Pretending Normal

by Mary Campisi

  Chapter 28

  I am sitting on my bed in Aunt Irene’s house—no, my new house—looking at the latest travel brochure, this one from Orlando, Florida. The cover is plastered with another blond family; mother, father, boy, girl, dressed in coordinating shades of red, their skin a toasted honey almond. The mother and father are standing side by side, watching the boy and girl dig in the sand with red shovels. I take all of this in, but it is their smiles that hold me, their bleached-white gleam making me wonder if this is a real family, or merely one conjured up through paid advertising.

  A dull ache runs through me as I study the man and woman, portraying such a united effort of protection, so strong and bold, the keepers of tradition, the guardians of these children who probably aren’t even theirs, but rather some young hopefuls, not brother and sister, either, just kids whose real parents are more interested in contracts and rights than family.

  I snatch the brochure off the bed, stuff it in my nightstand. Aunt Irene has been talking about a trip to Orlando over spring break. If we do go, I am wondering if people will think we’re a real family. Will they look at Kay and me, golden brown, our hair streaked from hours in the sun and extra doses of lemon juice, and then at Uncle Stan, the bald spot on his head lobster pink, the freckles sticking out like chicken pox, and will they say, They look like their mother, don’t they? And Aunt Irene will beam in one of her ten ‘accentuating’ bathing suits, her skin the same rich gold, hair streaked from a bottle of Clairol #27.

  And Kay and I, what will we do? Will we smile, bright smiles, surface smiles, say things like, Thank you, and Everyone says we do, all the while knowing we are impostors in our own lives?

  And we are impostors, at least I am.

  But Kay has delved right into this existence, eager for affection, anxious to please Aunt Irene, even Uncle Stan, who simply stands on the fringes and nods. He lives to make Aunt Irene happy and if adopting her dead sister’s children makes her happy, then fine with him, not that he doesn’t care about us because he does, but Aunt Irene is his star, his twirling comet…

  Kay keeps the rose petals from our mother’s bushes in a cut crystal bowl on her dresser. The yellow and pink ones have curled and faded to light brown, the reds to dusty black. She says she talks to Mom every night, in the darkness of her room, and she swears she smells the roses, as though they were still in full bloom.

  My petals are pressed between the pages of War and Peace, Anna Karenina, and An American Tragedy. When they are dry and frail, I will form them in the shape of a rose and gently glue them to a piece of art paper. Then I will frame my one perfect rose. Aunt Irene talks about buying rosebushes for her backyard this spring and she’s even asked us what colors we’d like. She tries, but it’s not the same.

  I’ve been watering the African Violets I brought from our house. The two baby pinks are the only ones left. The mother pink crashed during the move, the purple suffered root rot. But the baby pinks are thriving, bursting forth in full bloom with shiny green leaves stuffed with chlorophyll.

  I’ve only seen Jerry once, just after I got here. He drove down one Saturday in his father’s pickup. We were sitting on Aunt Irene’s pink and blue couch in the living room, a few feet separating us, watching a re-run of Hogan’s Heroes and eating Cracker Jacks.

  “Jerry. I… I want to…”

  He held up his hand, stopped me. “It’s okay, Sara.”

  “No, listen. Why did you—”

  “I wanted to...I had to.” Then he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Be happy, okay? That’s all, just be happy.”

  I hear he has a girlfriend, a sophomore, Tina Glouster; tiny with wire-rimmed glasses and a mean jump shot. Tiny Tina. There’s a part of me that’s jealous, that wants to say, Hey, Tiny Tina, Jerry’s mine. Mine. Even if I don’t want him, he’s still mine.

  How selfish is that?

  He’s always been there, like a cowlick or a crooked finger, after a while you get used to it, kind of expect it, make adjustments, all the while looking for a way to fix it, flatten it out, make it the way you want it to be. And now he’s gone, another part of my old life wiped out. Even T-Rex is gone, adopted by the Jedinski’s because Aunt Irene said a dog wouldn’t blend well with her house.

  I was walking down the hall in school the other day and there was this guy ahead of me, his hair was streaked gold and he had an easy, familiar walk and for a second I thought it was Peter. And then he turned around. Some days I wonder if I will carry the pain of Peter Donnelly with me forever.

  Nina has written to me six times and called once. Her life is the same but better. Dominic Louis Tegretti was born November 17 with severe respiratory problems which kept him on life support for nine days. Little Dom is home now, gulping in a new chance for life. Apparently, so is Mr. Tegretti, who upon seeing his infant son on a ventilator fell to his knees, begging God and his wife to forgive him his many trespasses.

  Maria is coming home to join the Tegretti’s and their thirty-two close relatives for the annual Christmas Eve dinner of linguine and calamari. It seems when Maria heard about little Dom’s near miss, she ran to her neighbor’s and phoned home, confessing more in twenty seconds than she had in ten years. She isn’t working at the Philadelphia Enquirer as a reporter; she’s a cashier at the Dunkin’ Donuts next to the Enquirer. And, she doesn’t have tons of boyfriends; she only has one—Danny Morelli, her high school sweetheart, who is studying pre-med at Temple. Most upsetting to Nina is that Maria will always be a die-hard rock n’ roller, so no, she can’t have her albums. Nina said her mother cried and her father almost swore when they heard the truth, especially the part about Danny Morelli, but then they told Maria they didn’t want to lose her again, and Nina’s father invited Danny to Christmas Eve dinner.

  Nina says Conchetta is wearing Henry Wallenski’s class ring on her third finger and he’s been invited to the Andolotti home for Sunday dinner twice. Way to go, Conchetta! When Nina tells me this, she also slips in one small detail—she’s going to the Snowball with Jay Galeston—her boyfriend.

  And that, as Nina says, is the end, or the beginning, of that.

  Ms. O’Grady drives the twelve miles to Aunt Irene’s every Sunday afternoon in her Caprice. We talk, go for rides and stop for coffee at The Blue Kettle, where she smokes her Salems, inhaling and holding so long I think she’ll swallow the smoke, but then she closes her eyes and blows out a long, thin line, her chin tilted just so.

  Ms. O’Grady is right about Aunt Irene needing Kay and me, and Kay needing Aunt Irene. But does Ms. O’Grady realize I need her? And has she figured out that she needs me, too?

  Yesterday was Sunday. She came, even though Christmas is only three days away and she’ll be back in two days to go to Midnight Mass with us.

  “I have something for you,” I say, watching her pull off her coat. It is dark brown, shapeless and old, hard to tell if it is hers or maybe at one time, had belonged to Mr. O’Grady. Aunt Irene has a new one waiting for her under the tree, royal blue with a black fur collar.

  Ms. O’Grady nods, a brisk flick of her head, and lifts a shopping bag in front of her lanky frame. “And I have something for you.”

  We walk into the living room and sit on the couch facing each other. “It’s not much,” I say. “You have to wait for Christmas for your big gift.”

  She runs a hand through her cropped hair, embarrassed. “This is all so unnecessary, Sara. Christmas is for the young.”

  I shove the present into her hands. “Merry Christmas, Ms. O’Grady.”

  She is careful not to crush the green ribbon as she detaches it from the present. She slides a nail under the folded wrapping paper, pushes it back and lifts the lid on the box. Nestled on a bed of pressed cotton is a burgundy and gold tube of lipstick, Revlon’s Ruby Red. She clutches the tube in her hand, leans forward and hugs me. “Thank you.”

  We stay like that for a brief moment, conveying what words cannot. “Now,” she says, sniffing and pulling away, back into the self-
controlled Ms. O’Grady I know, “this is for you.” She hands me a square box wrapped in a simple pattern of angels etched in gold on a white background with a large, white bow on top.

  I undo the paper, careful, as she has been, not to destroy her craftsmanship. When I lift the lid, I am confused. Inside is a photo album, its vinyl cover a bouquet of roses in red, yellow, pink, which reminds me of my mother. “Thank you,” I say, not wanting to spoil the moment by telling her I don’t own a camera and I doubt Uncle Stan will part with his fancy Cannon SLR 35mm long enough for me to snap a roll of film.

  “And this.” She lifts a larger box out of the shopping bag.

  This time, when I lift the lid, there is a Kodak Instamatic camera nestled in the folds of tissue paper.

  “For making new memories,” she says, before I can thank her. “Time to come to terms with the old ones, Sara.”

  And now, a day later, I’m still thinking about what she said. I know what she means, we’ve been through this all before, several times. She wants me to go to the garage, see the car, touch it, maybe get inside. You’ll never be able to put it aside and start over unless you do, those were her words, and then, your father wouldn’t want that…

  Perhaps she is right, perhaps this one time I can force myself to go there. I look at the clock. Aunt Irene and Kay are doing last minute grocery shopping, Uncle Stan is working. I roll off the bed, run down to the kitchen, slipping into my boots as I grab a jacket off the hook in the hallway. The keys are hanging on a rack near the phone. I stuff them in my pocket and am out the door.

  The mailman is trudging up the drive, arms laden with a handful of envelopes and two small brown boxes. “Looks like this is a popular house,” he says, handing them to me.

  “Thank you,” I manage, and then, “Merry Christmas.” The envelopes are bright colored, all Christmas cards, no doubt, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Hemski.

  One of the boxes is for Aunt Irene and Uncle Stan, the other has my name and address scrawled across the top stamped with a forward to in red ink. The return address is Boise, Idaho.

  I rip open the package, right there in the middle of the driveway, numb to the wind whipping against my open jacket, numb to everything except the small jewelry case tucked around wads of newspaper. I lift the jewelry case and flip it open. Peter’s class ring stares back at me. Nestled under the ring is a single scrap of paper.

  If everything else was a lie, you weren’t. Be happy. Peter.

  I fold the paper carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I snap the jewelry case shut. Life will not move forward until I do. I take one step and then another, not realizing I’m holding my breath until I’m standing next to the ’57 Chevy. The window has been repaired. I lean forward, peer inside. No blood, no gouges. Almost as if it hasn’t happened.

  I think back to that day, to the shards of glass poking out of the window frame, my father’s body slumped forward, the smell… the smoke… I move around the car to the passenger’s side, open the door and sit down sideways, feet hanging out. There is a smell in here, tobacco mixed with Pine-Sol.

  I close my eyes, breathe, and remember.

  You’ll have to be the strong one… I see my mother in her hospital gown, a white and blue print, face pale against the starched pillow, dark eyes burning into me.

  And then my father, handing me a ten dollar bill… You’re gonna be all right, Sara… You’re gonna be all right… allrightallrightALLRIIGHT.

  I blink my eyes open, jerk my hands over my face. It is then I notice the scrap of blue wedged in the crack of the glove compartment. I press the button and the compartment springs open. The Crown Royal pouch glares back at me, its gold tassels looped around the velvet material, like a noose. I finger a tassel, ease the pouch from the glove compartment and bunch it against my chest. Is this the last thing he touched?

  The glove compartment is jammed with other incidental items; a Zippo lighter, two books of matches, a handful of tissues, a screwdriver, an eyeglass case, a manila envelope. The envelope catches my interest and I pull it out, unclasp the small metal prongs, and peek inside.

  It is a picture of all of us. My father and mother are standing beside the Chevy, turned slightly toward one another, shoulders and arms touching. Their faces are younger, their eyes shining, their smiles proud, hopeful. Mom is holding Kay who is just a baby and Dad’s got me crooked in his right arm, hoisted up as if I were lighter than air. I stare at this picture, burn it into my brain—Dad in his tweed jacket, Mom with her pearl necklace, Kay clutching Gabba, her teddy bear, and me, with my arm around Dad’s neck, my red tights peeking out from under my blue dress.

  And I see what I couldn’t see before. I see Family. My Family… and I understand.

  Epilo

  gue

  The building is a four-story red brick covered with a veil of English Ivy on the front and side. There are signs at the entrance leading to two different parking lots, one marked Staff, the other Visitors. It is the second that Ms. O’Grady follows.

  “Are you sure about this, Sara?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No.”

  Ms. O’Grady pulls into a parking space and shuts off the engine. “Well, let’s go.” She pulls her new coat close to her thin body. Royal blue is the perfect color for her. So is the Revlon Ruby Red lipstick, which she’s worn every day since Christmas.

  Ten inches of snow fell yesterday, and I almost thought Ms. O’Grady would cancel the trip seeing as it’s an hour’s drive and the plows didn’t start clearing until midnight. But Ms. O’Grady said, no, come hell or ten more inches of snow, we were going.

  And here we are.

  The sign striped across the front of the entrance reads North Western Pennsylvania Veteran’s Hospital. The lobby is a large tan square lined in a formation of chairs and coffee tables. Each wall is plastered with pictures of war veterans from different divisions; Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. There is a single strip of black on the tan linoleum which leads to an information desk manned by three women of varying ages; old, older, ancient.

  “I’m here to see my father, Frank Polokovich,” I say to the youngest of the old ladies.

  “Frank Polokovich,” she repeats. “Let’s see.”

  I stare at the transparent flesh on her bony hand as she flips pages of patient information. Will my skin look like this someday?

  “Here we go,” she says, smiling, as though locating a simple name on a piece of paper is an incredible feat. “Room four twenty-two. Take the elevators to your right and get off at the fourth floor. Stop at the Nurse’s station first.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And take this pass.” She hands me a plastic card the size of a license plate. “Bring it back here when you’re through. Visiting hours are over at eight.”

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  “Sara”—Ms. O’Grady touches my arm—“Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.” I give her a quick hug, turn away. She will do anything to protect me from getting hurt. Just like a mother.

  The elevator stops at the fourth floor and I step out. There’s chatter and people and a Nurse’s station fifteen feet away. But no Dad. It’s not like he’s going to jump out at me, so why am I so squeamish? Because I don’t know if my own father will know who I am.

  “May I help you?” The nurse glances up from her chart and smiles. She is about my mother’s age with brown eyes, like my mother’s.

  “Yes, I’m here to see my father, Frank Polokovich.”

  Her smile spreads. “You must be Sara.”

  “Did he tell you about me?” I ask, my stomach flip-flopping.

  “No, I read the chart. You’re the daughter who saved his life.”

  Except for that twenty seconds…

  She grabs a chart and stands, revealing a tall, lean shape, like Ms. O’Grady. “Come with me. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes before you see your father.”

&nb
sp; I follow Mrs. Abigail Walker—that’s what her name tag says—into a small room behind the nurse’s station and perch on the edge of a green vinyl chair.

  “No one’s been to see your father since the accident, correct?”

  “No. When the accident happened, I ended up in the hospital, too, and then my aunt didn’t think I should come right away.”

  “You live with your aunt and uncle.”

  I nod. “My mother died last April.”

  “Yes, I read that in your father’s chart. I’m sorry.”

  “My father—it was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  Her voice is gentle as she speaks, like my mother’s used to be when Kay and I got hurt. “I’m afraid I don’t know. The only report we got was from the emergency room which said he had a very high blood alcohol level and carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “So nobody knows?”

  She shakes her head. “He’s probably the only one you could ask, but not now…” She clears her throat. “Certain areas of his brain were affected and one of those was memory. We had to re-teach him to perform simple tasks, such as tying his shoes and setting his watch. But since the second he stepped off the elevator, he’s beaten every pool player on this floor.” She laughs. “He’s getting quite a reputation. Everybody wants to challenge him, even the men on the other floors. We’re thinking of making a night of it soon with him as the one to beat.”

  “I didn’t even know he could shoot pool.”

  “He can recite Robert Frost’s, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, word for word, but he can’t remember Hey Diddle, Diddle.”

  “So basically, he has to re-learn his life?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “How long will he have to stay here?”

  “I don’t know. He may never be able to function independently. In a month or so, he’ll transfer to a long term care facility for the mentally disabled.” She meets my gaze and I am struck once again, by her eyes, so like my mother’s. “You’ll be very important to him, Sara. You’ll be the one who can help him recreate a past.”