The You I've Never Known(51)
Mark . . .
And Gabe stands slowly, puts out one hand to steady me, and asks, Do you really think that was called for?
And Dad sits very still, ignoring the others
while measuring my
reaction to his absolute invitation to tell his sorry ass totally off.
Now I stand, scoot
my chair back under the table. “Know what, Dad? That was the first time you’ve ever mentioned what Mom looks like.
Interesting to know I resemble her.
Thank you for that.”
I amble over to the counter.
“I think I’ll have some pie.”
And That’s the First Time
I can remember calling my mother Mom. Not “my mom.”
Not “my mother.”
Mom.
I hope that hurts my bastard father.
I’m reeling, though I don’t dare show it.
My father
is a carrion eater.
Maybe I’ve seen it before.
But I’m not sure I truly realized until now that bone picking might, in fact, be his favorite hobby and that his victims are as varied as his W o m e N
and me.
Wordlessly
My pie and I retreat to the living room. I turn on the TV, mostly for noise, which works perfectly, because what comes on is football.
I flop down onto the too-soft sofa, stare at big dudes in tight pants and helmets running into one another, pick at pumpkin filling in need of more cinnamon or nutmeg
or whatever. I’m glad I decided not to drink earlier. That little scene was an excellent reminder
of the importance of self-control.
I’m thankful I could manage it.
I think I’ll save inebriation for when I’m positive there won’t be a need to parry with Dad, or with anyone, for that matter. I’m wounded,
but not fatally, and with any luck at all, I’m still on track to get my driver’s license this coming week. Once mobility is assured, I won’t require anyone in my life.
I’ll be picky about who I keep.
Gabe Will Probably Be a Keeper
He joins me on the sofa now,
tilting the sagging cushion, and so also me, toward the center.
Wow. That was ugly. I’m sorry he said those things to you.
I shrug. Try to think of a proper response, but no words seem
appropriate. What finally comes out of my mouth is, “Want some pie? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
You don’t like it? I made it from scratch. Well, except for the crust.
That came from a mix, but a good one.
I don’t mention the need for
more spices. “It’s yummy, but I don’t have room for dessert after all. You’re an awesome
cook, by the way. I hope I can be as good as you one day.”
Stick with me, baby, and I’ll impart my entire repertoire of culinary secrets. You’ll be a master chef.
I can’t help it. “But then I’d need a plus-size wardrobe, wouldn’t I?”
I don’t know if that is, in fact, a subconscious plea for
reassurance, but Gabe takes it that way, and I’m happy when
he reaches for my hand.
You listen to me. His whisper is fierce. I don’t know what your dad’s problem is or was, but that attack was bullshit.
You’re an incredible girl, and if you put on a pound or two no one would notice because you’d still be the exact same funny, bright, loving person.
Funny? I guess.
Bright? Enough.
Loving? Am I?
“Okay. If you say so. I’ll save the pie and eat it later. With whipped cream. And I’ll wash it down with full-strength eggnog.
None of that light shit for me.”
Atta girl. Now, who’s winning the game? He chances a quick kiss. Last thing we need is
Dad’s commentary on that.
After a While
Dad stumbles into the room,
holding a glass of what might have a thimbleful of eggnog
combined with some amber
liquid. Whiskey, is what Dad’s breath announces, when he says, Move over there, would ya?
Gabe excuses himself to go
call his mom and wish her
a happy Thanksgiving. When
he gets up off the sofa, I do, too.
“I’ll help Zelda with the dishes.”
Dad snorts. Was it something I said? Hey! Touchdown!
I ignore him, and the touchdown, wander back into the kitchen, where Zelda has already managed to clean up the Gobbler Day mess.
“I didn’t know you were a magician.”
It wasn’t so bad. Mark cleared while I washed and put stuff away.
Dad Played Busboy?
That’s hard to believe.
Maybe Zelda gave him
hell. Funny, but I think the magician comment
is the most words I’ve
ever offered her at once.
“Dad never helps clear
at home. You really must be able to work magic.”
There. Real conversation.
Believe it or not, I think he felt guilty about blowing up at the dinner table, not that he bothered to apologize.
He didn’t tell you he was sorry, did he? I told him he should.