Family Affair

by Caprice Crane

  “We all have ’em,” Trish says.

  “I forgot Charlie,” Debbie realizes. “My dog.”

  “That’s new,” Trish says, and looks at me.

  “Dammit!” Debbie yells, and then looks apologetically at us. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.”

  “And whoever was on that call,” Trish jokes, but Debbie doesn’t find it funny.

  I clear my throat. “I’m sure we can fit Charlie in later if you want to go home and get him. We can wait a little while for Charlie if you want to—”

  But Debbie flips open her phone and calls, I’m assuming, whomever she was just on the phone with. “Do you know that you got me so upset that I left without Charlie?” she seethes. “I’m here at the place to have my dog photographed and I’m without a dog. Without a dog!” There’s a pause when I think the poor person on the other end is answering, which is quickly interrupted. “Yes it is your fault. Yes it is.”

  “Do you notice anything about this crazy person in our midst?” Trish asks me under her breath.

  “Besides the fact that she’s insane?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I don’t notice anything else. It’s hard to notice anything else.”

  Trish laughs and leans in closer. “She’s pear-shaped.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I say to Trish, because she knows I’m going to start laughing and there’s no good reason for me to be laughing, and of course we both start laughing uncontrollably.

  “And now they’re laughing at me,” she bellows.

  “No, we’re not laughing at you,” I say, and motion to Trish. “I was laughing at something she said. We’re not laughing at you. This is … this happens all the time. So you forgot the dog. It’s no big deal.”

  Debbie squints her eyes at me and then at Trish, then she turns on her heels and leaves. We can still hear her making the person on her phone call miserable for a solid thirty seconds after the door closes behind her.

  “I’m going to guess that she’s not coming back,” I say. “We kind of were laughing at her,” Trish corrects. “No, I was laughing at you. For commenting on her shape. And pear-shaped is kind of funny.”

  “Fine, I was laughing at her.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Beware the pear. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  • • •

  When Eric calls me that Friday I tell him I’ll meet him at the restaurant. He picks The Great Greek, which is actually a pretty good restaurant and would have been okay if it didn’t involve me driving to the Valley. For Greek food. With a pear-shaped person. But honestly, it’s been years since Trish has seen him. He could have grown out of that shape and into something else. And who cares if he is pear-shaped.

  I spot him from behind as soon as I walk in. He said he’d be wearing a purple shirt, and that he is. But it’s not a purple shirt as much as an eggplant-colored shirt. And he’s not just a pear. He’s an eggplant-sized pear. I curse Trish for saying anything. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed. Now all I can think about are fruits and vegetables. I walk over and tap him on the shoulder.

  “Eric?” I ask.

  “Layla,” he says. “Great to meet you.”

  “You, too,” I say.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? Do you like beer? Wine? Mixed? Something fruity?”

  I choke on my own spit and start to cough. “Water,” I say through wheezes, then add, “Please.”

  Once we’re seated at the table, I ask him how long he’s known Ginny and almost confess to knowing someone else she fixed him up with but think better of it.

  “I’m her podiatrist,” he replies.

  “A doctor,” I say.

  “Indeed.” He nods proudly. He’s a foot doctor. Of course we need them in the world, but I can’t help but think it’s a kind of odd choice for a profession. I immediately feel guilty and decide not to judge.

  “What made you … How did you get into that? Did you always know you wanted to do that?”

  “I love feet.”

  I start to judge again.

  “Well, then, I guess it’s a good fit,” I say.

  “I knew I wanted to be a doctor—and a specialized one at that—and I didn’t want to spend seventy years in school, so I explored a bunch of avenues, and when it came down to it, it was just a no-brainer. Feet really spoke to me.”

  “That’s… Wow,” I say, thinking I really don’t want to talk about feet any more than I want to talk about fruit. “It’s great that you love your job.”

  “I do. Feet are so amazing. When you think of it, they carry your whole weight. What would you do without feet? You couldn’t walk.”

  “No, you sure couldn’t,” I admit, as I check my watch only three minutes into my date. I start counting how many times he says “feet,” and it almost becomes like he’s speaking another language. Feet language. And “feet” stops sounding like a real word.

  “There are seven thousand, eight hundred nerves in our feet.”

  “So tell me something else,” I say, begging to change the subject. “Do you play any sports? Watch any sports?” Why am I asking about sports? All I’ve lived and breathed with Brett for our entire life is sports. Enough sports.

  “I don’t play sports, or watch them, really, but funny story: I’ve treated some famous athletes, and believe me when I tell you that they have the worst feet you’ve ever seen.”

  “I believe it,” I say, trying to head him off at the pass.

  No such luck. “The wear and tear from all of the vigorous activity does quite a number on their feet. Once I treated Michael Jordan.”

  “Sports injury?”

  “Plantar wart. Routine, really,” he replies. “Isn’t that something,” I say.

  And finally our waiter comes to our table, and I’ve never been happier to see someone in my life. “Are you ready to order?” he asks.

  “We’ve been so busy gabbing away that we haven’t even looked,” Eric says. “Give us a few minutes.”

  “I think I can wing it,” I say, my eyes darting around the menu, desperate to find something to order and move this evening closer to its end.

  “Nonsense,” Eric says. “We’re in no rush. Give us some time.”

  I smile miserably at the waiter and watch him walk away like I’m twelve years old and seeing my best friend in the world leave for summer camp. It’s dramatic and heartbreaking.

  • • •

  The next day, as I’m recounting each unfortunate moment from the previous evening—every second of my life that I will never get back—I’m constantly interrupted by me toos, nods of recognition, and uncontrollable laughter from Trish.

  “How is it that you let me go out with him?” I ask.

  “Don’t even go there. I warned you.”

  “You kind of did,” I admit.

  “Thank you,” she gloats.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, head in hands. “I don’t want to date a bunch of random men. I thought I’d dodged that bullet. I was married. To someone great. At least he was great.”

  Trish sighs. “You can always come out with me tonight. I guarantee no men will hit on you where I’m going.”

  “Because no men will be there? That sounds refreshing.” Better than sitting at home watching the DVR, at any rate. Or waiting for the damn bank to call about our possible loans for the PETCO project, which is simply waiting for that final step to move forward.

  “Though I will warn you,” Trish continues, “your drunk lesbian can rival an aggressive frat boy any day of the week.”

  “I can handle that,” I say, and I look forward to a girls’ night. Me and Trish. A bunch of lesbians. And no stress.

  • • •

  We get to The Abbey and it’s decorated for Christmas, since it’s the first week of December. There are both men and women there, but the men are gay, so they have no interest in me, which is just what the doctor ordered.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe
it’s the setting, but after Trish and I have two drinks each and her hand grazes mine, I start to get this awkward, panicky feeling that maybe she’s hitting on me. Which would be ultra-surreal and bizarre. Then her hand seems to accidentally graze mine again. Scott was one thing, but this? Is Bill next? I don’t know how to react. Was it an accident? Am I supposed to ignore it? Am I being crazy? Do I say something?

  I decide to just let it go. That lasts about forty-five seconds.

  “Um …” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is awkward.”

  “Being in a gay bar?” Trish asks, surprised.

  “No,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I’m just gonna say this because I don’t know how to react here, and maybe I’m misinterpreting but …” I drift off, not sure how to just say what I said I was going to.

  “Dude. What?”

  “Were you just …? Are you…?” I manage to get out. “Am I what?” Trish asks, getting annoyed.

  “Hitting on me?”

  Trish literally does a spit-take. Beer everywhere. “Tell me you’re kidding,” she says.

  “I’m kidding?” I say with a raised pitch, sounding much more like a question.

  “Oh my God, you’re serious?”

  “I was … sort of… But now I’m not…I guess?” I say, somewhat relieved.

  “I love you, dude. But not like that. Seeing you more than the ten hours a day I already do would scare me straight.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, totally embarrassed by my accusation. “Let’s just forget this happened and blame it on the venue. And the drinks. And my mental state. And you know … global warming. Whatever.”

  “Forget this happened? I am going to make you eat shit about this every day for a very long time.”

  “Yeah, I pretty much figured.”

  I do love being single again.

  brett

  Christmas cards. I never got the point. Awkward, insincere small talk printed on overpriced greeting cards. I wouldn’t say these things to you in person. I wouldn’t write them to you in a letter. I therefore don’t want someone else writing them for me in four-line stanzas illustrating heartfelt prefab musings on your importance to me. And don’t get me started on the “family newsletter.”

  Layla and I always made a mockery of Christmas cards—or at least we played around with the tradition. We’d go to Wal-Mart or Sears or the closest mall and take one of those cheesy portraits and make cards out of the photo, but we’d create a new bullshit backstory every year and dress for the occasion. The DeBonis from New Jersey, moving to Cali after turning state’s evidence. The Hurleys from Dubuque. The Avgambishis from New Delhi. It was silly but fun, our friends always enjoyed them, and we had a good time in the process. (I can’t imagine Heather wanting to do that—although we’ve had a couple more dates that I’ve rather enjoyed. She’s a cool woman, and I’m working myself up to the point where we’ll consummate the third-date rule. I’m running behind schedule, but I don’t mind her thinking I’m in no rush. It sort of adds to my charm.)

  I’m just finishing up some plans for the Condors’ season-end banquet when my dad calls to tell me the family’s headed to Sears for a family portrait. I think he’s kidding. When he tells me that Layla is the one behind it, I think I want to hurl.

  “Dad, we’re broken up,” I say. “Almost divorced. We never even did a family portrait when we were together, and p.s., we’re not her family.”

  “Brett,” he says in his sternest voice. “She’s looking for a solid mooring point in the storm of confusion that is your marriage.”

  “Our marriage is over,” I remind him. How many times do I have to?

  “She wants something tangible to hold on to.”

  “Buy her a teddy bear. Better yet, remind her about that stuffed owl her mom gave her. This is ridiculous.”

  And yet somehow, four days later I find myself at Sears with my mom, dad, sister, and soon-to-be ex-wife.

  “Smile, little brother,” Trish says, when she sees the scowl on my face.

  “Fuck off,” I say.

  “There’s the holiday cheer I’m looking for.” She shows her own pearly whites and turns back to talk to Layla.

  There’s a two-year-old named Monica tossing unwanted props and screaming at the top of her lungs. “Nice, Monica,” her mother says. “Nice …”

  “What’s nice?” I ask nobody in particular. “The fact that she’s crying hysterically or the fact that her diapers smell like they haven’t been changed since last Tuesday?”

  “Oh, Brett,” my mom says, shaking her head.

  “I’m April. Is everybody here?” the gum-snapping, nineteen-year-old manning the camera says once she finishes with Monica. I want to ask if we can spray the place down with Lysol, but I refrain.

  “We’re missing one,” Layla points out, referring to Scott, who’s not here yet.

  “You are a beautiful family,” the girl says.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” Scott says, as he enters, doing a lame Elvis impression.

  The girl laughs. She notices the book he’s carrying. “Tad Williams, eh? Nice. I liked his Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn trilogy more than Otherland, though.”

  Nice. Nerds of a feather.

  Scott’s about to reply when my mom smiles and thanks April, too. Then she looks Trish up and down. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “No,” Trish says. “You’re imagining this. I’m actually wearing a ball gown right now.”

  “I’m not complaining, honey,” Mom says—but “Is that what you’re wearing?” doesn’t generally come off as a compliment. I can see the raised hairs on the back of Trish’s neck.

  “Can you explain the question, then?” Trish implores. “Because clearly this is what I’m wearing. I didn’t bring a suitcase full of options.”

  “I was … Oh, honey, I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” Mom says.

  “Speaking of coming out wrong,” Scott speaks up. “What does that mean?” Trish asks.

  “It wasn’t about you, spaz,” Scott says. “I was going to tell a funny story. But never mind.”

  “No, tell us,” Trish demands, calling his bluff. She’s clearly counting on his story to fall flat on its face.

  It occurs to me in this moment how far apart Scott and Trish are. Never mind emotionally or developmentally or age-wise—I mean how physically far apart the two of them are whenever the family is together. They always seem to find a way to make sure something or someone is between them. Right now, it’s three other Fosters, a faux Foster (Layla), and a wingback chair.

  “Trish, what are you trying to prove?” my dad says sternly. “We accept you. No matter who you love or what you wear.”

  I don’t know whether it’s the stress of the impending holiday season or Mom’s (no doubt semi-unintentional) slight about what she’s wearing, or the lighting in the store, but Trish is suddenly locked and loaded for bear.

  “And we’re supposed to accept you no matter whom you love?” Trish hisses. Which in itself is bad, because she never uses “whom.” It’s formal, and that can only mean it’s on.

  “Trish!” my mom says, and I’m confused. Scott doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, either, from the look on his face, but Layla looks down and won’t look up.

  “I’ll pay someone to translate,” Scott throws out. “Who does Dad not love?”

  “That’s a great question, Dad,” Trish says, looking straight forward at the camera, still a boiling-yet-covered pot. “Tell us exactly whom you love and whom you don’t. I’m dying to know the answer to that question.”

  “What’s she talking about, Dad?” I ask, but my father ignores me, his eyes trained on Trish.

  “This is highly inappropriate,” he says.

  “Why? Because your secret is out?” Trish replies, eyes ahead, stony smile on her lips.

  “Speaking of coming out wrong,” Scott reprises, trying to lighten the mood. None of us are having it
.

  “Whoa,” I say, but before I can turn on the filter and come up with the right euphemisms or consider the circumstances, there among the twinkly lights, satin bows, Santa and Mrs. Claus figurines, and posters blaring about the Holly-Days Sale—Savings Throughout the Store! I ask point-blank, “Did you cheat on Mom?”

  “This is not the time, Brett,” my father says. “And no.”

  “Yes,” Trish says, not nearly as quietly, staring forward. “He did.”

  The nineteen-year-old photographer has been fiddling with her camera, and she becomes even more intent on her lens, trying hard to pretend she’s not hearing any of this. Scott shrugs at her, and she smiles understandingly when their eyes meet.

  “You guys,” Layla says. “Let’s not argue.”

  “Why are you even here?” I snap, embarrassed that my family is falling apart in front of her.

  “You cheated on Mom?” Scott asks my dad. He’s clearly processed it for a moment and now has been struck. Something of an eternal kid, this simpering smartass who revels in people’s head-shaking disapproval has changed a bit in the shock of this awful possibility, and the smartass is gone. “Tell me if this is true.”

  “No!” my dad yells. “It’s one hundred percent false. And I just told your brother, this isn’t the time! Do you see your mother complaining?”

  “Can we not do this in front of strangers and Layla?” I say.

  “Layla is not a stranger,” Scott snaps.

  “I said ‘Layla and strangers,’ which would imply that she is separate from the strangers. How could she possibly be a stranger? She’s with us every fucking moment of her spare time, like it or not!”

  “Well, better get used to seeing even more of her,” Trish says, still looking straight forward. She’s smiling maniacally as she adds, “Because it seems we’re both going to have a lot of spare time.”

  “What do you mean?” Layla asks.

  “The bank called. They just rejected our loan, so Paw Prints photo booths are likely dead in the proverbial water dish.”

  “What?” Layla blurts. “They said it was almost a done deal. They wait until we’re this far along and PETCO’s ready to go forward? When did they tell us, and why didn’t you tell me? Why did this happen?”