They’re mad at you?” Mama asks. Her face has fewer sharp lines now.

  “More hurt, I think. Shocked. They didn’t know. About me donating. It was before any of them, obviously. I never felt the need to disclose it, but clearly, I should have.” He gives a sad, helpless shrug. “I’m hoping they come around. Just like I’m hoping it comes around for you, too.”

  That last part is directed at me, his blue eyes looking disarmingly sincere and sympathetic.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mama says, and I can tell she actually means it. “It’s no one’s fault. And you had a right to donate. I’m glad we picked you, you know. Despite all the horseshit that’s come along with it. Without you we wouldn’t have our dear girl.”

  Elliot smiles, and—against all odds—Mama smiles back.

  “Yes,” Mimmy says quietly, stepping in closer to our circle. She has finally stopped nodding. “Thank you.”

  All three are watching me now. I feel so strange inside. A blend of too many things, not all of them seamlessly mixing. Like a smoothie with too many fruits and powders and seeds.

  “I’m not sure I deserve the thanks,” Elliot says finally. “But I’m glad I was picked, too. I wouldn’t take it back. Not a chance.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I knock on their door two days later. Monday morning.

  I shouldn’t be here. Max said he couldn’t do this. Us. But I care about him. I have to know if he’s okay. Even if it’s kinder—more effort—than he deserves right now.

  Joanie comes to the door. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “How are you holding up?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Not great.” I don’t have to ask to know she’s not so great either. She’s wearing sweatpants and a baggy white T-shirt and looks like she hasn’t slept since she heard the news. Or eaten. There’s a new hollow to her cheeks. She fits with the house, too well. A matching set. They are both empty and forlorn.

  “It’s certainly a mess, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Definitely a mess.”

  “I’m sorry, Calliope. That you have to go through this. I know it can’t be easy.”

  “No. But I poked around in the past. I started this.”

  “Well, imagine if you hadn’t?” She sighs heavily and reaches out to grab the peeling doorframe, leaning against it for support. “Seems to me we’d all be worse off in the end. T
he truth has a way of coming out. One way or another. Better to have this truth sooner rather than later, don’t you think?”

  I nod. She’s right. Even if it doesn’t make right now any easier. “Is Max around?”

  She sighs, and somehow manages to look even more exhausted. “He is. But I don’t think it’s a good time. I’ll tell him you stopped by. How about that?”

  “I guess. Sure. Whatever you think.” I take a step back, the porch creaking loudly beneath my sandals. Maybe this is it—the rotting planks are about to finally cave in. I’ll be sucked down with them into the dark underbelly of the house.

  “Listen, darling,” Joanie says, leaning in closer to cover the distance. “What I personally think is that my son needs to come out of hiding and talk things through with you. But he’s apparently too old to listen to his mother these days. He says that I’m angry, so he’s allowed to be angry, too. But things between his dad and I are… very complicated. I’m not angry that you exist. It was just one more secret. One too many.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that—such a raw, personal statement—but I don’t have to, because he appears then.

  Max. Behind his mom, staring at me from over her shoulder.

  Joanie startles. “Max, honey. I didn’t hear you come down.”

  “Obviously. And I wasn’t hiding upstairs. I was in the sunroom.” He doesn’t smile as he says it, but I can still hear the sarcasm in his tone. Sunroom. We’ve laughed about that. The idea of actually referring to it as a room, as Joanie does. It feels like a small nod to our summer together.

  Joanie steps to the side, and I can see him fully. His eyes are rimmed with dark smudges. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and boxers covered in UFOs and stars and planets.

  He looks like the boy I used to love. He looks like a stranger.

  “Hey,” I say weakly. Even I can barely hear myself.

  “Hey.”

  “I’ll leave you kids to it then,” Joanie says, turning and walking toward the kitchen.

  “Can we talk?” I ask, my voice louder this time. I straighten my shoulders and look him squarely in the eye.