Valencia went so far as to yank off her class ring and place it in my hand.
“Here you go. I’m not going to wear this in college. I think that would be weird.”
“Don’t you want it for later? Or to give to your daughter someday?” I asked.
“No. You can have it.”
It’s still on my right ring finger today.
At one point our mother got irritated by it all and intervened. “Why are you getting rid of all these things?” she asked, picking up a pile of teen romances off my bed and stomping down the hall to wave them in my sister’s face. “We just gave you these books for Christmas! This Christmas! What are you thinking? Do you think when you go to college you are going to turn into a different person? Don’t you think you’re going to need anything anymore?”
“I have already read all of those. I read the one with that Chinese girl on the cover twice, Mom.”
“Your father and I paid good money for these. Or did you think Santa Claus brought them on his sled?”
I stuck my head into Valencia’s room to try to help, “It’s not like she’s throwing them in the garbage, Mom. She’s giving them to me.”
They ignored me. “Take these books with you,” our mother ordered.
“What?” Valencia shook her head and laughed a mean, uncharacteristic laugh. She never behaved like that, but as the minutes at home ticked down, her true feelings were beginning to wear through.
“Put them in there and take them with you to La Crosse,” said our mother, waving her free hand at a plastic milk crate half full of sweaters, “or you will never get another Christmas present from us again.”
“But she already gave them to me,” I said.
“You have lost your mind,” Valencia said to our mother.
Our mother stood there, frozen, holding the books. I started to wonder if she’d had a stroke, like I learned about in school. I hoped so. I was already picturing her getting wheeled off on a stretcher when she sprang back to life and threw the books, hard, against Valencia’s chest. Valencia’s face kind of crumbled, a look of sad shock leaving her mouth hanging open.
“You’re grounded!” yelled my mother and brushed past us. We heard the back screen door slam and we looked at each other, both of us in shock.
“I’m eighteen,” Valencia said softly. “She can’t ground me.”
I sank down onto Valencia’s baby blue shag carpet and began to pick up the books.
“Don’t worry about those. I will do it,” she said, regaining her composure.
“Okay,” I said. I picked up her stuffed Scooby Doo pillow that had been on her bed for as long as I could remember. Now it was shoved beside her dresser, most likely about to become mine. “What’s her problem?” I said.
Valencia sighed. “I cannot wait to be out of here,” she said, resuming packing. I nodded, as if I understood and could relate, as if I was about to be “out of here” soon also, and didn’t have seven years of solitary confinement ahead of me. She picked up the pile of books and set them back on the shelf where they had lived before she tried to give them to me. “Do you want that pillow?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Take it. It’s yours now. I think Van probably has a bunch of stuff he’d let you have too.”
Something in her tone made me think I was being dismissed. “Okay, I’ll go check. Thanks for the pillow.”
She closed her door behind me. Instead of going down to Van’s room I went into my own room and shut the door. The house had been a flurry of activity since we had returned from our trip. Soon, very soon, they would be at college and the house would be quiet. Just the three of us. Mom and Dad and me. I inhaled, exhaled. It was uncomfortable to think about. I had been avoiding the reality, living in the moment of chaos and prizes piling up. I looked around, studied my plain, dull face in the mirror above my dresser, and tried to push the bad thoughts away.
“The Mystery Machine,” I whispered, reading the words on the pillow. “Mystery. Machine. Mystery Machine.”
I sat on my bed, waiting for something to happen. So much of my life has had that feeling. That peculiar feeling of confusion, boredom and anticipation, all rolled into one unsettling emotion.
I wanted to experience what a potato must feel after garlic and butter and an hour in an oven have turned it into something delicious, when it gets popped into a mouth that, moments later, exclaims, “This is Heaven on Earth!” When just a few hours earlier that potato had been in a sack, brown and dirty, dreaming there was more but unable to fathom what that might be.
Chapter 14
Let me tell you a story: The story of Adrian and me. The story of my becoming Mrs. Adrian Corbis.
Adrian and I got married in July. It was so hot that people were actually fainting. We were married in Madison in that little church right on Lake Mendota, at James Madison Park. His sister Alexa was my only bridesmaid, and his friend Scott, from college, was his groomsman. Since he had done all this before, we kept it pretty simple.
I had the best dress. I mean, when they say that you will know when you find the right dress, believe it. I had tried on fifty or sixty dresses and they all fell flat. And then I tried on the one, and it was perfect. Satin and strapless, perfectly straight, the tiniest train. I wore it with a poufy veil and a headband with sapphires that cost more than the rest of my bridal ensemble combined.
Our cake was vanilla hazelnut with a whipped buttercream frosting that had shavings of white and dark chocolate all over it. People who normally could not care less about dessert were scarfing down three or four pieces. Good thing we had such a huge, tall cake. Adrian is the one who suggested we add another tier to it. He is so smart like that. There was barely any cake left by the time the evening was over. Which was not such a big deal, considering I would not have wanted the leftovers since I work so hard to not be fat.
Our cake, though extravagantly large, was quite simple. The kind of simplicity that takes a practiced hand. The cake cost a fortune. I’d rather not say how much. Let’s just leave it at that. A fortune. But worth every penny.
Look at me, talking about the cake before I even mention our main course! The main course was a fabulous linguine primavera that was so light and delicious that even die-hard carnivores like my Uncle Burt were raving and requesting more. And we had the best Caprese salad. I love Caprese salad. Adrian introduced it to me. Can you believe I had never had Caprese salad before Adrian? Now it’s everywhere, but there was a time it was something rather new.
We had the loveliest string quartet. I don’t think a wedding is truly a wedding without a string quartet. Adrian’s mother taught me that. She may be a hippie, but her parents are not, so she knows these things. Adrian did not have a string quartet at his first wedding. Can you imagine? I think that was the beginning of their demise.
I’m kidding. No seriously, I am not that superstitious. Or snobby. But still, who has a wedding without a string quartet? Honestly? Probably me prior to Adrian. As my mother would say, Shhhhh. Pretend I did not even say that. He and his family have taught me so much. I have so much to be thankful for.
As the day turned to evening, it cooled off a little and everyone got so drunk. We had red wine and white wine and champagne, of course. The best of everything. We had kegs of beer, but only good beer, and a martini bar. You name it, we had it.
Adrian and I danced all night, and everyone kept wishing us well and telling me I looked beautiful.
“Your eyes match the sapphires in your headband,” was a comment I heard from at least three different guests. Honestly, I already knew that, but it was nice to see that people took notice.
Even my mother seemed pleased with how it all turned out. It was just so perfect. The best day ever. I felt like someone else entirely. It was the perfect celebration of the metamorphosis from the miserable girl I used to be to the happy woman only Adrian could have turned me into.
Chapter 15
“Are you ready?” Adrian asked me.
“I don’t have anything green to wear,” I said.
“You don’t have to wear green.”
“Well, I sort of do. Isn’t it like going out on Halloween and not wearing a costume?”
“No. Halloween is a much bigger deal.”
“You’re wearing green.”
Sometimes I think anyone could marry anyone and it would be the same. Probably everyone was having a similar conversation. Pick a house. Any house. Same conversation.
“Borrow something of Alexa’s.”
“Adrian, she’s three inches taller than me. Plus, that would be annoying. I wouldn’t want her borrowing my clothes.”
“You’ll look cute in anything. What about that really dark green pair of pants you have with that top you made. That flowy thing with that thing on it? Did you bring it?”
“Oh! The poncho with the wooden button. Good idea!” I dumped out one of the suitcases I had yet to unpack and found the outfit that Adrian was talking about. I hoped we would run into someone I used to know when we were out. Just to show off how much better I had turned out than anyone might have expected. But it was bound to not happen. I only ran into old acquaintances when I was wearing warm-up pants and souvenir t-shirts.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, kissing my neck as I put on my earrings.
“Ooh, lucky me. What is it?”
“Close your eyes.”
So I did, and I felt him fastening a necklace behind my neck. We’re just like a jewelry commercial, I thought.
“Open them.”
“Adrian, it’s beautiful,” I said. And it was. Three varying lengths of delicate gold chain, the bottom one holding a tiny diamond pendant. I took off my earrings, which now did not match.
“Thank you,” I said, and gave him a hug. For some inexplicable reason, this made me think of the photos. Was this the behavior of a guilty man? Because it felt like it. So haphazard, so out of the blue. “What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“You’re the occasion.”
“Oh, that’s sweet.” I hate lines like that. Hate them. Has a line so corny ever evoked a genuine reaction? Only from someone stupid. I felt a tense anger rising within me and I fought to control it. I am my mother’s daughter, though I try to deny it. It is a constant battle to not become her.
I hugged him again, and kissed his lips, determined to stay the couple in the commercial. Adrian helped me along by holding up my hair. We faced one another in the mirror.
“You look very pretty,” his reflection said to my reflection.
“Thank you,” said my reflection.
We stared at each other for another few seconds and it began to feel very awkward. I turned away and shook out my hair.
“So you like it?” he asked.
I nodded, touching the delicate chains. It was mall jewelry, but probably expensive. Shouldn’t an artist have artsier taste? Shouldn’t I be receiving something edgier that cut my skin and made my neck ache? But if he had better taste then I would worry he was gay. “I do,” I said.
This is your fault, I told myself. You are unable to be satisfied.
“Do you really like it?” he asked. “We could exchange it if you don’t.”
“I love it,” I said. “Really, I do. You’re too good to me.”
Chapter 16
When Adrian and I arrived at my parents’ house the next day, they were sitting outside in lawn chairs facing the street, as if they were watching a ballgame. It was cold and they were both bundled up in winter coats, hats, gloves. I was embarrassed both by them and for them.
“Was there a parade on this cul de sac this morning?” Adrian joked.
“Ugh,” I rolled my eyes and he put his hand on mine.
“It’s just one day. I’ll help you through it.” He parked in front of their house and opened the trunk. “I’ll get our bags, don’t worry about it,” he said. This way he could avoid some of the greeting process. I couldn’t blame him.
“Hi Honey,” said my mom, giving me a kiss. Then my dad approached, drink in one hand and cigar in the other, and gave me a big bear hug. “Whiskey or a brandy old fashioned?” he asked.
“Brandy old fashioned,” I said.
“What about you?” my dad yelled to Adrian. He avoids saying his name. Adrian is the first Adrian he’s ever heard of, and I think some part of him cannot really believe it’s a name. A man’s name anyhow. Perhaps he is afraid he will mispronounce it.
Adrian hesitated. “Whiskey,” he decided.
My dad disappeared inside, returning a minute later with an icy old-fashioned glass for me, complete with a plastic swizzle stick of maraschino cherries, and a double shot glass of Old Kentucky Chicken for Adrian.
“Tastes just like Jack Daniel’s. I dare you to tell them apart,” my dad said.
Adrian smiled his isn’t-this-quaint smile and downed the shot. In his family they are eccentric in a refined, clever way. Their handmade lawn ornaments go on to become priceless folk art. Their family gatherings might include a sword fight, or the reemergence of some far off relative who had been living in a tent in Greece for seven years. All members of the family will at some point write a book. They did not take family trips in RVs or ever personally know someone who sold insurance.
My dad refilled Adrian’s shot glass and handed him the bottle so he could keep up with it himself.
My mother led us inside. “What do you think about pork chops on the grill?” she asked.
“Okay. Whatever’s easiest. A salad is fine, too.” I had not eaten meat in six months and couldn’t believe this was how I would be breaking back into the carnivorous world. With pork chops. Second only to meatballs in disgustingness.
“What about Swedish meatballs?” asked my dad, on cue.
“Really, it’s all the same to me,” I said.
“Passive aggressive,” my husband sang into my ear, disguising it as a kiss. His breath smelled of alcohol.
“Well, the pork chops are thawed out. That’s what we were planning on.”
I cleared my throat, trying to gather some nerve. I imagined myself saying aloud, Do you know, I actually am not a fan of pork chops. Or Swedish meatballs. Those were things your other, dead children liked. I imagined my mother’s disinterested response: Since when? she would say. She wouldn’t look up. She would be multi-tasking or munching on a carrot with her mouth half full.
I remained silent. This was no longer my home. I was a guest now, and I would eat what they served me.
“She’s always been that way: Picky,” my dad said to Adrian. “Once, when we were on a trip to Glacier National Park, she ordered a big plate of fish sticks and French fries. Only, you see, they weren’t the kind of French fries she was used to, so let me tell you, she starts crying and carrying on, and before you know it she’s thrown the whole plate on the floor.”
“I’m ready for another drink,” I said. I remembered the story he was telling, only he had a key detail wrong: It had not been me. There had been a little girl who was about three years old sitting at the table next to ours all those years ago. She had been upset that the fries were not crinkle cut. Furthermore, she had not thrown a plate of them onto the floor, she had thrown a small fistful onto the floor, and then had been backhanded by her father.
I looked at my mother but she was busying herself with the pork chops and a bag of Shake and Bake.
“Do you remember that, Mom?” I asked.
“Hmmm?” She shook, shook, shook the bag without looking up.
Adrian put his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Is that the truth? Would you actually throw your fish sticks on the floor?”
“French fries,” I corrected.
Adrian turned back to my father, “She still throws her food on the floor when I take her out, Roger. It’s why we can never go anywhere fancy.”
“All right, gang. We’ve got half with Shake and Bake and half without,” said my mom. She had arranged the pork chops on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil th
at was molded into separate trough-like compartments to keep the Shake and Baked pork chops from contaminating the plain ones.
“Love this Reynolds Wrap,” she continued, licking her fingers. “Makes clean up a snap.” Her hair looked big and she looked old. I began to feel queasy. Being here always made me sick.
“Patricia, goddammit, put barbeque sauce on the ones without the Shake and Bake,” said my dad. He looked at Adrian and shook his head in exasperation. Adrian gave me another squeeze.
“We’re going to look at your yard,” I said, taking Adrian’s hand and leading him outside to their spinning windmills and pint-sized wishing wells. It was the only excuse I could think of to get a minute away from them without causing offense. It was no use. My father followed closely behind us in his cloud of cigar smoke, coughing and spitting big slimy wads of yellow phlegm on the grass and melting snow piles.
“There’s not much coming up yet. Few things popping through. I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows again. Don’t let a warm couple of days fool you.”
“I know, Dad.”
My father thinks that moving to Savannah completely wiped out my understanding of how Midwest weather works.
“Do you have a garden in Savannah?” My parents have only visited us once, when they were on the way down to my aunt’s house in Florida.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he repeated. It was the kind of answer that made my father mad.
“Roger, are you going to grill these or do I have to do it?” called my mother. She had an oven mitt on each hand, holding the cookie sheet of pork chops, her elbows sticking straight out. She looked like a bird.
Judging by the reactions of my childhood classmates and teachers, she used to be pretty. At parent-teacher conferences, the male teachers, who often had not noticed I was even in their class, would devote a full hour to chatting it up with her. The mousy, frumpy moms would wait in line just outside the door, glaring in at us through big 1980’s tinted lenses. Little popular girls who had nothing to do with me normally would shyly say, “Your mommy is pretty” and, for a day or two until it wore off, I would be worth remembering. I was used to this treatment over Valencia, and I accepted it. I had a harder time when it happened because of my mom.
Surviving Valencia Page 5