Family Affair

by Caprice Crane

  “C’mon, boy, that’s—no, Sammy! Here, buddy, c’mere,” Brett hollers. And Sammy runs back in the other direction.

  The intensity on Brett and Layla’s faces suggests they’re trying to telekinetically move Sammy toward them. Their mouths are magnets, perhaps, and the bigger they get, the greater the attraction. Back and forth Sammy goes, and I want to stop it—I want to put Sammy out of his misery and bitch-slap both upright-standing apes—yet I’m mesmerized. I watch like I would some poor assistant on a Starbucks run, carrying eleven lattes back to the office, one cup precariously perched atop the bunch, about to tumble over and spill everywhere. The cup will inevitably crash to the sidewalk, and I’ll think to myself, That was partially my fault—I’m guilty of not doing anything.

  “Sammy!” Brett calls. Back Sammy runs, although it’s not so much a run as a confused trot. I watch this for a few more laps when suddenly I notice something curious. Sammy Davis Junior, like all dogs, is stomach-motivated. And upon closer inspection it’s becoming apparent What Makes Sammy Run.

  I walk over to Brett. “What’s on your hand?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Brett snaps. “Mind your own business. You’re distracting him.”

  “Let me see your hand.”

  “Stop interrupting, Trish.”

  “What’s on his hand?” Layla asks, as she starts to make her way across the lawn.

  “Nothing is on my hand!” Brett shouts. “Go back to your mark. You’re cheating.”

  “Funny choice of words, Brett,” I say.

  Layla has now made her way over, and she grabs his hand. She turns it over and then lifts it to her nose. “What is that … dog food?” she asks.

  “No!” Brett snatches his hand back. “Like I’d put dog food on my hand.” He rolls his eyes, exaggerating how offended he is at the very suggestion.

  Layla grabs it back, leans in close to inspect. She sniffs again. “Liver paste?”

  “What?” Brett says defensively. “I didn’t wash my hands after lunch.”

  “You’re cheating!” Layla says. “Disgust—”

  But before she can get out the “ing,” Brett notices something new on his hand and grabs at Layla’s. “Hang on, Miss Perfect, what’s on your hand?” he shouts.

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s this?” Brett inquires, as he points to what could be Skippy creamy peanut butter if I were a betting gal, but I’m staying out of it now. “What is that?”

  Now it’s Layla hiding her hand behind her back. I feel like I’m refereeing children. Then I watch Brett grab Layla’s hand and lick it.

  “Peanut butter?” he says.

  “What are you gonna say about it, Liver Paste?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” he answers.

  “I know what to say,” I finally butt in. “Both of you—I’m saddened to think I associate with you. I just witnessed the most disgusting spectacle I’ve seen since Chevy Chase had his own TV show. You’re trying to buy our parents, you’re tormenting the poor dog, what’s next?”

  They’re quiet for a moment. A single moment.

  “Well, I was thinking about buying you a Vespa,” Brett says to me. “But since you’re so horrified to even know me, I’ll just take that money and put it toward—”

  “A life?” Layla interjects.

  Then Layla and Brett resume shouting at each other, putting on quite a show—sniffing each other’s hands, arms flailing, curse words flying—insisting that they start the battle over. (“No hands!”) Sammy Davis Junior walks between the two of them, looks up at me, and barfs.

  Brett turns to Layla. “So, you gonna clean up after ‘your’ dog?”

  layla

  I like to think I add value to the Foster family. I wouldn’t be so bold as to say that I am the glue that holds them all together, because that would be obnoxious and assuming—and we all know what happens when you assume.

  That said, I am the one person who is closest to every member of the Fosters if you take each relationship as a stand-alone. Okay, well, maybe I’m not closer to Bill and Ginny than they are to each other, but I am pretty damned close to all of these people.

  I’m the only one who plays poker with Bill and his gang of louts, and who’s his first mate on the SS Barbecue whenever he wants a cookout: I pass out the plates and get more buns. Scott’s more into art than sports, so he and Brett don’t connect in every way. So it’s usually me who bonds with him over his girlfriends, or lack thereof. He comes to me for advice nine times out of ten; we have our favorite TV shows that we watch. Ginny? We shop together, we have lunches at Il Pastaio on Canon every Saturday, and come holidays, we’re the ones who cook and decorate to make the Foster home the institution that it has become. Although it’s unfortunately now turning into a different kind of institution—or, rather, one or all of us are going to end up in an institution if we don’t figure out how to manage this split.

  Brett’s being a total baby about his family siding with me. Which they’re not. They’re just not siding with him. They love us both, and they’re treating the situation as they would if two of the other family members got in a massive fight. Which is making Brett feel like they’re choosing me.

  God, it’s ugly. He gave his family an ultimatum yesterday: It’s me or her. And he expected everyone to make a choice! This was right after he pitched a fit because I was helping organize a scavenger hunt that Bill and his friends are doing in two weeks, which he said I have no business getting involved in. Um, right. Except for the fact that the whole thing was my idea to get them to do something healthy that didn’t involve poker chips.

  I understand that Brett feels like I’ve somehow co-opted his family, but he was also the one who encouraged me to get close to them. He loved how close we all were, until he stopped loving me. Now it’s inconvenient, so I have to stop?

  I’m not letting go without a fight. Even then I’m not letting go. And so it’s with this in mind that I show up at the mediation Brett insisted we immediately have, in order for us to decide how to deal with our separation and who should get quality time with his family. I have to admit he’s been cool about the divorce, not pushing anything through yet or suggesting anything stupid regarding money matters. I’m glad to see there’s one line he feels too sheepish to cross, because I’m not so sure how confident I am in my counsel.

  Brett suggested getting this person he’s heard about to mediate, and I agreed against my better judgment. (He was pretty convincing about not wanting either of us hit with frivolous lawsuit judgments, and I saw his point, considering how silly we’ve both been acting. But sometimes I just can’t help it. He infuriates me!)

  The whole family got instructions to show up at nine-fifteen a.m. at Happy Valley Family Therapy Center, which I guess doubles as a mediation site. Handy, when that whole therapy thing just doesn’t work out. I wonder if it ever does.

  I arrive with Tommy Thames at my side, wishing he’d pressed his suit. I kick myself for being shallow, but really, how hard is it to show up not looking like you’ve donned a shar-pei? He’s been bugging me about filing actual legal claims for the divorce, and so far I’ve been putting him off.

  Bill and Ginny are there when I walk in, as is Trish, who looks bored before we’ve even begun. I think she’s still convinced this is just a fight and doesn’t see why we have to get all dramatic. Brett is there with his lawyer, Tim Ning, the attorney I myself first called.

  Tim sometimes works for UCCC, which is how Brett and I met him. He was negotiating the divorce of the college athletic director—and oddly, his subsequent retirement—after he got caught by his wife doing something similar to the doggy paddle in a steam room with a member of the women’s swim team. He’s something of a shark, and though he was kind of funny at that cocktail party, and Brett and he sort of chummed it up, now he just looks like an asshole. He reminds me of the character Ken Jeong played as the uptight gynecologist in Knocked Up, who scares the bejesus out of poor Katherine Heigl. No bedside ma
nner. Ning smiles and actually winks at me when I walk in. I assume it’s because he remembers that I also reached out to him when this began, but I hope he doesn’t wink at all of the soon-to-be ex-spouses of his clients.

  Scott walks in wearing a Warcraft T-shirt that I bought for him two Christmases ago and gives me a half-smile as he sits on the couch next to his mom. A short man enters next, wearing short sleeves with a too-short tie, and he’s looking at us with what I swear is an apology. Everything about this man is apologetic, from the way he holds the folder in front of his chest to the way he leans toward us, though only from the neck up.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but it’s time we begin. I’m Burt Hollander. And … Matt says hello, Brett.”

  Matt? Brett’s moron friend from college? I don’t know any other Matts that he knows. I dart a glance at Brett, and he looks kind of sheepish. Tim Ning smiles at me and shrugs. I feel my temperature start to rise. How is this going to be fair? How do Brett and Matt know this guy? No one else seems to be objecting, not even my counsel, Tommy Thames. I grind my teeth.

  “You can call me B—”

  “Mr. Hollander?” Scott breaks in.

  “Or Mr. Hollander, yes. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Scott says. “I would like to say, on behalf of the Foster clan, if you will …” Scott draws a jagged circle with his right hand, but it’s not exactly clear who is included.

  “Scott!” Bill snaps. His son lowers his hand and says nothing more.

  “Yes, well, good point,” Burt says, as if to validate the circle. Each one of us nods in agreement, sensing that somehow this meek man is going to be deciding our fates, sitting in judgment of the whole circus. Excellent point all around.

  Hollander is relieved. He smiles and speaks as though he’s announcing what we’ve just won. “I’ve prepared a list of questions for Mr. and Ms. Foster,” he says, looking around at all of us cautiously—then he realizes that we are all Mr. and Ms. Fosters. He seems very sorry.

  The questions start innocently enough, and seem oddly like non sequiturs. I can’t help but feel like I’m on a game show—the prize being other Misters and Misses Foster.

  “Brett, what is your mother’s favorite food?” Hollander asks.

  “Uh … she likes angel-hair pasta a lot. And fish …” He trails off.

  I throw my arm nearly out its socket, not unlike Horshack on Welcome Back, Kotter.

  “Layla?” Hollander says, allowing me my turn.

  “Ginny does like pasta, but not too often, as she shies away from carbs. When she has it, she prefers it to be cooked al dente and makes a delicious tomato-basil sauce so good there’s almost no point in ever ordering pasta out in a restaurant, because it can only suffer by comparison.”

  “She’s not just kissing ass here,” Brett says. “She basically just gave my mom a rim j—”

  “Brett!” Trish shrieks. “That’s our mother!”

  “Can we have us simply answer the questions asked so I don’t lose my Cocoa Puffs?” Brett growls.

  “If you keep talking like that,” Trish says, “I’m gonna lose my breakfast.”

  “Nobody is losing their breakfast,” Ginny commands. “And you shouldn’t interrupt, Trish, dear.”

  I leap into the breach: “I’d like to add that while Brett simply mentioned fish, it’s salmon Ginny likes to eat, because it’s high in omega-3 fats and Ginny read Dr. Perricone’s book and tries to live by his code.”

  Brett makes a face, and I make one back.

  “Brett,” Burt says, “when is Trish’s birthday?”

  “March,” he says.

  “March what?” Hollander asks.

  Brett is quiet for a moment. It’s March twelfth, but it’s not my turn to answer.

  “This is just trivia,” Brett snaps. “Layla has a better memory for that stuff. Why don’t we talk about less superficial things?”

  “Right,” I chime in. “Birthdays are totally superficial. You’d never care if everyone forgot your birthday. It’s just trivia.”

  “My birthday’s the twelfth,” Trish says.

  “I knew that,” I say.

  “I know,” Trish responds.

  “Great,” Brett grumbles. “You guys can make out later.”

  Sensing the temperatures in the room rising, Hollander decides to take Brett up on his earlier suggestion. “Okay,” he says, “we’ll talk about less superficial things. What are your father’s views on politics? Is he a Republican? Democrat?”

  “He’s a Democrat,” Brett answers.

  “Is he ultraliberal? Fiscally conservative?”

  “Is that really any of your business?” Brett asks. “I mean, don’t they say never to discuss politics?”

  “Politics, religion, sex, and abortion, I believe,” Trish agrees.

  “I’m just trying to gauge how interested you are in the views of your family members,” Hollander says. “How well you can answer these questions shows what kind of an interest you take in them.”

  “I’m plenty interested in my family. Just because I don’t know what they like on their pizza doesn’t mean I should have to share them with a nonfamily member.”

  “Layla is family,” Bill says, and winks at me.

  “Thank you, Bill,” I reply.

  Brett had picked up a pencil and now snaps it in half.

  The rest of the mediation is more of the same. Hollander asks us each about Ginny’s views on parenting. Trish’s views on religion. Pizza gets left out of it, though I could have easily answered what everybody likes on their pie, whether they like thin-crust or deep-dish, and who likes it cold the next day. It doesn’t matter. The whole thing is pretty much Brett with his mouth agape, then fuming, and me getting all the answers right.

  Head in hands, he starts moaning at one point. “None of this matters. The only thing that really matters are my and Layla’s feelings toward the family and vice versa!”

  “Brett, you make an excellent point,” Burt Hollander allows.

  “So I have one final question, and it is for each member of the family, excluding Layla and Brett.”

  “Good,” Brett says. “Let someone else be in the hot seat.”

  “Layla and Brett are both drowning and you can only save one of them….”

  brett

  It’s total and complete bullshit. They can go on and on about how I was always a better swimmer, but I will never let them live this down.

  So Layla wins her nonlegal, nonbinding declaration of joint custody of my family. It’s basically a sort of reverse restraining order (she can’t be prohibited by me from seeing them) or visitation rights on steroids. What a mistake I made, trying to be nice. Any real judge would not have just thrown her out of court but locked her in a loony bin.

  This is what I get for listening to Matt, who swore up and down this was the way to go. I should never have called him after I couldn’t hang with Doug and Jared, or taken his suggestion about using this Burt Hollander schmo, his cousin who’s still finishing his social work degree and “occasionally does mediation work on weekends.” (“It worked when Kristi and I ended it!”) This is what you get for listening to a guy who lost fifty dollars and spent a weekend in the hospital after betting biologically produced methane, set afire, couldn’t burn through cotton boxers. I was glad to win the fifty, and he’d better go stay with Corey’s pal in Mexico, ’cause I’m going to find his ass and set fire to it again.

  After leaving the therapy center, I take my mom out for lunch at La Scala, one of her favorite spots. I don’t know if I’m buttering her up or if I just want to connect with her. Dad said he had something to do but that he might meet us there.

  Mom gets excited because Larry King walks in just as our waiter is setting down my Coke and her iced tea. “I just love that he’s bringing suspenders back,” she says.

  “He’s not bringing them back,” I tell her. “He’s never not worn them, and nobody else is following suit—or suspender, as it were.”

  “Well, I
love that he’s got his own sense of style,” she says, and then waves at Larry like she knows him. He politely waves back as the maître d’ seats him at his table.

  “That he does—and please don’t do that, Mom.” She does, though. She’ll see a celebrity and wave or say hello or comment on something irrelevant. She doesn’t get that just because she recognizes someone doesn’t mean she knows them.

  I get momentarily distracted from my embarrassment by a woman sitting alone at the next table reading a book called Never Be Lied to Again. The title is in all caps, and the cover looks as angry as the woman looks hurt. An alternative title flashes through my mind: Never Be Laid Again. But then it’s gone.

  “Sweetie,” my mom says, “I know you’re feeling angry with us, and I just want you to know that this isn’t a contest. It never was.”

  “Yeah. I get that you think that, Mom. But can you see my side of it? Can you understand how frustrating it is for me to have you all side with her?”

  “But we’re not siding with her, Brett,” she explains, as she touches my face and smiles, her crow’s-feet reminding me of both her strength and her individuality. When she and her girlfriends first started getting wrinkles, they all made appointments for Botox and collagen and all of the other BS that I don’t care to know about. But not my mom. She said she wanted to age gracefully. When her friends started shaving years off their age here and there, she’d reprimand them. She’d tell them that she’d earned each and every one of those years, and ditto for the wrinkles. Of course they joked and offered to give her theirs, but this remains one of the many reasons I love my mom. Which is why it’s so hard to have her totally dog me right now.

  “You are,” I argue. “You’re my mom. How many times do we have to go over this?”

  “As many as it takes for you to understand that our loving Layla isn’t a threat to you. There’s room in our hearts for both of you. Of course you’re our baby. You’re our flesh and blood. But Layla doesn’t have anybody else. Do you want her to be all alone?”