Chapter Five
* * *
"You know," Nurse sighs as she marks my measurements in my file, "I always wanted to adopt."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," she smiles. "I'm an only child, and always wished I had an older brother or a little sister. And now I have an only child."
Nurse reaches into her breast pocket, and hands me a photo. Her long braids are tucked under a light-blue scrub cap, beads of sweat across her forehead. The baby in her arms is red from screaming, wrapped in a blue blanket.
"How old—"
"He's nineteen months this Tuesday," she smiles, slipping him back into her pocket. "There were complications, so I can't carry again. But I want him to have someone to play with, you know?"
I nod. "I always wanted a sister."
"Me too!" Nurse laughs, lightly tapping my shoulder. "I always wanted to adopt a little Asian girl so I could dress her up like Boo from Monsters, Inc. You know Boo? Then Evan could be Mike Wazowski! They make these cute little costumes on Etsy."
"Yeah, that'd make a great picture."
* * *
Mom and Dad were from large families—Mom was one of ten, and Dad was one of twelve. Mom's siblings were easy to remember—Charlie, Billy, Danny, Tommy, Corey, Lucy, Maggie, Annie, and Jackie. Dad's were more difficult—Morgan had been in and out of rehab since he tried to smother me with a pillow on a bad acid trip, Sean lived in Seattle, and Deirdre only called on the first of the month to tell Nana she was sober and needed money. And Shane? Well, Shane lived in fucking Malaysia and didn't send shit for Christmas.
I'd always heard the same thing when it came to Uncle Shane—he got a perfect score on his SATs—as if this was an indicator he was not like the rest of the Kellys.
Not only was he the first of them to attend college, he was also the first to leave home. This was the other thing I heard—he went into the Peace Corps, met a woman in Malaysia, and did not return.
* * *
As a senior, I'd evolved from PSAT-prep worry to full-blown SAT panic. My scores had come back lower than expected. Mom was surpised I'd chosen to spend the summer studying to retake the exam in the fall. A solid score was my ticket off this island, away from Mom and her rules.
One afternoon, I returned home from Mercy to find a blow-up mattress in the middle of my room. I clenched my fists and stormed down the hallway.
"Mom!" Lately, my tone had more of a why-do-you-fucking-exist flavor, as opposed to I-can't-find-my-socks.
"Yes, Rowan?"
"Why is there a mattress in my room?"
"The real question is: how did your father manage to blow it up with the mess you call your room?"
"What is it doing there?"
"Your Malaysian cousins are coming to visit us for a little while."
"What?" I screamed. "Why do they have to stay in my room? Why can't they stay in Aidan's room?"
"They are. The two boys are staying with Aidan and the girls are staying with you."
"For how long?"
"For however long they're staying. Please, Rowan, go clean your room. I don't want this house to be a mess when they get here."
This was so like her. We'd fought the week before about something, and she'd been ignoring me, all the while plotting her vengeance. Mom graduated valedictorian from the Passive Aggressive Institute of America with an advanced degree in the Silent Treatment. Nothing breaks her. Her MO is to make you sweat out the fight, to get you to crave forgiveness . . . to make you speak first.
Everyone seemed so excited Uncle Shane was returning home with his wife Jovinia and their children: Gerard, James, Danielle, and Michelle. Yet no one actually said Uncle Shane was coming back with his family. They simply referred to all of them as "The Malaysians."
I'd only ever seen them on Nana's fridge. The photo was taken over eight Christmases ago, against the laser-photo background every cool kid chose for their school pictures. The term "The Malaysians" evoked more than a sense of mystery—more than not knowing if they spoke English or if they'd ever seen Titanic—it was a distinction. The Kellys I saw at Christmases and whose checks I cashed on or around November 5—they were my real family. We didn't know who The Malaysians were.
* * *
The house on Elderberry originally belonged to Dad's mother, whom we called Nana. My grandfather, Rowan James, passed before we had the chance to meet. At his wake, my parents received the call informing them they were approved for the adoption and would be receiving a little girl. It was then they decided to name me Rowan.
Halfway through kindergarten, Nana began to feel the house was too much work for just her. We left the Tudor on Weybridge and moved into the house on Elderberry, where Dad assessed the damage.
Nana was supposed to move in with Fiona, but things fell through after it turned out Fiona's husband was financing a gambling problem, not condos in Florida. Cara said she'd take Nana in, but only until Kerry was born—allowing just enough time for Dad to build an extension on the house on Elderberry.
Dad's default setting was working. On Saturdays, my grandfather would wake him and his eleven siblings early, and use a turntable to play the best of Rodgers and Hammerstein, Sondheim, and Gershwin, while they cleaned the house, tended the yard, and shined shoes for Sunday service. It is for this reason almost every Kelly function ends with a sing-along.
After taking Mom to senior prom, Dad enrolled in trade school and began his apprenticeship as a carpenter. At sixty-four, two years shy of the full benefit, he refers to himself as semi-retired, but there are still many days where he leaves the house before I do to make things with his hands.
As a child, the only time I saw Dad was for Sunday breakfast. Aidan and I would wake to the smell of bacon and rush down the stairs to get first pick of the bagels Dad and Mom had picked up on their way home from church. As Mom poached eggs and fried the corned beef hash, she'd charge us with setting the table—Aidan carried the cream cheese and the butter and I got to carry the orange juice. Sometimes, Mom would get up from the table early and go into the kitchen for a few moments. Minutes later, Aidan and I would get a whiff of the Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and run to the oven to watch them puff up. Once they were out of the oven, we each got a butter knife to spread the icing before licking our fingers clean.
During the week, Dad rose at four a.m. to shower, make tea, and listen to the radio. Once he finished hearing about the Jets' prospects or the weather, he'd climb back up the stairs to lay a kiss on our foreheads before lacing up his Timberlands and walking to the Mineola train station to make the 4:54 to Penn.
Most afternoons, Dad was home by four p.m. When we came home from school, Mom would instruct me, Aidan, and whatever children she was looking after to take a seat at the kitchen table where we'd have a snack before getting on with our homework. When we lived in the house on Weybridge, Mom and I would walk to the end of the path leading up to our house, and wait. When Dad rounded the corner, I'd run to him and he'd carry me the rest of the way home. In the new house, I just chose the seat closest to the window so I was the first to see Dad coming up the driveway. He'd come in, say hi to us kids, kiss Mom on the cheek, and chug a glass of water before going out to the garage to work on the extension.
After clearing our books and setting the table for dinner, I'd take a seat on one of the high-top stools at the counter across from the sink. If Dad was carving a chicken breast or slicing roast beef, he'd reach under the sink and pull out a big orange plastic container. He'd pump three pumps worth of orange goo into his blackened hands, and begin lathering.
"All right, Smedley," he'd smile at me, "gimme that H2O!"
I'd turn the faucet to the right and inhale the orange scent—not like the fruit, though. More like orange sherbet—like the Flintstones Push-Up pops you used to be able to get from the ice cream man. Dirt, dust, and grime seemed to disappear like magic. He'd turn the faucet to the left, shake off the water, and hold his palms up to show me his work. "All gone."
Once dinner
was finished, he'd go back to the extension while Aidan and I cleared and wiped the table and swept the floor. Most nights, Dad would continue working until Aidan and I were just about to go to bed, or shortly after we'd fallen asleep. On Fridays, he wouldn't get home from the city until the TGIF lineup on TV was almost over; by the time we woke up on Saturday, he was either in the city or working on the extension . . . until May.
* * *
Dad loved planning vacations and took pride in the execution. Once he and Mom decided the dates, the countdown began. If we were going somewhere new, Dad would go to Barnes & Noble and buy the Frommer's a month or two beforehand, to get a feel for the area. A week before the trip, Dad would sit at the kitchen table after dinner with a map spread out, debating which route to take.
We always drove—even if we were going to Florida. We'd cruise to the sounds of Simon & Garfunkel, Van Morrison, and The Police with the windows down and Dad at the wheel. Sure, it was cost-effective, but I also think driving let Dad feel free.
Packing the car was where Dad found his true glory. There was nothing Dad loved more than fitting something into the car that Mom had declared as "never going to fit." He packed with Tetris-like accuracy, and took pride in the fact that we never had to purchase one of those containers that went on the roof. Everything always fit in the car.
"Say, 'Goodbye, house!'" Dad would announce as we pulled out of the driveway.
"Goodbye, house!"
"Say a prayer we get there safe," Mom would add, placing her hand on the angel attached to the passenger-side visor. Each of us received the same one when we got our cars—a silver angel holding a banner that said, Angel of the Highway, protect us.
Until I was ten, my family and I would spend the first two weeks of July at Lake George with the Roses and their two sons, Mikey and Jesse. Floyd Rose was Dad's best friend from work, and I loved that his wife's first name was Rose, transforming her into Rose Rose when they married.
We spent our days running barefoot around the blacktop path that formed a makeshift cul-de-sac, bordered by cabins. The volleyball net had seen better days.
Dad and Floyd could be found by the lake, Heinekens in their hands, profanity in their mouths, work behind them.
On particularly hot summer days, when the stench of garbage couldn't be ignored and the sweat beneath my breasts began dripping and fusing with my shirt, I could hear the creak of the lawn chairs where Mom and Rose shared daiquiris and the secret to perfect chocolate chip cookies. We ate charcoal-topped burgers and hot dogs and caught fireflies when the sun went down.
Our last Fourth of July, we went into town and set up blankets in the park to watch the fireworks. I had to go to the bathroom, and Dad took me to the ice cream shop on Main Street. They said restrooms were for customers only, so we split a strawberry cone when I came out.
Outside, I took one lick and watched the pink scoop fall onto the sidewalk.
"Jesus Christ, what are you doing?" he shrieked.
"It fell," I whimpered.
"I see that. Don't you know how to eat ice cream?" he laughed.
He bought another cone, sat me on the bench outside, and asked if I had a good grip. I nodded.
"Okay, now listen, this is very important. Whenever you get a cone—especially when you get it from a girl—you gotta push the top down with your tongue. But. Be careful not to crack the cone. Come on, let me see you do it."
I placed my tongue flat against the top of the fresh scoop, pushed down, and watched the big scoop bulge outward.
"Now, take a long lick up the side before it gets melty and starts dripping down your hand. That a girl! The key is to use as few napkins as possible. That's how you eat ice cream and save the planet."
That night, Mikey and I took our s'mores down to the dock and looked for the Big Dipper. He kissed me on the cheek and said he'd marry me if I wanted him to. Lung cancer killed his father by Christmas, and Dad decided not to go back to Lake George.
We started going to theme parks—Hershey, Busch Gardens, Universal Studios. Dad and Mom would wake at six, go for a walk, and then wake Aidan and me to get us ready for the day. Aidan and I would schlep sleepy-eyed into the elevator and groan when Dad dragged us toward the complimentary continental breakfast.
"It's included in the price of the room—you gotta eat!"
"But we're not hungry!"
"You gotta eat because we're not stopping somewhere in the park in an hour because you didn't feel like eating now," Dad would say as Mom slipped fruit into her backpack.
After breakfast, we'd pile into the Tahoe. The moans continued as Dad circled the parking lot for the perfect space, which always felt like miles from the entrance. After our family made it through the turnstiles and received stamps that never seemed to wash off our hands, Mom would begin applying the sunblock. She'd slather Aidan and me in white goo that wouldn't disappear no matter how much we rubbed.
We always arrived an hour before the park opened so Dad could grab a map and begin devising a plan of attack.
"Let's start at the back of the park and then work our way counterclockwise."
"Why?"
"Because people are lazy and always go to what's at the front of the park. No one is going to be in the back, and then we'll work our way back while everyone leaves and makes their way into the park. Now Rowan, you run ahead and get a place in line, and don't let anyone push you around."
"Okay," I'd beam.
Dad was my coaster buddy. We rode each coaster five times. The first time was usually wherever we could get a seat. Then we'd wait to ride in the very front row and the very last row, once in the daytime and once at night, because "there's nothing like a coaster at night."
No matter how many times we rode the same coaster, though, we were never ready for the flash capturing our picture, available for purchase at the ride's exit. If the picture was really funny, Dad would get his wallet from Mom and buy me a photo keychain.
Mom waited at the exit because her sensitive stomach couldn't handle the speed. I used to think Aidan waited with her to keep her company. It was only when he got older that we discovered he had a fear of heights. But Mom and I still had our tradition of riding the carousel and splitting a funnel cake afterward.
And then one summer, I didn't care how many days were left in the countdown. There was a boy I liked at home, and if I left for two weeks, some other girl could swoop in and get him to fall in love with her before I could. I stopped asking Dad about Eric Clapton and Pink Floyd, opting to put in my headphones at full volume. I didn't eat at the continental breakfast, and I bought overpriced pretzels with my babysitting money.
* * *
The Malaysians arrived on a Tuesday, and slept in Nana's apartment until Thursday morning.
When I walked up the driveway from school on Thursday afternoon, I saw who I assumed to be Gerard and James with Aidan shooting a basketball into a hoop that had previously hung unused over the garage. The girls were sitting on our deck—I couldn't tell who was braiding and who was sitting Indian-style. All I noticed was how their eyes disappeared when they smiled, just like mine.
It wasn't how the skin of their upper eyelids covered the inner angle of their eyes, which were dark brown, like mine. It wasn't the flatness of their faces or the darkness of their hair. It was the way I hadn't realized I was alone . . . until now.
"Hell-oh!" I don't know why I was speaking so loudly or slowly. "My. Name. Is. Row. An."
"Rowan," the girl on the floor sighed, rising to her feet. She opened her arms, pulled me in close, and said, "I'm Danielle."
* * *
On Friday night, the adults took us to Blockbuster before they went out for dinner. The boys rented The Fast and the Furious, the girls, Legally Blonde. We ate pizza in the basement—James took all the pepperonis off his slice but didn't want a plain one because he liked the flavor. None of them had ever tasted microwave popcorn or Sour Patch Kids and were instantly impressed by both.
While the boys wat
ched their movie, the girls and I headed up to my room. Two weeks prior to The Malaysians' arrival, Dad finished painting over the pink walls with Caicos turquoise. Mom promised I could pick the color if I made the honor roll. That was months ago, and she'd finally made good. Sure, the walls no longer matched the pink carpet, but I liked it that way.
My bed—a twin with a French-style fleur-de-lis pattern atop the brass bed frame—was draped with the same floral print as my curtains, the hallway runner, and the living room couches, and was shoved into the corner to make room for the queen air mattress. I wasn't much for posters, but had a ton of CDs and a Case Logic binder to hold them. In the opposite corner sat the purple bubble chair Michelle had grown fond of, along with the dresser where I kept the stereo.
"You better hope you don't pop that chair," Danielle laughed as Michelle struggled to get comfortable.
Although Michelle, fourteen, was three years younger than I, and only a year younger than Danielle, she was several inches taller than us both. Danielle's old clothes clung to Michelle tightly, and the resentment was apparent. I wonder if she also resented how Danielle's full cheeks, her long black hair, and her ability to fit into my sequined halter tops led people to think it was we who were sisters.
"Shut up, Danielle!" Michelle snapped back. "I love this chair." The plastic squeaked against her body as she adjusted. "Seriously, it's the best."
"Pick a color, Danielle."
"There are so many—I can't choose!"
In the bathroom, directly opposite my bed, was my collection of nail polish. By this time, I probably had about fifty colors—I had even paid for some of them.
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