“My bathroom,” he says. Something good must have happened in his game because there’s a burst of sound.
“Ah.”
That translates to Oscar will be a few minutes. And if he’s got his phone with him, which I’m sure he does, he could be quite a while. Another disagreement we had this week. Not exactly a disagreement, but we both used tone with each other. I told him what time we were eating, then gave him a fifteen-minute warning. Then he parked himself in the bathroom and stayed half an hour. He told me he was reading the news while he did his business. There’s no way he was reading the news on his phone for half an hour. Oscar listens to the NPR morning report while he showers and gets ready for work and that’s a big enough dose for the day, he says. I think he gets a big enough helping of the reality of the world in the emergency department each day. He was playing a game on his phone in the bathroom. He’s into online trivia games.
So he spent thirty-four minutes playing trivia in the bathroom and I served lukewarm mashed potatoes, broccoli amandine, and roasted chicken. Hazel and I started eating before he finally joined us. As I passed the bowl of garlic mashed potatoes, I asked him if he was watching porn in the bathroom. Hazel thought it was funny. I did, too. I was joking. Oscar got pissed. Which made me pissed because did that mean he was watching porn? While I was trying to make and serve him a nice dinner? It’s not that I even care about the porn. Well, I do, but mostly because he doesn’t seem to have all that much interest in having sex with me, but he wants to watch other people do it? But it wasn’t about that. Again, it was about his disrespect of my time.
He’s right. I never am satisfied, am I?
I take a breath, really not liking myself at this moment. I slide into the chair beside my dad. “So . . . what happened today? What made you decide to walk into town to the bookstore?”
I don’t bring up the fact that he knows he’s not supposed to leave the house without telling Mom where he’s going because it’s been a bone of contention with them. He argues he has a right to go to the mailbox without getting her permission and I see his point. But her point is that sometimes he bypasses the mailbox and goes to a neighbor’s house or for a walk around the block and is gone an hour and she doesn’t know where he is and she gets worried. He used to carry his cell phone, but it’s sitting in the drawer now. It’s hard to believe that two years ago he was still using an iPhone.
He keeps sliding candies, concentrating on the iPad screen.
“Dad?” I say gently, laying my hand on his arm. As I squeeze it, I realize that he’s losing muscle tone. He was always a fit man, even into his seventies, but now he’s thinner. Stringier. I wonder when that happened and why I didn’t notice.
“I don’t want to talk about that.” He stops playing his game, but he doesn’t look at me.
“You were gone a couple of hours.” I rub his arm, feeling sad. I can feel myself losing him, losing the father I’ve known and loved my whole life. But I also feel sad for him because he knows he’s losing himself, too. I know he knows. Somewhere in his mind, he feels himself slipping away and that thought makes me feel like I could cry.
“Mom said there’s a problem with Jessop’s roses?” I wait because he looks like he’s thinking.
The pizza smells good and I realize I’m hungry. I wonder what kind it is. It’s from a little pizza place in town called Mario’s. Their logo looks something like one of the characters in the Mario Brothers video game, but I guess not so much like it that they’re getting sued for copyright infringement.
Dad just sits there, staring at his iPad. I guess he’s not going to answer me.
“Dad,” I say a little louder. “Did you accidentally mow over Jessop’s rosebushes?”
“How the hell would I do that?” he barks. “You can’t mow rosebushes! They’re three feet tall.”
He has a point. I don’t imagine he actually mowed them off at ground level; Mom was probably exaggerating. But he has mowed some of the neighbor’s landscaping before and done a pretty good job of it.
“How did you get the mower started?” I try to get him to make eye contact with me. “You told me it wouldn’t start. Remember? But we agreed you wouldn’t worry about it because you have that lawn service now?”
“You know how much we pay them a month?” he asks, finally meeting my gaze. “It’s like being held up by bank robbers once a week! Bank robbers wearing those floppy hats. What? They think we’re in the jungle? They look like zounderkites!”
That makes me chuckle. I’m going to have to look up the word zounderkite. The employees of the local lawn company we hired wear uniforms: khaki shorts, T-shirts with their logo on them, and khaki sun hats.
“I told Jessop not to plant those roses on my property. I don’t like roses,” Dad grumbles. “They’re prickly.”
There’s a little bit of saliva in the corners of his mouth, which seems odd. Also, he didn’t shave this morning. Not like him. I grab a napkin from the holder on the table and pass it to him. “Wipe your mouth, Dad.”
He takes it and wipes his mouth with a big swipe, much like a child would.
“Dad, Jessop’s roses aren’t on your property. Your property line is marked by the lilac bushes. The ones you and I planted. Remember?”
“He didn’t have to holler. Hells bells! It wasn’t my fault.”
“Jessop hollered at you?” I raise my eyebrows. Jessop and his wife, Lori, have been good neighbors to my parents. Both are retired schoolteachers, a little older than Oscar and me. They’ve lived next door for twenty-five years. They raised three children in their house and now it will soon be filled with the laughter of grandchildren. Their daughter just had their first grandson. “He hollered? Really, Dad? That doesn’t sound like Jessop.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dad narrows his gaze, frowning. “I’m hungry. Bethie ordered pizza. It should have been here by now. I don’t think I should have to pay for pizza that’s delivered late. And cold,” he adds. “Ought to be free.”
“The pizza’s already here. I’ll get you some in a minute.” I look up at him. “How did you get the lawnmower started, Dad?”
“Damn wire was detached. Don’t know why it took me so long to figure it out. Reconnected it.” He gestures upward with his hand. “Started right up.”
I make a mental note to ask Oscar to disable the mower in a more permanent way. I wanted my father to sell it, or buy it from him. It’s one of those nice zero-degree-turn mowers and only two years old. I’d love to replace our old lawn tractor. Our house is on an acre and a half and I mow about an acre. It would cut down on my mowing time. But Dad absolutely refused to sell it to me or anyone else. Even after he agreed that it was nice having the service do it because he knew he couldn’t keep it up any longer. Not the way he liked it. He was always particular about his lawn. He and Jessop used to have some kind of competition going every summer about whose diagonal lines in the freshly cut lawn were the straightest.
“You were upset about Jessop, so you decided to go for a walk?” I ask. “And you forgot to tell Mom?”
“I didn’t forget anything.” He starts the game again. “She’s not my mother. I don’t have to have her permission to use the little boys’ room.”
“It’s not about permission, Dad. It’s about being respectful of other people in the house. She was worried about you. We all were.” In the family room, the TV has gone to commercial. I expected Mom to come into the kitchen to say hello, but she’s probably so annoyed with Dad that she doesn’t want to be in the same room with him. Sometimes she just needs a break, which I understand. I can only imagine what it’s like to be here all the time with him, especially on days when she’s feeling bad and in pain. “You can’t just walk out of the house without telling Mom.”
“She wasn’t worried about me. I think she wants a divorce.”
That makes me smile. And I feel a tenderness toward him. My parents have always adored each other. Seeing them at odds like this is hard. “Dad, M
om doesn’t want a divorce.”
“She said she wants a divorce. That’s why I went for a walk. So she could cool down. I don’t want a divorce. Divorces are expensive. Once I pay out, I’ll be living in a motel.”
I hear Oscar’s voice in the family room. I can’t make out what he’s saying above the volume of the TV. Mom’s always complaining that Dad likes the TV too loud, but she likes it pretty loud, too. Oscar says he’s going to start bringing earplugs when he comes over, for fear he’s damaging his eardrums.
“So . . . what happened with your pants, Dad?” I ask, unable to resist the question that’s been burning in my mind since Maureen called me hours ago.
“What are you talking about?” He’s annoyed with me again, now. Too many questions. He tells me all the time that I ask him too many questions. That we all do.
“When Beth and Hazel found you, you weren’t wearing pants. You were just in your boxers.”
“I’m wearing pants,” he declares, the candies on his iPad exploding on the screen.
“Dad.” I use that gentle tone again. “When Beth found you at the bookstore—”
“They have coffee now, you know,” he interrupts. “Fancy coffees. The kind you girls like. Bethie bought one for Hazel.” He motions with his hand in dismissal. “I just ordered it black. Free, the nice girl with the earring in her nose told me at the cash register. Black coffee is free to anyone seventy-five or older. I think that’s nice. I’m sure if I start going every day they’ll put the price up. God’s bones, I’m not paying four-fifty for a cup of coffee.”
“Dad, you were wearing a blanket around your waist when Beth and Hazel came to the bookstore to pick you up. A blanket someone gave you at the bookstore. And no pants.”
He frowns and looks at me. “I was?” He thinks for a minute. “Was I wearing shoes?”
I nod. “Your Bean boots. And your coat. But no pants, Daddy. Just your undershorts.”
His face colors and he looks down at his iPad. “I suppose Bethie told you that.” He starts a new game of Candy Crush. “I know she’s my daughter and I shouldn’t say things like this, but, Liv, she’s not always truthful. Remember when she had that accident with her mother’s car and she told us someone ran into her in the parking lot? Come to find out, she was in Connecticut and she’d been drinking beer when she hit someone else in a parking lot. That one cost us a pretty penny. Lucky we didn’t get sued.”
What’s interesting about this story, which is entirely accurate, is that it took place about five years ago. Not when my sister was sixteen when one would expect such shenanigans. I’m also fascinated that he can remember those details, but forget his pants.
I press my lips together. “Dad, you can’t leave the house without telling Mom. It’s not safe.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Dad, you know you’ve been having some problems with your memory. We were afraid you didn’t know how to get home and we didn’t know where you were.”
“I know where the tarnation I live,” he grumbles as Oscar walks into the kitchen. “Been living here nearly five decades.”
I look up at Oscar. He’s still in his scrubs; he looks tired. The skin beneath his eyes is puffy and the lines around his mouth defined. “Hey,” I say, taking care with my tone.
“Hey,” he answers. As he walks behind me, he draws his hand across my shoulder blades. “I ordered pizza. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t see anything in the refrigerator that would be easy to make them for dinner.”
“Ah, yeah, sure.” I rise from my chair. “I thought Beth ordered it.”
“I got here forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, ago. She’d already gone home. Hazel was gone, too. She texted, said she’d see us later back at the house. Something about Beth needing to get home for a hot date.”
I look up at him. I still think he’s handsome, even with the little bit of chubbiness I see in his face. I have this impulse to lift up on my toes and kiss him. Somehow, over the last few months, we’ve gotten out of the habit of kissing hello and good-bye. I don’t kiss him. I just stand there, close enough for us to touch, but not touching.
“Your mom’s lying down on the couch.” Oscar hooks his thumb in the direction of the family room.
“She okay?”
He purses his lips and nods. “I told her to go ahead and increase the pain meds. Give her doc a call tomorrow. Maybe make an appointment to reevaluate. Just for bad days.”
“He okay?” I nod my head in my dad’s direction. He’s staring intently at his game, sliding the candy pieces across the grid.
“Fine.” Oscar goes over to the counter and lifts the lid off the pizza box. “Okay if I grab a slice for the road, Ed?” he asks as he takes one.
It’s veggie: mushrooms, peppers, onions, black olives, and pieces of fried eggplant. My favorite. I wish Oscar had ordered one for us for dinner. I didn’t take anything out of the freezer. We’ll probably have omelets. Second time this week.
“You leaving?” I ask Oscar.
He nods.
I rest a hand on my hip. “You get off early?”
“Hazel called me about your dad.” He shrugs. “Things were slow. I thought I’d come over and check on him. Find him a pair of pants.” He cracks a smile.
I laugh and lay my hand on his chest. And then I kiss him, not caring that he has a mouth full of pizza.
“Mm,” Oscar says, kissing me back. “What’s that for?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “I can’t just kiss you? There has to be a reason?”
He looks down at me, cocking one eyebrow.
“Thanks for leaving work early to check on them.”
“You’re welcome.” He leans down and kisses me again and then, taking a bite of the pizza, calls over his shoulder, “Behave yourself, Ed. Keep your pants on.”
I smile. Oscar and my dad have always had a good relationship. And Oscar has been able to get away with teasing him in a way we can’t.
“Ayuh,” my father responds, raising one hand but not looking up.
“I’m right behind you,” I tell Oscar as he walks toward the door. “I just want to say hi to Mom.”
“She took her dose of painkiller a little early, so she might be sleepy.”
“Should I be worried?” I ask him.
He stops in the doorway, taking a bite of the pizza. Chewing. “Nah, she’ll be fine.” He winks at me. “See you at home, sweetie.”
Sweetie. I smile. He hasn’t called me that in ages. So maybe the creamer incident has blown over?
I turn to my dad as Oscar goes out the back door. Things seem pretty good between Oscar and me, good enough for me to want to get home to be with him. Maybe to talk. But not about Hazel and the baby. About something else, anything else. I want to tell him about my day and the mantelpiece in the bed of my pickup. I want to tell him I miss him, because I do. “You want your dinner now, Dad? I can get you a slice of pizza and your Sprite.” He likes lemon-lime soda with pizza.
He shakes his head. “I’m winning. I’ll get it myself.”
“You said you were hungry. You were wondering where the pizza was.”
“We don’t eat until six. I don’t know why your sister ordered it so early.”
I don’t tell him that he and Mom eat at five on the days they eat alone or that Oscar ordered the pizza. I walk down the hallway in the direction of the deafening sound of the local news. I find my mother lying on the couch, staring at the TV. Her Siamese cat is on her lap.
I lean down and kiss her cheek, something I don’t do often.
“Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t want to hear it.” She holds up her hand to me as if fending me off.
“What?” I pull back, trying not to feel rejected by my mother.
“Liv, I don’t want to hear it. First your sister, then your husband. This isn’t a jail. I can’t be responsible for your father every minute of the day. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.” She crosses her arms over her chest, thrusting out her chin.
>
“First my sister and then Oscar what?” On the TV, someone is interviewing a park ranger from Lake Sebago. Apparently there’s been an abundance of Canada geese on the state roads and visitors to the park are being warned to watch for them. And I suppose not run over them.
“The lecture. I don’t want the lecture.” Again, she holds up her hand to me that’s tiny and shriveled.
“Oscar lectured you?” My hackles go up. “About Dad?”
“He most certainly did. He told me we got lucky this time. But that your father could have been seriously injured. Oscar said I needed to keep a better eye on him. That if he’d wandered out of town and into the woods, he could have died from exposure.” She blows a raspberry, which might have been funny in other circumstances. It’s not my mother’s style to blow raspberries. She’s a woman who wears pearls to the recycling center where she takes her booze bottles. I wonder if it’s the higher dose of pain medication making her behave like this. She usually never has anything bad to say about Oscar, either. She adores Oscar. Always has. I can’t remember a time when she adored me.
You would have thought that a woman who was told she was unable to bear children would have doted on the baby she adopted. You would think she would have spoiled the toddler who, at the time, she assumed would be her only child. But anyone who thought that would have been wrong. When I was growing up, my mother never acted as if she even liked me all that much. That’s not to say that she mistreated me. She didn’t. I always had the same clothes, the same toys, and later the same blue jeans and prom dress every other girl my age I knew had. I had braces, music lessons, weeks away at camp. I had all the things a woman of her socioeconomic means could provide a child. And I knew she loved me, but she never adored me. Not the way she adored my late-coming-to-the-scene sister. My mother didn’t just love Beth, she adored her. Her face lit up when my sister walked into the room.
It was the same with Oscar. The first time I ever brought him to dinner to meet my parents, my mother laughed at his jokes, teased him, and asked him questions she’d never asked me like where he saw himself in five years. She complimented him on his sweater and the wine he chose. It was always that way from there on out. She wanted to know what Oscar was doing, when she and my dad would see him again. She always seemed happier to see Oscar than me. She always smiled at him in a way that she never smiled at me.
Our New Normal (ARC) Page 16