by Megan Hart
I slung an arm around Tyler's neck and listened to him
babble on about school, soccer, the new game system
he'd found under the Christmas tree. He had never known
Santa to disappoint him. I'd stopped trying not to be
envious of that, even though I no longer believed in Santa
Claus.
Inside, Jeremy slunk to a chair in the corner and sat with
crossed arms, the scowl stil in place. Tyler abandoned me
to round up pens for the game. That left me to the socialy
torturous task of making nice with Stela's parents, Nanny
and Poppa.
Like their daughter, they weren't bad people. They'd never
gone out of their way to be cruel. I wasn't Cinderela. And
I understood, now, what it must have been like to try to
find a place in their hearts for their new son-in-law's
children, and how awkward it must have felt. A hastily
wrapped Jumbo Book of Puzzles and a prewrapped box
of knit mittens would always fal short in comparison to
exquisitely wrapped packages in shiny foil paper with
exquisitely wrapped packages in shiny foil paper with
matching bows, the contents new clothes or toys. I
understood. Spending Christmas at my dad's had been last
minute, haphazardly planned and rare. At least Nanny and
Poppa had made an effort.
It seemed easier for them now that I was a grown-up,
though it was more difficult for me. As a kid it had never
occurred to me they wouldn't like me. Now I was
convinced they didn't.
"Helo, Paige," George, also known as Poppa, said. "How nice of you to come."
He meant wel, but the unspoken insinuation of surprise
made me bite my tongue against the shout of "Of course I
came! She's my father's wife!"
But, like Stela herself, I could never hope to impress
them. I just wanted not to prove them right. So instead of
shouting, I smiled.
"How are you?" I couldn't cal him George, Mr. Smith
sounded absurd, and I would never cal him Poppa.
I'd been asking out of politeness, but he told me exactly
how he was. For fifteen minutes. And I listened, nodding
how he was. For fifteen minutes. And I listened, nodding
and murmuring in appropriate places, as though I cared. I
didn't know half the people he mentioned, but he acted as
if he thought I should. He never asked me about myself,
which was fine, because then I didn't have to answer.
Finaly, the game of Pictionary got under way. Gretchen's
husband, Peter, begged off, volunteering to take care of
Hunter, their three-year-old son. Steve and his vastly
pregnant wife, Kely, played, though, as did my dad and
Stela, al the grandparents and Tyler. And me. Jeremy had
disappeared. We split into teams, boys against girls.
"I'l sit out," I said when we'd counted up the teams to find the girls' side had an extra player.
"Oh, no, Paige, are you sure?" Stela protested, but not
too hard. She liked things even and square.
"Sure. Not a problem. I'l go check on dinner, if you
want."
Okay, so maybe I'd cast myself in the Cinderela role. Just
a little. But it was a relief to get into the kitchen and set out
platters of vegetables and dip, cheese and crackers.
Decorative breads and soft cheeses with pretty spreaders
Decorative breads and soft cheeses with pretty spreaders
that matched the platter. Stela loved to have parties.
I found the cold-cut platters in the garage fridge and
brought them into the kitchen to put them out on the table,
which was serving as a buffet. I startled Jeremy when I
came back in, and he whirled, can of soda in hand, from
the open fridge.
From the living room, the sound of laughter wafted. I set
the platter of meat on the table. Jeremy and I stared each
other down.
"You're not supposed to be drinking that before dinner," I told him.
"I know." His chin lifted. He hadn't yet cracked the top.
"I'm not going to tel you on you, kiddo." I turned to the
table and took off the platter's plastic lid so I could get rid
of the fake greenery around the edges. I knew how to
make things pretty.
"Don't cal me kiddo," he said.
I expected him to slink away with his stolen prize, but he
didn't. When I turned to look at him, he was stil playing
didn't. When I turned to look at him, he was stil playing
with the can, shifting it from one hand to the other.
"Something up?" I moved past him to the big, mostly
empty pantry, to pul out the fancy plastic plates and
plastic-ware, the matching napkins.
"No." Jeremy shrugged and disappeared up the back
stairs.
After that, the party realy started.
It was easier for me with more people there. Stela's
friends knew who I was, of course, and avoided talking to
me so they didn't have to deal with the awkwardness of
how to address their friend's husband's ilegitimate
daughter. My dad's friends knew me, too, but had fewer
inhibitions for some reason. Maybe because I'd known
them longer, or because they had no conflict of loyalty.
Some of them didn't like Stela much, and maybe that was
part of it, too.
Of my father's other kids, I saw very little. Gretchen, Steve
and I had never been close, even though it wasn't my
mother who'd finaly won our dad away from their mom.
Of course, their spouses weren't sure what to make of me,
Of course, their spouses weren't sure what to make of me,
either, and it was easier for us to be superficialy polite
without trying to get to know each other. Their children
were and would be my nieces and nephews, but I doubted
they'd ever think of me as an aunt.
"Paige DeMarco, how the hel are you?" Denny's one of
my dad's oldest friends. Fishing and drinking buddies,
they'd known each other since high school. He'd known
my mom, too.
"Hey, Denny. Long time no see."
"Yeah, and you a big-city girl now, too. How's it going?"
Denny gave me a one-armed hug.
"It's going great." It wasn't an entire lie. Most of my life was going great.
"Yeah?" He tossed back the dregs of his iced tea. I
guessed he was hankering for a beer, but Stela wasn't
serving booze. Not that I blamed her. Alcohol always
made a different kind of party. "Where you living at? Your
dad said someplace along the river?"
"Riverview Manor."
There was no denying the pride sweling inside me at
Denny's impressed whistle. "Nice digs. And your job?
You're not stil working with your mom, are you?"
"I help out once in a while, if she's got a big job."
Denny grimaced at his empty cup, but didn't move to pour
more. "What's she up to? She stil with the same guy?"
Questions my dad never asked. I was the only part of my
mother my dad needed to know about. He'd never said as
much, but I knew it.
"Leo? Yes."
"And that kid, how old's he now?"
"Arty's seven." I had to laugh for a second. "Wow
. Yeah.
He just turned seven."
"You tel her I said hi, okay?"
"Sure."
We chatted for a while after that. The party got louder.
Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming
Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming
to stil be only twenty-nine. When it came time to open the
gifts, I thought about slipping out, but forced myself to
stay.
Stela sat in the big rocking chair in the living room, her
presents arranged at her feet and her closest girlfriend
beside her getting ready to write down the name of every
gift and its giver. Stela opened gift cards, packages of
bath salts, certificates for spa treatments. Sweaters.
Slippers. A new silk robe someone had brought from a
trip to Japan. She oohed and aahed over each gift
appropriately.
By the time she got to mine, my stomach had begun to eat
itself. The harsh sting of acid rose in my throat, burning.
My heart thudded sickly. I had to turn away to pop
another couple antacids and sip from a glass of ginger ale,
even though I knew the soda would ruin the effects of the
medicine.
It's sily to hold on to the past, but we al do it. I was
almost ten the first year I'd been invited to Stela's birthday
party. The paint had been barely dry in their new house.
Gretchen and Steven were living one week with their
mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,
mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,
lived ful-time with my mom and saw my dad on an
occasional weekend or holiday, a practice he'd only
started after leaving his first wife.
I'd picked out Stela's present myself that year, using my
alowance to pay for it. I'd bought her a silky red tank top
with a lacy hem. It was the sort of shirt my mom would've
loved and wore often, and she said nothing when she
helped me fold it and wrap it in some pretty paper that had
come free in the mail to solicit money for a charity.
I'd been so proud of that present. I'd been sure Stela,
who wasn't nearly as pretty as my mom but who tried
hard, anyway, would open it and put it on right away.
Then she'd smile at me, and my dad would smile at me,
and we'd al be happy.
Instead, she'd opened the box and puled out the shirt. Her
gaze had gone immediately to my father's, but men don't
know anything about fashion beyond what they like and
what they don't. She didn't put it on. She fingered the red
satiny fabric and peeked at the label, her eyes going a little
wider at what she saw. Then she put the shirt back in the
box with a thank-you even a nine-year-old could tel was
forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the
forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the
garage a few years later, in the box of rags my dad used
for cleaning his cars.
I wasn't nine years old any longer. I wasn't even a teen in
too-thick eyeliner and a too-short skirt. I'd learned how to
dress and how to speak, but part of me would always be
my mother's daughter, at least in Stela's eyes.
"Oh, Paige, what a thoughtful gift." Stela lifted out the box of paper and opened it to pul out the pen. She wiggled it
so the tiny tassel danced. "Very pretty. Thank you."
I let out a long, silent sigh. "You're welcome."
"Where do you find such pretty things?" Stela continued.
She turned to face her audience. "Paige always finds the
prettiest things."
That was it. Bels didn't ring, little birdies didn't fly around
on rainbow glitter wings. She'd said thank-you, and I
thought she meant it. That was al.
I stil managed to slip away before the party was over. My
dad caught me at the door. He insisted on hugging me.
"Thanks for coming." I'm sure he meant it, too.
"Thanks for coming." I'm sure he meant it, too.
I doubt there's anyone who does not have a complicated
relationship with his or her parents, so I'm not saying I'm
special or anything. Considering the circumstances of my
birth, I'm lucky to have any sort of relationship with my
dad. For the most part, at least, it's an honest relationship.
Except of course when honesty is too painful.
"Of course I'd come," I told him. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Of course you would," my dad said. "Wel, I'm glad you did. How's the new place?"
"It's great." With his arm stil around me, I wanted to
squirm away. "It's a very nice place."
"And the new job?"
The job I'd had for almost six months didn't feel so new
anymore. "It's great, too. I like my boss a lot."
"Good. You're up on Union Deposit Road, right?"
"Progress," I told him. "Just off Progress."
"Oh, right. Wel, hey, maybe I should swing by some day
"Oh, right. Wel, hey, maybe I should swing by some day
and take you to lunch at the Cracker Barrel, what do you
say?"
"Sure, Dad." I smiled, not expecting him to ever folow
through. "Just cal me."
He kissed my cheek and hugged me again, making a show
of making me his daughter. It was nice, in that way we
both knew was shalow but served its purpose.
The moment I got in my car and the door to the house
shut, my every muscle relaxed. I blew out another series of
long, slow breaths and lifted my arms to let my pits air out.
I'd be sore tomorrow in places I hadn't realized I'd
clenched. I was already getting a headache. I'd made it
through another big family event without anything going
wrong.
Chapter 08
Some consider the body a temple. As such, it must be
cared for appropriately so it may be used in the manner for
which it was meant.
Beginning tomorrow, you wil eat oatmeal for breakfast.
Sweeten it however you like.
Today, you wil consume three fewer cups of coffee,
replacing them with water.
Today, you wil extend your regular workout by fifteen
minutes.
Today, you will focus a conscious effort on your
cigarette smoking. You may smoke one cigarette only
once every two hours. You will do nothing else while
you smoke it. You will concentrate on my instructions.
You will think of the word discipline each and every
time you light up.
Finaly, you wil record your efforts in your journal and
describe your thoughts and feelings in detail, particularly
your thoughts on what "discipline" means to you.
your thoughts on what "discipline" means to you.
"Do this in memory of me, and go in peace to love and
serve the Lord," I murmured, mocking. "Wow."
The second note had been nestled amongst a scant handful
of bils and charity requests, and it had slipped into my
hand as though it had been written just for me. I hadn't
meant to open it, but something about the smooth, sleek
paper and lack of glue on the flap had been too tempting
to pass up. Hey, it had been delivered to me, hadn't it?
&
nbsp; Even though the number on the front stil said 114, not
414, and even though I knew better, I'd read it anyway.
I stil had no clue what the hel it was, or meant. I turned it
over and over in my hands, then read it again. I closed the
card and stared at it, but I couldn't decipher its meaning.
Unless it had none. Maybe it was some sort of crazy new
diet or self-help plan. I'd heard of a new plan that hooked
members up with mentors. Sort of like a 12-step program
for food addicts, it was supposed to help to have a buddy.
It was the only scenario I came up with, but it didn't feel
right.
I lifted the card again, looking closer for clues. I caressed
the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had
the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had
cut one large sheet of paper into smaler sizes. No
signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong
person. Some buddy.
I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved
around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked
at it again, the single sentence.
Discipline?
I stil didn't get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope,
restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn't the only
person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn't want to
attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114
and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly
weathered but not worn. There wasn't realy any mistaking
a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the
card itself were smudged.
"Excuse me." The woman next to me gave me a smile
meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. "I need
to get to my box."
"Oh. Sorry." I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it
into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it
belonged to her.
She used her key to open a different box, though, and
puled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked
through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier
had already moved down the row to the end. She
straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled
through her mail with a disgusted sniff.
"Nothing ever comes when it's supposed to." She didn't
say it to me, but I nodded anyway.
"I wish my bils wouldn't come."
She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her
mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another