Dismantling Evan

by Venessa Kimball

  “Uh, good night Gav,” he says with a chuckle.

  I laugh too, at the absurdity of Gavin leaving us out there in the dark.

  “Well, I better be going,” I say, rising from the chair.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, uneasily.

  I don’t want him feeling bad about Gavin’s behavior. “There is nothing to be sorry about,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Thank you for explaining what happened earlier when we first met and everything,”

  His face is invisible and I can’t see his expression when he says, “Thanks for coming over and listening. Most people would be freaked out.”

  If he only knew I’m not most people and I have been the freak. He won’t know that though.

  “I’m not most people, Brody,” I say just as I turn to leave.

  “Watch your step off the porch,” he tells me.

  I smile lightly as I step down. I guess Brody’s tenderness does reach beyond his brother.

  I say, Good night, once more before I slip through the Fergusons’ gate then ours, and back into my house undetected. I crawl into bed, feeling the tiredness settle into my body and knowing the insomnia will not win tonight.

  THE AROMA OF FRYING BACON, mixed with freshly brewing coffee, wake me. Mom and Dad’s muffled talking and the sound of clanking pots and pans pass through my closed door. I sit up slowly, feeling heavy with sleep still, and pluck my phone from the charger on the night stand. I count the hours of sleep - seven hours! I’m kind of proud of myself for sleeping so well, but shoot my hopes down quickly, remembering I am making up for no sleep from the two nights before.

  Walking down the stairs, I hear Mom and Dad, planning a shopping expedition around town.

  “Good morning!” they say in unison.

  Dad adds,”Wow! I think that is a record, Evan!”

  “I’m so glad you got a good night’s sleep, honey. I know you didn’t sleep a wink the two nights in the hotel,” mom says, drawing out the event of my sleep habits.

  I don’t validate or protest either of their comments as I open the refrigerator and let the cold air hit my face.

  Mom comes to my side and rummages through her purse. I hear the jingling of pills hitting the sides of a plastic bottle. Like Pavlov’s dog, I react to the sound with repulsion. I take a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. As soon as I turn around, she is standing there with a white and blue capsule in the palm of her hand. I glare at her as I pluck the pill from her palm and maneuver around her to find a glass for my juice.

  “We saved you some bacon and eggs,” she says.

  I pop the pill in my mouth and wash it down with a gulp of orange juice.

  Mom places the orange plastic pill bottle on the counter next to me and speaks as if we are doing some kind of secret exchange of pharmaceuticals or something. “You can put these in your room in your bathroom. Just let me know when you are getting low and I will call in the refill, okay?”

  I want to laugh at the show she is putting on, but I hold it in. I surprise myself that I am not spurred to start a confrontation this morning. “Okay,” I say, taking the bottle in my hand as I sip my juice.

  “Want me to make you a small plate?” Dad asks.

  I put the carton back in the refrigerator as mom continues to lean against the kitchen counter. “Can’t miss any doses, Evan,” she warns.

  I knew she would say something like that.

  “Yeah, I know,” I comment as I walk away from her to the kitchen table.

  “We know you know, kiddo,” Dad says, smiling as he sets down the plate he has made up for me. Dad is always able to deflate the tension between Mom and I, just before things get heated.

  Mom sits with us at the table as I eat and Dad reads the paper. Her voice buzzes about the stores we should visit for the desk and chair. They both try recalling which stores from their youth are still in existence and where they were. Mom asks me when I could be ready and I weasel out of it the best I can. “I trust your design skills. I know you will pick something perfect for my room,” I say, mainly to my mom because she is the one that needs her ego stroked from this shopping spree.

  “Really? Aww, honey, you really think so?” she asks.

  I furrow my brow a bit and nod at her. “Yeah, I do. You are good at your job.”

  That makes her smile from ear to ear and soften her tone. “Thank you baby.”

  It isn’t a lie; I really do think she has talent with decorating, but my intention is multi-purposed; I want out of the shopping expedition.

  “It would be nice for you and Dad to have a lunch date before he goes back to work tomorrow. Plus, I want to get my room ready for Grandma and Grandpa. They are coming tonight, right?” I ask

  “Yes, they are,” Mom says, nodding.

  “I think it is a great idea. Remember that Italian restaurant we loved to eat at in South Austin? We should go there?” Dad says, smiling at mom.

  “If it is still open, it would be nice,” Mom says, hesitantly.

  After teetering back and forth about eating lunch, my going with them, or my staying home, during which I eat the remains of my eggs and bacon, they come to a decision. I’m able to stay home and not go through the shopping torture. However, Mom is adamant that tomorrow we are going shopping for a new backpack and school supplies. Before they walk out the door she says, “I will check on you to make sure everything is all right while we are out. Have your phone with you, okay?”

  I bob my head and roll my eyes a little. “Okay.”

  Low and behold, ten minutes after they leave the driveway, I’m in my bathroom getting ready to shower when Mom sends a text:

  Mom: Stopping at grocery store on the way home. Need anything?

  Me: No, I am good.

  The six other texts that come in waves over the next three hours aren’t as easily justifiable. Through all the “are you okay?” texts I manage to straighten my room, take all the empty boxes out into the garage, and put all the trash in the garbage cans at the side of the house.

  The desk Mom and Dad pick out is a deep mahogany with a hutch stacked atop it. Brightly colored, eclectic knob handles adorn the drawers and cabinet. The frame looks antique but the pop of color from the knobs give the piece a splash of modern. The arm chair matches perfectly: bright tangerine and indigo blue spiral through the fabric. I sit in it and look up at Mom and Dad. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  Opening my drawers and cabinets, I plan where I will store my camera, film, and all the other desk items I have scattered on my dresser. “It is so nice to see you smile, Evan,” Mom comments. I must have let a smile surface without realizing it.

  Mom’s eyes glisten with tears and I feel uncomfortable seeing her so emotional.

  “Hey Lucy, let’s give Evan some space to organize her desk,” Dad says, seeming to react to her tears too. He takes her by the shoulders and leads her out the door. Before he closes it behind him he says softly, “It really is good to see you smile, kiddo.”

  Once the door is shut, I wonder if Mom is standing just outside on the landing with Dad holding her in his arms, happily and softly weeping about something as simple as a smile. I am both sad for them and frustrated for me that my state of mind has given them such a small expectation for glimmers of hope, and that a smile is a huge milestone.

  My grandma, Ann, and Grandpa, Bob, arrive later that evening, bringing cherry pie for dessert.

  I finish organizing my desk only moments before Dad calls for me. As I walk down the stairs, my parents and grandparents are talking in the living room. Hearing my grandpa’s voice, I am immediately taken back five years to the last time I saw him and I feel lighter on my feet. They came out to San Francisco to visit and I felt a warm connection with them. The visits haven’t been frequent over the years, but last one was meaningful because Grandma Ann and I worked on a jigsaw puzzle together, her hobby. Dad and Grandpa took me fishing during their visit. I think it was Lake Merced. I remember Grandpa and Dad arguing over which fishi
ng lure to use at that time of year and I kept thinking why the hell does it matter, if they are hungry, they will bite. I announced this piece of logic out loud and instantly, my grandpa and I had this inside connection. He told me, “That’s my girl. Tells it like it is.”

  I come up behind them and Grandma catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye. “There she is!”

  Even if I tried not to smile now, I don’t think I could. Hearing her voice makes me feel like pre-high-school me, pre-medicated me.

  I have never seen them talk about old times, laugh heartily, and remember their youth as they do tonight at the dinner table. It is contagious and I fall victim to it, sneaking a smile here and there. “Remember that weekend I went with Ellen Channing to the out of town football game?” Mom asks Grandma, animatedly.

  Grandma nods, giving Dad a sideways glance. “Yes, the weekend you met Aaron.”

  Mom smiles and looks at Dad, taking his hand in hers.

  Grandma continues, “The two love birds; inseparable for the next three years of college. I have to tell you sweetie, after your high school years, we didn’t know what college would bring. It seems like things turned around though.”

  Mom’s full smile falters a little as she shakes her head. “Mom, it wasn’t bad,” she says, pulling her hand away from Dad’s.

  “What happened in high school? “ I ask.

  Mom lifts her glass of wine from the table and takes a perfectly timed sip in order to dodge my question.

  I look at Grandma for an answer, but she is eyeing Mom for a signal that it is okay to discuss the subject.

  “C’mon, don’t keep us in suspense. What is it?” Dad asks, between bites of chicken fried steak.

  Mom places her glass down and raises her eyebrows while fixing her downcast eyes on her plate. “Nothing really. It was just high school drama with a few friends,” she says.

  “High school drama is putting it lightly.” Grandma Ann dispenses an added dose of curiosity into the room.

  Mom’s steely eyes come off as a warning as she speaks directly to Grandma. “Mom, it is the past. I would like to keep it there,” she says.

  Noticing my watchfulness, Mom softens her voice. “It truly was pointless teen age drama.”

  “Teen girl drama is the worst. Glad to be done with it,” Grandpa says.

  “I hear you Bob,” Dad says, seeming to take the whole conversation with a grain of salt as he continues to eat.

  “You are starting school soon, Evan. Senior, right?” Grandpa asks.

  His attempt to change the subject with his grandpa-charm, animated croaky voice and his crinkled skin around his eyes does the trick. I swallow the bite of food I just took. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good, good. Still doing the picture taking thing? Your momma’s camera, right? It is in an old one.”

  “Yes,” I nod and pick at my vegetables.

  “We were going to buy her a digital camera last year...” Dad starts to explain, but Grandpa interrupts swatting his hand lightly in the air. “Nah, you don’t need that digital crap. Digital takes the art out of it.”

  I smirk at Grandpa’s use of the word crap. It sounds just like me.

  Mom interjects reminiscently, “I loved developing the film in the darkroom. Mom, remember my using the storage shed out back for the darkroom?”

  Grandma’s smile is porous. Is she still considering the conversation about Mom’s teenage drama? Grandma looks at me oddly, like I have spied her concern and quickly brightens up. “It was a perfect darkroom. Your mother would go out there for hours, then bring in her works of art,” Grandma says.

  “Do you still have those pictures?” I ask Mom.

  “Yes, somewhere. I’m sure it is in one of the many boxes in the garage,” Mom says, swallowing a bite of food.

  “It would be great for you to have a little area like your mother did for your photography Evan,” Dad suggests.

  “Yeah, that would be cool.”

  “Maybe Grandpa and I can work on it for you.” Dad looks up at Grandpa. “Bob, what do you think?”

  Grandpa’s crinkled eyes widen. “She said it would be cool. We should do it!” he says, enthusiastically.

  “Hold on, we can’t do anything yet,” Mom interrupts.

  “Why not?” Dad and Grandpa ask in unison.

  “We are just renting now. We can’t make structural changes like that!”

  “Well, what if you decide to write an offer?” Grandma asks, pointedly.

  “That is an option Lucy. It is a really great house,” Dad suggests as he looks around him, taking in the room.

  I chime in before I take another bite of my mashed potatoes. “I love my room and the backyard.”

  Everyone looks at me and both Dad and Grandpa smile widely. Grandpa looks at Mom with a clever look in his eyes and says, “Looks like ya’ll need to write up an offer.”

  He looks to dad and rubs his hands together, like he is ready to feast on their idea. “Looks like we have a project in the fall, Aaron.”

  After Grandma and Grandpa leave, Mom and I clean up the kitchen in silence. I want to ask her about the dinner conversation revolving around the high school drama, but she doesn’t seem approachable. She focuses on clean up then quickly pecks me on the cheek before heading up stairs to her room. “Remember Evan, we are going school supply shopping tomorrow,” she says as she ascends the stairs.

  “Goodnight,” I say as I wipe down the countertop once more.

  That night, I don’t see Gavin or Brody in the backyard, but then again I fall asleep before ten, unfathomable for me in such a long time. I notice a light glowing through the blinds of the window across from mine, so whomever the room belongs to, Gavin or Brody, he is still awake. Maybe they do go outside, into the yard, like they did the night before and I just sleep soundly through Gavin’s talking and Brody’s hushing him. Either way, I’m disappointed I miss them.

  The next day, Mom is determined to get me out of the house. “School supplies first and then lunch,” she says as she starts the car and we both settle into our seats.

  “Okay,” I say putting on my seatbelt.

  She glances at me as she slowly backs out. “Really? No argument?” she asks.

  I nod silently and she nods back.

  “Okay,” she says with a hint of relief in her voice.

  Suddenly, the car jerks to a halt and I brace myself, reaching my hand out to the dashboard.

  “Oh, did you take your medicine?” she asks.

  With my hand on the dashboard, startled by her jerking the car, I grimace. “Mom. Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am,” she says sharply and waits for my response.

  I grit my teeth. “Yes! I took the stupid pill. Why did you jerk the car? I thought you had hit something!”

  She doesn’t respond to my question or my attitude; she is getting really good at that. She doesn’t start with the, “You have to make sure to take your medicine Evan. It is for your health” speech, which makes cooling off on the drive through the neighborhood quicker. We exit the neighborhood and turn onto the frontage road of the highway. I am calm enough to consider what happened last night at dinner and decide to put my irritation aside for the moment and ask her. “So, what happened in high school?”

  Mom keeps her eyes on the road, but I can tell my question makes her tense. “It was nothing, like I said last night.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Just the normal high school stuff. Girls being catty with each other. Boys starting rumors. That kind of thing,” she says, checking her rear view mirror.

  “Mean girl stuff,” I say.

  “Yeah, pretty much.” She nods.

  I indulge my curiosity. “Were you popular in high school?”

  She turns down the radio before answering. “Uh, I guess. I was a cheerleader for a couple of years; junior and senior year.”

  I am a little surprised she was a cheerleader and I guess she can tell. “What? Being a cheerleader is kind of hard work
, Evan,” she defends.

  I rest my elbow on the door and look straight ahead, forming my own opinion in my head. “Yeah, I’m sure it is hard work being peppy all the time,” I say under my breath.

  “It’s more than that, Evan. We worked very hard on learning routines and taking part in competitions. We would spend hours after school practicing and weekends cheering on the teams,” Mom says, rebuking my snarky comment.

  I wonder if Mom’s cheerleading squad was any different from what I witnessed at Paramount High. Better yet, I wonder if the cheerleading squad at Braxton Springs High School will be any different from the one my mom was a part of when she attended.

  “Are you considering?” Mom asks, suddenly.

  “Considering what?” I feel apprehensive.

  “Joining the cheerleading squad for Braxton Springs,” she says like it is a possibility in my future.

  How absurd! I choke on my words as they pour from me, “What? No! I would never try out... like ever!”

  “Why not?” Mom asks, laughing a little at my reaction.

  She is off her rocker! “Don’t you know your own daughter? I wouldn’t be capable of turning a cartwheel, let alone cheering!”

  Her smile widens and she lets out a whole-hearted laugh. I smile finding comfort in the humor we share. Silence falls between us again and I have the urge to fill it with another question. “Are you going to go back to work?”

  “Yes, I’m going to try. The cost of living is less here, but I would like to help out with expenses if I can; part-time maybe.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Well, you said expenses. What expenses?”

  She turns into the Office Max parking lot and pulls into a spot. “The relocation package left some holes in regard to the move and your father’s pay structure. Technically he is getting paid less than he was back in San Francisco, but this position he has here...” She turns off the car and turns to face me, saying, “It is better for your dad and for our family all around.”

  She places her hand on mine. “We aren’t destitute Evan. We will be fine once Dad gets settled into his position and I put my name out there in the community.”