Wilson Mooney Eighteen at Last

by Gretchen de La O

  “He knows. I’ve told him it hurts Mom. It’s just not in him to let my dad win, and in turn, my dad can’t let him win.”

  “Wow, that totally sucks. I feel bad for your mom—having to deal with being torn between them.”

  “I’ll give him another day or two, then I’ll call,” he mumbled.

  I could tell Calvin’s actions had affected him. His energy tanked when we talked about his brother. I could almost see the muscles in his shoulders tighten and his demeanor become hopeless.

  “Wilson, Maxi...dinner is just about ready,” Nancy sang from the kitchen.

  “Okay, Ma,” Max answered. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up against his chest. “You ready for dinner?”

  I felt my gut twist and a chill flash across my skin. I wasn’t ready for Frank’s inquisition. What if I failed?

  “Sure,” I answered reluctantly. “But didn’t we just eat lunch?”

  “That was just a sandwich a couple of hours ago—besides, my family likes to eat dinner early.”

  Max suddenly became giddy then, like he was in on something I wasn’t privy to. He pulled me along, taking care not to go too fast, as he led me into the dining room. We sat down at the colossal table for twelve. The velvety, brown chairs were plush enough to sit in for hours and listen to stories of his childhood. The table was so beautiful—five large, gold chargers framed glistening, white dishes with etched silver lines on the edges. Crystal goblet-style wine glasses were paired with each setting; the larger one held perfectly folded, black cloth napkins. Silver candles sprouted from crystal candle holders, the flickering flame casting shadows that danced and toiled across the deep red walls. The gorgeous crystal chandelier hung low and shone dimly with a slight glow, just enough to make everything elegant.

  “Here, sweetheart,” Max whispered as he pulled out my chair; he was such a gentleman. I loved how he was always so thoughtful. He bent down to kiss the top of my head.

  “Thank you. Wow, this is so beautiful.” I could feel the excitement bubble in my throat as he tucked his body into the chair next to mine.

  “Well, you deserve the best eighteenth birthday. It only happens once, you know,” he whispered and teased me.

  Frank came shuffling in with a hand-woven basket filled with sourdough rolls and a bottle of sparkling apple cider. Camille carried in a hickory bowl with an amazing salad, overflowing with walnuts, chunks of feta, red onions, tomatoes, and croutons. I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering. Finally, when Nancy walked in with the main dish, I knew Max must have told her my favorite foods. She maneuvered through the dining room, carrying the giant bowl, and adjusted her grip before placing it on the table. She had made spinach and cheese ravioli in marinara sauce. I was overwhelmed.

  “Happy Birthday, Wilson,” Nancy sang the words before everyone else chimed in with their birthday wishes.

  “Thank you so much; wow, this is an amazing dinner,” I said.

  “Oh, well, it is my pleasure, sweetie, I hope you like it,” Nancy answered.

  The ravioli were so ginormous, I had to cut them into four pieces. The filling melting past the cut edges was thick with the perfect mixture of ricotta, parmesan, and spinach. And the sourdough rolls just dissolved in my mouth. When I looked at Max he smiled a wide, toothy smile, and I knew he had more planned.

  “Wow, Nancy, where did you find such huge ravioli?” I asked.

  “Well, I fell in love with these ravioli when we were in Venice. When Maxi told me you loved Italian food—particularly spinach and cheese ravioli, my personal favorite too—I knew I had to find them for you.”

  “Wow, I’ve never been to Venice Beach; I’ve always wanted to go.” I shoved another fork full of ravioli in my mouth.

  “Oh, not Venice Beach in California; my mom’s talking about Venice, Italy,” Camille corrected me as she filled her mouth with ravioli.

  I choked and coughed up the food I struggled to swallow. Did I just hear her right? Venice, Italy? Did they really order them from Italy?

  “Oh, sweetie, you okay? I don’t want you choking on your birthday.” Nancy pointed at my glass.

  Camille kept stuffing her face while Frank stood up, ready to save me if I didn’t get a handle on the situation.

  “You okay?” Max asked as he rubbed his hand across my back.

  “I’m okay, too big of a bite,” I said with a raspy voice. My eyes were watering, and I could feel my face flush red.

  It was beyond me that she went and ordered food from Italy. How do you even go about doing that? I took several gulps of my water before I could speak clearly.

  “You ordered the ravioli from another country?” I asked, breathless.

  “Oh no, sweetie, I actually ordered them from Il Mulino, downtown,” Nancy said.

  “These aren’t even available on their regular menu. But that’s Mom—able to charm anyone into doing what she wants,” Camille said.

  Max leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I thought it was a bit of overkill myself, specially ordering them from the head chef at Il Mulino, but she was insistent on doing this for you. How was I going to argue?” He pressed his forehead against the side of my temple. I waited for his lips to meet my cheek, and of course, they did.

  “Helicopter rides, limos, and custom-ordered ravioli—you would think it’s someone’s birthday today,” Frank teased. “Now if we could just get you to win a game of pool…”

  “Oh, Frank. Wilson, you don’t have to play pool ever again with these hooligans,” Nancy smiled.

  I forced a smile back. What could I say? I wanted to play pool with these hooligans again. I wanted the limo ride and specially ordered ravioli. I wanted everything the Goldsteins were willing to give me. Because everything I experienced with them meant I was that much more woven into the fabric of their family. Sure, the extravagance was over the top. But come on, who wouldn’t love the attention they were lavishing over me?

  “Nancy, Frank—thank you for making this birthday so amazing, I will never forget this day.” I felt a bubble rise in my chest, making its way to the base of my windpipe.

  “You are more than welcome, sweetheart.” Nancy puckered her lips as her eyes became misty.

  “For Pete’s sake, Nancy. Come on now. You’re making the kid all teary-eyed. You’re not supposed to cry at birthdays. Funerals and weddings—now those are legitimate tear-fests.” Frank coughed intentionally before continuing, “Remember Camille and Dan’s wedding? Not a dry eye in the place. Of course, I cried at the price tag that hung from that shin-dig.”

  “Yeah right, Dad. You were a bawling like a baby.” Camille flung a glance his way before turning to her mom. “Remember when Daddy and I had our dance? The shoulder of my dress was drenched and—”

  “Well, that’s because I had something in my eye.” Frank swung his hands in the air at her as he chimed in with an excuse to her story. “Now stop all this mushy stuff. Wilson, whereabouts in California did you grow up?” Frank strategically changed the subject.

  My heart pounded recklessly in my chest. Here it comes. I could feel my body answer before my mind had time to comprehend his question. Suddenly, the room became stiflingly hot as sweat pushed through every hair follicle on my body. My throat tightened and I couldn’t formulate a coherent pair of words to save my life.

  “Dad,” Max snapped. I felt him grab my hand under the table and squeeze before he continued. “Don’t put Wilson on the spot.” He stared at his father, but it was too late. At that moment, six pairs of eyes burned through my skin, searching to discover what made me tick. Max slowly turned and looked at me, his electric green eyes meeting mine, apologizing for what was about to happen. And I knew right then the Frank Goldstein Inquisition had begun.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’m not putting her on the spot, Max. I want to learn more about this sweet girl who’s stealing our hearts. Are you uncomfortable with telling me about yourself, Wilson?” Frank spoke with authority.

  Where did I put that hole? The
one I could curl up in and disappear? If there’s one topic I hate talking about, it’s how I got dumped on my grandparents’ doorstep by my druggy mom and how my grandparents had to sacrifice their golden years to raise me.

  I glanced at Max and shook my head; I didn’t want him to change his relationship with his father to protect my feelings. I looked at Frank, then Nancy, Camille, and back to Frank.

  “I was born in Northern California,” I responded, trying to clear the words that got stuck somewhere between my dignity and my tongue. Frank’s eyes widened, asking for more details. I swallowed and continued, “Fort Bragg, California—on the Northern California coast.”

  “I know where Fort Bragg is. Cute little town. How long did you live there?” Camille fueled the quest to get me to talk.

  I dropped my hands to my lap and clenched my napkin. It took everything I had not to wipe the sweat beads that had formed across my forehead. I don’t like this—I don’t want them to see this side of me.

  “Well, I didn’t. I was born there, but my mother, Candi. and I lived in Willits—a tiny town about thirty-five miles inland.” I could see the questions begin to brew in their heads.

  Why? What is so interesting about my life that they would want to know? Do they really want to hear about how messed up my life has been? How my mother chose to get high instead of being with me? How I didn’t really ever know my father? Maybe they just wanted to know what my grandparents were like. That’s it—I gotta talk about my grandparents.

  “I was only in Willits for a little over seven years. When I was eight years old, I went to live with my grandparents in Mendocino,” I rambled.

  “Oh, did you and…Candi move in with your grandparents?” Nancy asked automatically. I could see her heart peeling from her sleeve.

  “No. She went back to Willits,” I said intentionally. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to get past this inquisition as quickly as possible.

  “So your father wasn’t in the picture during the first eight years of your life?” Frank asked in a practical tone.

  “Dad!” Max blurted out as he pushed his hand forward.

  “It’s okay.” I grabbed Max’s hand and pulled it under the table. I didn’t let go as I began to tell the story of my abnormal life. “I never knew my biological father. When Candi got pregnant she was a freshman high school. When his parents found out, they picked up and moved away. Candi was rebellious so, when my grandparents were at their wits’ end, they sent her to live in a home for pregnant teenagers. Once I was born, she and I lived at a home for unwed mothers until she wore out her welcome there too. Then, one day, I guess I became too much to handle. She had used up the last of her friends’ help, so she decided to drive to Mendocino and dropped me off at my grandparents’ house. I never saw her again. I was seven and a half.”

  Surprisingly, I didn’t have that heartbeat that thrashed in my ears or the pressure that built in my esophagus telling me I wanted to throw up. My eyes didn’t burn with scorching or searing tears. I was okay. Max, on the other hand, was fuming. He knew my story—the whole dirty, crappy thing. He knew how painful it was for me, not knowing my father and being abandoned by my mother. He knew opening that part of my life was like inviting Satan to sit next to me in church. Some things are better left in the past. I could hear him breathing deeply. I could feel his energy pulsing to protect me.

  I remember the day I summoned up the guts to ask my grandma about my mother abandoning me on her doorstep. I had just turned sixteen, and felt I could handle anything she would tell me. She filled all the hollow spots in my limited little girl memories of that day. We sat at the worn, dark brown drop-leaf table off the kitchen. Grandma pushed a cream-colored coffee mug toward me, chipped around the rim and spider webbed with black lines. It was filled with peppermint tea. She sat down, took a sip, and told me what she knew. I remember the smell of peppermint as it clung to the air, and the feeling of desperate hope that it would settle my stomach. I remember the scalding hot mug. I had pressed my fingers against it, wanting to feel something other than hate. I will never forget the look she gave me as she told me about the desperate phone call she’d gotten from my mother and the heart wrenching decision she had to make that day. The devastating beliefs my grandma had about raising her daughter, the guilt she had for sending her away, and all the mistakes she didn’t want to make with me explained every lonely moment I’d spent away from home at Wesley.

  “Well we are so glad you’re here, isn’t that right, Frank?” Nancy smoothed the waters swelling and swirling between Max and his father.

  “Oh, well of course,” Frank stated.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “How is college life? Cal State East Bay, right?” Camille asked, trying to change the subject to something more upbeat.

  At first it didn’t register what she was asking until I remembered that we’d told his family I was in college. Oh my God, I think I might throw up. I must look like a frickin’ idiot! I knew there were going to be questions that would test me—things I knew I’d have to straight-up lie about—I just didn’t think…heck, what am I saying? I just didn’t think period. I knew this lie was going to bite me in the ass.

  “Good,” I swallowed roughly.

  “How long is your break?” Camille continued pressing.

  “Well, um. I…ahh—think just ‘til after New Years,” I stammered.

  “Really? Not six weeks, huh?”

  “No, she only has a two-week break,” Max said.

  “Oh, that’s right; you’re in the accelerated program. They don’t give you much time off,” Camille answered her own question.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Max said. I just nodded.

  Oh God, we are soooo going to hell.

  “Well, neither does that fancy school Max teaches at. They wouldn’t even let him off for Hanukkah. That really upset your mother,” Frank’s voice filled the room.

  “Well, Dad, Hanukkah didn’t land on the same schedule as winter break this year. There was no way I could take off any time at the beginning of December, I had finals,” Max defended his choices.

  “We know, honey. Your father was just disappointed you couldn’t come celebrate with us, that’s all,” Nancy crooned.

  I leaned against Max and whispered in his ear. “Doesn’t Hanukkah happen at the same time as Christmas?”

  “Not always,” Max stated before he turned to his mom to refute her account of who was disappointed. That’s when Frank spoke up and answered my question.

  “Wilson, Hanukkah follows the Hebrew calendar. Every new moon represents the beginning of a Jewish lunar month; that’s why our holidays tend to move around every year.”

  “So Hanukkah can be any time of the year? Not just December?” I asked.

  “No, it might creep into the end of November but most of the time it hops around December,” Frank clarified.

  I had to admit, I didn’t know much about Judaism. I knew they didn’t celebrate anything relating to Jesus, but—hello, I never really understood the whole thing about how Jesus was a Jew, yet he died for the sins of Christians. And was he really a carpenter? Really? Because the Bible never mentioned him building anything.

  “So do you believe in Jesus?” I asked Frank.

  I noticed how Max shifted his weight back and forth on his chair and his expression became stoic; I guess the religious conversation Frank and I were having was making him uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, felt informed. Finally, I was learning something about his faith.

  “Not as the son of God or our Messiah,” Frank said without hesitation.

  I watched as Nancy grabbed Max’s plate and her own and took them into the kitchen.

  “Here, Mom, let me help you. Are you finished, Wilson?” Camille asked as she popped up and reached for my plate.

  “Yeah, thank you,” I answered before I turned back to Frank. Max stood up and grabbed his dad’s plate and joined his mother and sister in the kitchen.

  Wow, do Frank
and I know how to clear a room or what?

  Frank didn’t skip a beat. “So how does it feel to have December 25th all to yourself?”

  “Ah, well, I haven’t really thought about it much,” I smiled.

  Actually, it was a bit strange not sitting around the table eating my traditional Birthday/Christmas dinner and singing carols with my grandparents. That’s what was missing—the two cogs that kept the gears of my Christmas in motion were no more.

  The lights dimmed in the room and my heart leapt as Max came out with Nancy’s homemade, mixed berry pie and a tall, white birthday candle glowing brightly in the middle.

  “Well, I know we can’t take the place of your grandparents; however; I hope we can make perfect memories for your birthday this year,” Nancy spoke softly. My heart pattered.

  What she didn’t know was that every moment I spent here with them was filling the hollow space that inhabited my heart.

  Camille carried in a stack of plates with a bundle of forks clanking on top. Frank stood up to join the rest of his family as they sang and wished me a happy birthday. My eyes blurred with splashes of thanks.

  “Blow out your candle and make a wish,” Max said as he set the pie in front of me. I stood up, took a deep breath, and blew at the flame; it stretched and broadened before it vanished in a swirl of white smoke.

  “What’d you wish for?” Max asked as he came over close behind me.

  “Hey, no way, I’m not telling. Then it won’t come true.” I elbowed him softly in the ribs.

  “Oh, don’t tell me you believe that ol’ superstition! Boyfriends are exempt from creating spoilage of wishes, you know,” he breathed against my ear.

  “Don’t you dare tell him—that is not true, Max,” Camille roared as she pulled the candle from the pie before Nancy cut the first piece.

  “Camille’s right. Here you go, birthday girl.” Nancy handed me the first piece of her famous mixed berry pie. My mouth watered as I remembered the piece I shared with Max the last time we were in Aspen.