Winter Hopes (Seasons of Love)
Page 17
“That’s it!” Paul yelled, slamming down the carving knife and fork once more. He wiped his hands on a dish towel as he growled, “Your mother and I don’t have to listen to this. We're leaving.”
“Paul, no!” Roslyn cried, rising to her feet in alarm. Tyler stood where he was, silent.
“Yeah, that’s an answer,” Jane said, looking intently at her father. “Very mature. You don't have to leave. You know that. But can’t you just back off? Can’t you keep yourself from picking a fight or taking a shot at Lydia every time you see an opening?”
“He doesn’t do that,” Roslyn said weakly.
“He most certainly does,” Jane said in a firm tone, whirling back to look at her mother. “And he always has. And you know it, and you let him. It wasn't always so constant, so blatantly obvious when we were growing up, but he did it then too. It just got a lot worse after she married Matt. Finally, a solid excuse to take shots at her: she had the nerve to marry someone who wasn't Jewish. You think she didn't know that? You think everyone else didn’t know it too? Nice bubble you live in, Mom.” She turned her glare back to her father. “Your grandson has half Catholic DNA. Does that mean you'll love him less? His mother is Jewish, that makes him Jewish, and he's being raised Jewish. You'd think that'd be enough for you, you racist. Are you ever going to enter the 21st century?"
Paul looked ready to explode. His face was slowly turning scarlet, making his watery blue eyes that much more pronounced as they bulged with rage.
Tyler stealthily moved to the center island, next to Paul. He gave Jane a pointed look and picked up the carving knife and fork. “I’ve got this, guys. Why don’t the three of you go out to the backyard and work this out somehow before dinner starts, huh? For the kids’ sake. Go.”
Paul harrumphed and threw the back door open, charging blindly into the backyard. Roslyn, with sad and distressed eyes, quickly followed him without a word. Jane threw her arm back and went to slam the door closed behind them.
“Don’t do it,” Tyler cautioned her sharply, making her stop dead in her tracks. “Don't.” They locked eyes for a minute. He sighed. “Goddammit, Jane, it’s Thanksgiving. We don’t need one of the infamous Goldstein Family Wars today. The kids haven’t seen them in six months as it is.”
Jane stood there, obviously enraged but wavering at Tyler's words.
He shrugged and continued, “Hey, look—I don’t care if you go out there and yell at them some more. For the record, I happen to agree with every single thing you said. He's always gone after Lydia, even before she married Matt, and I have no idea why. And your mom lets him, and I don't know why. The whole thing with the religion stuff—he needs to get over it already. I have to admit, though, I was shocked to hear Lydia's seeing somebody. Thanks for telling me.”
“Tyler,” Jane began, her tone apologetic.
“It's okay, I know, it's a sister thing—she should only know how well you keep a secret. And good for her, I hope this guy is decent. Or that she's getting laid, at least.” Tyler grinned briefly. “But this crap with your parents, you all have to patch it up somehow before we sit down to dinner. I'm not saying you've all got to hold hands and start singing 'Kumbaya' but I refuse to sit through Thanksgiving dinner with this kind of cloud hanging over us. This one got ugly. I don't want that vibe near all the kids. So get out there and figure out how to put enough of a Band-Aid on it for us all to get through dinner. You can do it, Janie.”
Jane took a deep breath and expelled it in a loud, frustrated gust. She grabbed her bottle of beer and took three long swallows before setting it down again. They looked at each other. She went to her husband, grasped his face between both hands, stared into his blue-gray eyes and said, “I love you. Very much. You're a wonderful man.” She kissed him firmly. “Thank you for putting up with my dysfunctional family. Again.”
“Nothing like being with family for the holidays,” Tyler said with sarcastic glee. He kissed her once more. “I love you too. Now get out there.”
“Alright,” she grumbled, and with another deep breath, went out to the backyard to face her parents.
In the adjacent hallway, in the shadows, Lydia leaned back silently against the wall. She refused to let the tears that stung her eyes fall. She tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling without seeing. Her lips were pressed together so tightly that she wondered for a numb, fleeting moment if they'd crack and bleed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LYDIA WAS QUIET. Too quiet. Tracey watched her lifelong best friend go through the motions in a silent fog. Lydia got Andy settled in the playroom with the other kids, took out some cars and games for them, went to the kitchen to get drinks for all three of them… but she was walking around with a dull, pained look in her eyes. Something was off. Distress was radiating from her in soft waves.
Tracey hung up the phone after ordering the pizza, grabbed Lydia by the arm, and dragged her into the living room. “Come on, you.”
“What?” Lydia asked, confused. “What's the matter?”
“That's what I want you to tell me,” Tracey said as she practically pushed Lydia down to sit on the tan leather couch.
“I don't know what you mean,” Lydia said, but her voice was weary.
“That look is back. The zombie look. It unnerves me, and I hate it, because it means something's very wrong.” Tracey adjusted her position, made herself more comfortable on the cushions. She brushed her wavy brown hair away from her eyes and stated, “I know you too well. Spill it, missy. Ramble away. I'm listening.”
Lydia sighed, simultaneously grateful and drained. “Yeah, well… it was a rough week,” she began. “It started last week, really, with the horrendous Thanksgiving I had. I was thrown off for days after that.”
“Understandable,” Tracey said. Lydia had called her the day after the holiday to tell her all about the run-in with her father. “Have you spoken to your parents since?”
“What, since they went back to Florida? No.” Lydia gave a short, dry laugh. “I doubt we'll chat for a long time. And you know what? I'm fine with that.”
“Then what else is going on?” Tracey asked. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks,” Lydia cracked sarcastically.
“No, you dope. Not physically, but in your eyes—you're obviously upset. I know something's bothering you. Talk to me.” Tracey sat and waited. “Something happen with Sam?”
“Huh? No. Are you kidding, Sam is probably the nicest thing in my life right now, the only thing bringing me some happiness instead of stress.” Lydia ran her fingers through her hair, an absentminded gesture, as she revealed, “I thought—hoped—that Andy's transition to the new school would be smoother than it was. I was kidding myself. He had a really hard time. Every morning, I dropped him at Jane's so I could get to work. Every morning, he cried when I left. Jane said he cried when she had to put him on the bus. He was scared, it was all new, he didn't understand… so, of course, I feel like the worst mother ever for leaving her child to cry on someone else every morning. My poor baby. And poor Jane!”
“Jane's tough stuff,” Tracey said. “She can handle it. And Andy's in good hands, you know that. It'll get better.”
Lydia sighed again. “I hope so. His new teacher, Martha, who seems perfectly lovely, by the way, called me today to tell me how his first week went. It hurt to hear it. He wasn't happy, except for at play times. He had a hard time with the transition, he was confused. He asked for his old teachers, he asked for me, he asked for his father. He cried every morning except for today; she said today he had a good day. Well, great—now it's Friday, and just as he got used to going there, he has the weekend off. So, when he goes back on Monday, he'll probably start the crying thing all over again, because he'll have to adjust all over again.”
“Adjusting to a new situation is scary for any kid,” Tracey said in a soothing tone. “Much less a kid who can't communicate well. He'll do better next week. Give him time, he'll get used to the new routine, he'll be fine.”
“Oh, honey,” Tracey cooed. She rubbed her best friend's arm to soothe her and said, “Hey, it's gonna be okay. It is. I promise. It's just hard right now.”
“I know,” Lydia whispered. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away impatiently. “Plus, I am in the throes of major PMS, which doesn't help. I'm due to get it tomorrow, and thank God, because then maybe I'll be at least a drop more rational. Today, I've felt about one step away from a minor breakdown all day long.”
“Ah, the fun part of being female,” Tracey said. “I'll give you some chocolate from my hidden stash later.” She smiled gently and said, “Hey. You did the best thing for Andy. This school, these teachers and therapists, they're going to make a difference. And you're a great mom, so stop beating yourself up. When he starts improving, you'll—“
A piercing scream came from the playroom, followed two seconds later by a loud crash.
The two women jumped up and ran down the hallway to survey the damage.
Ian, Tracey's three-year-old son, was standing in the middle of the playroom, howling at the top of his lungs. His mouth was bleeding, the runoff of blood turning his bottom row of teeth red. Tracey rushed to Ian and crouched down before him.
“Andy threw a car at him,” Emily reported immediately. “Then he turned over the bins.”
Lydia quickly looked to the side of the room. The three plastic toy bins, which had been stacked neatly in the corner, were strewn across the floor, and the toys they had contained were scattered everywhere. Andy was standing with his back up against the wall, in the corner, his big blue eyes round with anxiety. His arms were wrapped around himself protectively; it was clear from his anguished expression that he knew he was in big trouble.
“Is Ian alright?” Lydia asked Tracey, going across the room to her own son.
“He's okay,” Tracey replied. “Barely anything, really. His bottom lip got nicked, and you know how the mouth bleeds a lot. He just needs some ice.” She hugged Ian and tried to calm him as he cried into her neck. “Shhh, baby, it's okay. You're okay.”
Lydia kneeled down in front of Andy and looked into his eyes. “Andy. You threw a car at Ian? That's not okay. You can't throw things when you're upset.”
Andy's pout deepened and his eyes got wider. “Mmmph!” he grunted. “Yah.”
“Emily,” Tracey said as she rubbed Ian's back. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“We were all playing with the cars,” Emily said, twirling a lock of her dark hair nervously. “And I guess Andy wanted the blue one, but so did Ian. Andy had it first, but then Ian took it and he wouldn't share. Andy tried… to talk… I guess? But when Ian still wouldn't share, Andy got really mad. He picked up another car and threw it at Ian, then went over and took the toy bins and pulled them all down. He was really mad.”
Lydia closed her eyes for a moment, trying to quell the wave of nausea, the sick feeling of crushing guilt over the fact that her child couldn't communicate, and that her child had hurt someone else. Her best friend's son. It had to be Tracey's kid, of all people? she thought.
Lydia opened her eyes and said in a calm tone to Andy, “Listen to me, sweetheart. You can't hurt people.” She held his chin firmly, making him look into her eyes. “I know you're frustrated, but you can't throw things. You can't. It's not acceptable, it's not okay. Do you understand me, Andy?”
Andy nodded mutely, his face still panicked and sad.
“You need to apologize to Ian,” Lydia said. "You need to say you’re sorry. And then we're going home.”
“No you're not,” Tracey said quickly, turning to look at her.
Lydia swallowed hard; she was so choked up that she had to force the words out, and had no voice. “I think we should,” she managed to whisper.
Tracey stood up, released her crying son, and went to Lydia. “Stand up. Look at me.”
Lydia stood slowly. She looked at her friend with a pained expression of helplessness, concern, and embarrassment. Her lips were pressed together so tightly they were trembling and turning white.
“He didn't mean it,” Tracey said in an unyielding tone. “He got frustrated, and he doesn't know what to do with that. Ian's okay, he'll be fine. Kids without issues do things like this all the time. So knock it off. The kids need to have dinner, the pizza is on its way. You're not leaving.”
Lydia's eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “I'm so sorry, Tracey.”
“I know you are. But it's not your fault. It's not even his fault,” Tracey said, looking down at Andy. The little boy looked mildly terrified, and definitely repentant. Tracey ruffled his hair and looked back up to Lydia. “No one's got any broken bones, no one needs to go to the emergency room. So we don't worry about it. But you're not leaving. That's ridiculous. I mean it, knock it off. Okay?”
Lydia closed her eyes again, and the unwanted tears spilled over. She brushed them away with a shaky hand and drew a shallow, jagged breath. “I'm mortified right now,” she whispered. “I'm sick about this. Do you get that?”
Tracey grabbed her best friend, hugged her as tightly as she could, and said into her thick hair, “I guarantee you'll remember this for much longer than either Andy or Ian will. You'll torture yourself for years. I'm asking you not to. Are you listening to me?”
Lydia wilted against Tracey, the closest friend she'd ever had, the rock of her life since they were twelve years old, the friend she had come to think of as more like another sister. She shook her head into Tracey's shoulder as a bereft moan escaped her lips. “I'm so sorry he hurt your baby,” she said, and her voice broke as she began to sob.
“Shhh, it's okay,” Tracey murmured soothingly, holding her close. She rubbed Lydia's back and rocked her as if she were a child. “Everything's gonna be okay.”
The three children watched in stunned silence, confused and transfixed by the sight of a grownup crumbling.
***
Sam looked at his cell phone again and read Lydia's text for the fourth time that night.
Had a bad day. Don't feel like talking to anyone, just want to crawl into bed. Please don't call, I'll call you tomorrow. xoxo
Sam rubbed his jaw roughly, speculating again on what could have happened. A fight with Matt? Another fight with her father? Something at work? Something with Andy?
He closed his eyes, scrunching his lids tightly. The headache was a nightly occurrence now, the dull throbbing and the weariness behind his eyes coming each evening by the time he left the office, like clockwork. Being upset probably wasn't helping.
He stood, newly resolute, and went to his bedroom. Being home alone on a Friday night, staring at the walls, futilely wondering what was going on with Lydia… he was aggravated. He needed release, distraction. He changed into workout clothes and headed for the gym, grateful he’d joined one that was open until midnight. Times like this, it was worth the added expense.
When he returned home two and a half hours later, every muscle in his body was throbbing. He’d overdone it at the gym, pushing himself to get out the frustration. He’d feel it even more in the morning, he was sure of it. He took two Aleve, a hot shower, and fell into bed.
When Sam opened his eyes again, it was almost eight o’clock. He got out of bed slowly. His shoulders and arms were a little sore, but his headache was gone, as it was every morning. He felt good. He drank some water, pulled on his running clothes and sneakers, grabbed his iPod, and was out the door.
He got back home an hour later, took a quick shower, and checked his cell phone. Nothing from Lydia. He turned on his computer, checked his email. Nothing.
Sam got dressed, then made himself a light breakfast of a banana, egg whites, and whole wheat toast. He ate it quickly, unaware of his meal as his mental gears kept grinding
away. He checked his cell and email again. Still nothing. It was ten-thirty.
He picked up his phone and dialed, pacing his living room.
Lydia picked up on the third ring. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Sam exhaled sharply. “I know you asked me not to call. I've been trying to respect your request. But I can't take it anymore. Are you alright? What's going on?”
“Oh, Sam.” Lydia sounded immediately remorseful. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. I was going to call you in a while. I've just had my hands full with Andy this morning. I have to take him to a birthday party, it starts at eleven. I have to leave in about five minutes.”
“Just give me two minutes, then,” Sam said. “Tell me what's going on with you.”
“I had a really bad day yesterday,” she replied. “A bad week, actually, and yesterday was just the topper. I was so drained by the time I got home, I just wanted to get in bed, pull up the covers, and shut out the world.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Sam kicked at the carpet, his frustration rising. “I was concerned about you. I didn't know what to think.”
“Yikes. I'm really sorry I worried you,” she said. “But I really have to get Andy out if I'm going to get him there on time. Can I call you later, in the afternoon? I'll fill you in then.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Sam closed his eyes, raked his free hand through his hair. “As long as you're okay.”
“I will be. It's a new day.” Lydia paused. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine.” He forced levity into his voice. “Call me later. I'll be in and out all day, call my cell.”
“I will. I promise.” She paused again. “Well… okay. I gotta go. I'll call you later.”
“Bye.” Sam hung up and went to the window, staring outside at the street below, watching people walk by. The tense feeling surging through him was mystifying. Why am I being like this? he wondered. He realized he was frustrated and annoyed—both with Lydia, and with himself. Slightly angry. Slightly… hurt. What the hell?