How to Be Brave(24)

I want to kill her.

“Well, you know…” My dad motions for Liss to move over so he can sit down next to her. “It was like this: It was a blind date. When we met, Diana thought I was too old for her. And I probably was. But, I guess, now that I think about it, I liked her from the very first night. I was working in a grocery store at that time, and we learned this: That she grew up in a grocery store. That’s when we knew that age didn’t matter. So what I’m saying is, I guess that’s when I started.”

Liss is stunned into silence, as am I. That’s the most I’ve ever heard my dad say about my mom ever. Not even at the funeral did he talk about her or say much of anything at all.

I can see small tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, but he blinks to hold them back. “Anyway, girls,” my dad continues, his voice a bit hoarse now, “why do you ask? What is this about love? You are too young, I think, maybe, to be asking these questions.”

“Certainly not, Mr. Askeridis. We’ll be able to vote next year,” Liss says. “Soon after is love, marriage, and babies in a carriage!”

I shoot Liss a dirty look. Way to make my already depressed father more neurotic.

“Be careful, girls. Pnigese s’ena koutali nero,” my dad says, looking straight at me, as though I know what he’s saying. I shake my head, and he translates: “If you’re not careful, you’ll drown in a spoon of water.”

“What the fu—” Evelyn catches herself, thank God. “I mean, like, what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means this, my friend: You make life too complicated, and you’ll have nothing but regret. See what you have now, right in front of you. It’s all here. Your friends. Ice cream. Hot fudge. You know, just enjoy it. You do not know when it will be gone.”

He pats my head gently and then goes back to the register.

“Well, that was uplifting,” Evelyn mumbles.

“Sorry about my dad,” I say. “He’s Greek and likes to get philosophical.”

She stares at her half-chewed cherry stem. She’s turned serious again. She’s far away. “You okay, Evelyn?”

Evelyn doesn’t say anything, and I don’t push it.

I feel it, too, the weight of my dad’s words. The reality of a spoon of water.

Liss catches my eye and smiles, a sad, knowing smile. She understands how much is gone. How much we all miss my mom. How she would have had a different story about how they met. How she would have wanted to know everything about me and Daniel Antell at the locker, about how he looked and what I said. How she would have had my back.

I miss her, Liss mouths to me silently.

I miss her, too.

*

This is what it was like sometimes:

Me, in the backseat of the old gray Buick,

the Indiana skies blue and bright and filled with clouds.


My parents, up front, laughing—

about what I don’t remember.

(I wish I could remember.)


Us, on our way to the farm

to dig our hands into brown American soil

that was not the same as the red Greek soil

that my dad described at length,

repeatedly.

We were on our way to dig up the radishes

and pull at the tomatoes

and bite into the apples

that grew on the family farm

that was built on land

that would never belong to us.


But we were there

on a quiet Sunday morning,

the highway long and clear and ours.


My parents, in love.

Me, safe.


We were there, the three of us,

the hot summer sun,

moving on the earth

together.

*

Evelyn heads home since her mom’s in town for four days straight and is expecting her. (“I hope she doesn’t make me pee in that f*cking cup again. She’s going to be quite disappointed after all that Betty Crocker.”) Liss comes back to our apartment with my dad and me to spend the night.

My dad takes a shower and falls asleep on the couch, Saturday Night Live droning on the TV, while Liss and I stay up rereading old copies of Rolling Stone and Vogue and doing our nails on my bed.

“I could really use a smoke.” Liss has taken to Evelyn’s cloves. I still can’t quite stand them. Every time I try to inhale, I feel like I’m going to blow out a lung.

“Let’s see…” Liss files through my collection of old CDs. “Etta James, Coltrane, the divine Mr. Ray Charles…” All of these belonged to my mom. After she died, I took all of her CDs from the living room, along with her old stereo system. Liss continues to browse through the box until she finds one and holds it up. The Blues. “This one?”

I nod, so Liss puts it in the stereo and presses play. “What a voice. Your mom knew how to listen to music.”

She did. This one in particular was one of my mom’s favorites. It’s weird, hearing Nina Simone’s raspy old voice without also hearing my mom’s humming along with it.

“Is this okay?” Liss asks.

“Yeah, of course. I like hearing it.” And I do.

Liss folds open one of the Vogues to this somewhat complicated design; it’s a reverse French manicure—white polish below, black tips all around. “Want this? I think I could do it for you.”