Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  “MOM!!!” Parker howled up towards the ceiling, immersed entirely in his own world. “Make Katie cook grilled cheese! NOW! Grilled cheese is Saturday lunch food. TODAY… IS… SATURDAY!!!”

  Candace threw her hands up. “See what you’ve done, Katie?” She turned to my brother. “Parker, I just told her. There’s not much more I can do.” Her eyes softened with a slight hint of compassion, before returning to their usual iciness as she glowered in my direction. “Katie. Do something!” she demanded.

  I could explode. I wanted to scream at her. At both of them, but especially her, for always passing the buck when it came to Parker. Whatever she had said or done earlier, had set him backward. I just knew it. This meltdown, whatever it was, had little to do with a grilled cheese sandwich. Parker had been working very hard on self-regulation strategies, especially since mainstreaming at the local public high school. His teachers and therapists were terrific and helped Parker make tremendous progress every day. Episodes like these had become a rarity.

  Utterly frustrated, I looked down at the lunch platter I had prepared earlier: rounded bits of organic ground turkey sautéed in peppercorn and teriyaki sauce, seasoned to perfection. Meanwhile, Candace was preoccupied, toying with the heel of her left shoe. “Do you think these give me too much height?” she asked. “I don’t want to show up to the country club looking like a giraffe.”

  Typical. Candace was too self-absorbed to care that my fifteen-year-old brother was on the brink of a full-on nuclear meltdown. A meltdown that could have easily been avoided had she made more of an effort to work with him on any of the coping strategies he learned. How could Parker generalize all that his teachers, psychologist, and BCBA were trying to guide him with, if Candace didn’t remain consistent with anything?

  “Parker, we have these very tasty… very delicious meatballs,” I restated, my tone lowering to a deeper—and hopefully more authoritative—register. “I cooked them extra crispy, just how you’ve always liked them—”

  “Wednesday meatballs are made with beef,” he replied with unflinching exactitude, unwilling to budge just the slightest.

  “They’re crispy. I used teriyaki sauce too,” I said, trying to navigate the conversation as smoothly as possible. “Parker, we talked about flexibility. Right? Well, this is one of those flexible moments. Remember when Pat took you to the aquarium last weekend, and the touch tank wasn’t available due to maintenance?”

  I emphasized Pat, knowing full well the magnitude of Parker’s respect for his BCBA. “Well, as Pat said, sometimes we need to deviate from the plan, and that’s okay,” I continued.

  “What’s not okay, is wasting food. You understand that, don’t you? Wasting food is not okay. There are children, all over the world, who wish they had food just like this.”

  “You don’t know any of those children,” Parker snapped. “You don’t know that. That’s conjecture. You have no evidence—”

  “Parker. Listen to me. You wouldn’t want to waste food when there are children, poor, hungry children out there, would you?” I asked again, the pitch of my voice starting to waver.

  “I… DON’T… WANT… MEATBALLS!!! IT’S… SATURDAY!!!” he bellowed. His cry was so angry, deafening and terrifying that I instinctively cowered and dug my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands to keep myself from screaming back in return. I then watched, speechlessly, as he began to rock back and forth, balanced precariously on the balls of his feet, in a rash, unstoppable frenzy.

  “GRILLED… CHEESE! IT’S SATURDAY!”

  Parker repeated his angry mantra, over and over and over again. His rocking was becoming angrier, more violent, and unpredictable. I had to do something, fast. I looked to our mother for an ounce of support, guidance, but was met only by her silence. At least she was no longer fixated on the heel of her shoe. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly, and I knew she didn’t know have a clue.

  “Katie,” she pleaded, her eyes softening in such a way that I momentarily felt sorry for her.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep breath and, again, silently counted down from ten. This was not going well at all. 10… 9… 8…

  Peeking one eye open, I glanced back at our mother who just stood there helplessly.

  4… 3… 2…

  After I reached zero, I promptly embraced Parker, taking him completely into my arms as I bore the bulk of my weight against his body. Pressure always soothed him, and even though he despised receiving hugs from most people, I was one of the only few that Parker would allow to hold him. Sure, it was risky when he was trapped inside of himself like this. I could have quickly ended up with a fat lip, black eye, or worse. But I had to do something.

  I breathed a short sigh of relief the moment Parker burrowed his head into the nook of my shoulder, humming softly to himself. Gently, I rocked us both back and forth in a much calmer, much smoother, motion; both feet planted solidly on the ground.

  Still holding Parker tight, my gaze gently wandered over to the nearby kitchen window.

  The eldest son of our next-door neighbors, slowly paced up and down their front yard, hunched over a leaf blower, as he tended to the lawn himself. I think his name was Jude.

  I smiled a little bit.

  Candace often made derisive comments about the Bergeron family and how they always DIY-ed their household chores, never hiring outside help. But I thought the Bergeron’s were a lovely family that seemed genuinely happy.

  There was this one time, a couple of years back, when Parker lost himself to a similar meltdown on our front yard. Maggie, the mom, must have seen Parker from their window. She shot over to our house and managed to calm him instantly. Maggie then invited us both over for ginger snaps and lemonade, Parker’s favorite snack. He must have rattled off that detail in front of Maggie at some point, and she had remembered it—saving the day.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Katie!” Candace spat, finally able to say something comprehensible now that Parker was noticeably calm. “Would it have killed you to make your brother a grilled cheese sandwich? You could have avoided all of… that.”

  “That?” I let go of Parker who quietly walked over to sit at the table, by himself. “It’s called a meltdown, Candace. And no, I can’t just give him what he wants. Pat has been very clear about this. We’re not helping by giving in.”

  Candace snorted. “I don’t need to hear about all that ABA stuff.”

  “ABA stuff? What I just did had nothing to do with his programs. Parker has specific sensory needs and coping strategies. Come on. You know this.”

  “It’s Blanca’s day off,” she interrupted, completely bypassing anything I had just said. “Something about a visiting niece from Mexico. Now Blanca’s somewhere off in Port Chester. I’ve told you all this. She usually handles this. You don’t have to stare at me, all judgmental.” Candace then paused in mid-sentence, as if she had suddenly remembered something so incredibly significant, that none of what she had just said mattered.

  Delving deeply throughout her handbag in a terrible frenzy, she began murmuring indecipherably under her breath as she flung the bag’s contents onto the kitchen table.

  “Candace. Are you okay?”

  She suddenly looked up from her handbag, then at me, disoriented. Almost as if recognizing for the first time that I had been standing there. “I left my pills over there on the counter. Oh, darn it. Katie, be a dear and hand me that bottle. It’s right next to the fruit bowl.” She laughed. “Of all places! And to think I almost left this place without them.”

  More pills? I sighed, crossed over to the opposite end of the counter from where I stood, and retrieved the orange plastic bottle that rested beside a bundle of bananas and one lone peach.

  “Blanca’s family is from Honduras.” I corrected. “Are you even listening to yourself? Not everyone who speaks Spanish is from Mexico. That’s just such a racist and ignorant statement—you should know better. Don’t you think you should have a little more respect for Blanca? You’re better th
an this.”

  Candace shrugged. “I didn’t realize I was getting a visit today from the PC police,” she retorted snidely.

  “You’re better than this,” I repeated forcefully.

  Bottle in hand, I scrutinized every small word printed on its label, and then I looked back at her. “Should you even be taking these?” I asked. “Aren’t these painkillers? Didn’t the doctor give these to you when you were suffering from those back spasms? That was over seven months ago.”

  Candace let out a sudden sharp laugh and shot me this positively incredulous look—as if I’d fallen and hit my head on the marble-tiled kitchen floor. “Katie. It’s just a little something I take from time to time. Never mind what they’re for. That’s between Dr. Humphrey and me. Doctor/patient confidentiality.”

  “If they’re just something you take from time to time, then why were you on the brink of having a panic attack when you couldn’t find them just now?” I asked pointedly. When would she ever learn that happiness couldn’t be found at the bottom of a bottle, regardless of its size?

  “Hand them over. I’m already running late.” She snapped her fingers, twice, demandingly reaching out with her open palm.

  There was no point in arguing with her—there never was. Reluctantly, I handed over the pills.

  “Thank you,” she replied coolly. “Don’t wait up for me. I have a dinner engagement, after the club.” She pronounced club with sickeningly smug bravado. We weren’t members. But on the rare occasion someone she was dating happened to be one, Candace carried herself about as if a diamond tiara had been permanently cemented onto her head by the Queen of England herself.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t wait up.”

  “Hugh is taking me to Shippan. On his boat,” she continued to brag. “If your father calls about anything—which is doubtful from Germany, but you never know with him—don’t tell him. Your father is such a hypocrite.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “I won’t say anything.”

  “One more thing. Drop Parker off at Andrew’s house later, by six. They’re having a get-together. I told Danica he’d be there. And again, if your father calls, tell him… I don’t know, that I’m asleep. Or make something up. That would be wonderful. Okay?”

  “You got it.” I folded my arms defensively against my chest.

  “Well, I’m off.” She paused. “How do I look, Katie?”

  Her eyes widened as they looked directly into mine, expectantly. I took a few moments to look at her—really look at her—and admittedly, Candace appeared flawless as always. On the outside. Her chicest (and most expensive) little black dress clung to her seamlessly, and her eyes, piercing and blue, would have appeared so impossibly beautiful and striking, had they not always looked so impossibly mean.

  “You look very pretty,” I complimented dutifully.

  “These meatballs aren’t so bad after all.”

  Finally breaking his block of silence, Parker, who had at that point become incredibly serene, still sat at the kitchen table, working on what looked like his fifth meatball.

  “Pretty?” The word fell from her mouth. “That’s the best you can come up with? Not stunning? Gorgeous?”

  I remained silent, refusing to feed any more into my mother’s vanity. And that did not sit too well with her.

  “Well. Don’t wait up.” She huffed, obviously miffed by my slight. She then spun around on her heels and headed out. But just as she reached the doorway, Candace abruptly paused, as if something had unexpectedly amusing had occurred to her. Glancing over one shoulder, glaring directly at me, she added, “Oh, and Katie?”

  “Yes?” I hesitantly asked. Candace always had to have the final word.

  “There are veggies in the fridge, in case you’d like to prepare a salad for dinner.” Her lips then twisted themselves into an almost sinister grin. Motioning toward her own flat abdomen, she continued. “I noticed you’re getting a bit… extra in this section. You may want to pay attention to that. It’s unbecoming. Maybe your Brooklyn friends don’t care, but that type of thing won’t go unnoticed here. Some of the neighbors might start mistaking you for a nanny.”

  Nanny—the word caustically dripped from her tongue like venom.

  I held my breath and counted, again, before responding. There was so much wrong, prejudice, and pure dysfunction within that statement.

  “I live in Queens—not Brooklyn. And you know what? None of what you just said, is an insult,” my voice rose. “Being a nanny, or a teacher, or anyone who works to help other people is a good thing. And I’m proud to work and pick up the slack where you and Father couldn’t even bother—”

  But before I could finish my sentence, she was gone, slamming the back door behind her for emphasis. I kept my arms still folded across my tightening chest, fighting to breathe evenly. I didn’t even know where to begin.

  She was awful. But things had gotten out of control right around the time my parents decided to call it quits. In some ways, the split was nothing short of a blessing, especially when considering neither one of them seemed to believe in civility while they were together. I couldn’t remember an argument between the two of them that didn’t involve full-blown lashing out, the most vicious of insults hurled shamelessly at one another, till neither one of them had one last vile word to give.

  When our parents consequently placed the Atlantic Ocean between them (my father moving to Munich for so-called work-related purposes), Parker and I were beyond relieved. Their impenetrable hatred for one another, along with an unforgettable dark cloud of unhappiness that had pervaded our home for decades, had cruelly taken a toll on each one of us.

  But even though Candace should have found herself in a better place without him, our mother still couldn’t quite seem to find her peace. If anything, all that had transpired post-separation seemed to have only intensified her rage. She just had this undeniably human need to fill that inner void with something. With each swipe of the credit card or sip of wine, I could almost see adrenaline rush throughout her hundred-pound body, pulsate within her veins, setting her widening eyes on fire.

  “Well?” Parker asked, and I was forced to snap out of my lost thoughts.

  Dejected, I looked away from the empty kitchen doorway and focused on Parker, who stared up at me in uncharacteristically serene silence. Whatever storm of unfettered rage that had taken over Parker’s inner world, completely dissipated.

  “Yes?” I asked tepidly.

  “Are you going to make grilled cheese, or not? I finished the meatballs, which were good by the way, but I’m still hungry. Still hungry.” At that point, it was more of an earnest whimper of a question on his part, more than anything else. “I still like beef meatballs better, but these were good, and you should be proud of yourself for not screwing them up.”

  There was no possible way I could even begin to imagine his world, let alone what we must have looked like through his eyes. Anger? Disappointment? Hopeless?

  “Well I’m happy to see you finished the meatballs for lunch because we don’t waste food,” I replied. “But, Parker, look. Let me help you with something.”

  I knew exactly what to do. Immediately, I ran to the fridge and unhooked the mini whiteboard Blanca kept attached to the freezer door, just for moments like these. It was for one of the many strategies that Patrick had taught her. I had learned a lot by watching them both.

  Taking a green dry erase marker, I quickly scribbled down some simple, step-by-step directions, drawing a box next to each one.

  “First eat the meatballs.” I checked off that box. “And you just did that. But look. You’re still hungry, so we can be flexible. First meatballs, then we can have a healthy snack, like yogurt, instead. That will be second. After the snack, you can play video games. Then dinner—I’ll make us grilled cheese sandwiches. With bacon slices, just how you like it. That’ll be fourth. Then sleepover. That’s the last box. Here,” I handed Parker the marker. “You can check off each box after we complete each step. You ca
n even hold onto the marker, throughout the day if you want. You know? To keep an eye on it. Got it? Does that make sense?”

  Parker blankly stared down at the whiteboard, processing the familiar, logical, and comforting system that had been introduced to him years ago: first/then. Maybe not so neat and tidy as Pat might present it, but it was the best I could offer at that moment. Anxious, I bit down hard on my lip, silently praying Parker would respond positively.

  To my relief, he finally said, “Okay, Katie,” while nodding his head in agreement. I even detected an attempted a small smile. “Grilled cheese for dinner,” he conceded. “But you have to use American for the grilled cheese. Not Swiss. Okay? American. Okay? And… don’t burn the bacon. That tastes bad. It should be crispy, but not burnt.”

  I quietly smiled at Parker in response, allowing myself a few seconds to take it all in. It was the kind of moment where I just wanted to smother him in a bear hug, or playfully ruffle his thick, wavy hair. But I knew better. The sensation of touching his hair bothered Parker, was too much for him to process. And I could tell by his stiffening posture that we had already reached our Katie/Parker hug-quotient for the day.

  “Okay, buddy,” I said, reaching into the cupboard for Parker’s favorite bowl and spoon combo—souvenirs purchased several years back at a Pennsylvania train museum. “We have blueberries and that gluten-free granola you seem to like. Now, what flavor yogurt should we go for? Strawberry or vanilla?”

  Chapter Four

  Farrah

  “Can you believe the energy in here? This place is AMAZE!”

  I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. Penny Ainsley was the type of girl who always name dropped and was never shy about being her biggest and best self-promoter. She also had this definitive authority on what was hot—and not. Partying with her at one of Bushwick’s hottest night spots hadn’t been an accident on my part. Sure, the venue itself was lit—but so was I; and they all needed to remember that.