Joy
Looking backon my childhood through the lens of adulthood, I could see my father's sudden death as the origin of my mother's religious fanaticism. She'd always possessed an abrupt sense of morality but his death was the big bang that'd weaponized her beliefs. I hadn't recognized any of that when I was a kid. All I knew was my father was gone and the rational parts of my mother had gone with him.
My father worked in printer and copier sales, and spent more time on the road than at home. My memories of him were entwined with the cities he visited and the stories he told about those places. To my child's mind, locations like Akron and South Bend, Harrisburg and Charlottesville were fascinating and exotic. They were known for interesting food and curious histories. I was a full-grown adult before I discovered Akron was known for rubber and not made of rubber.
He died in a multi-vehicle crash near Poughkeepsie. Drunk driver. A mix-up at the scene of the accident meant he was gone two days before we were notified.
My mother found solace in her faith but she also found anger, resentment, blame. She wrapped herself in the church's most exclusionary teachings as if it would protect us from the kind of tragedy that took my father. As time passed, she adopted a version of the story of his death as her proof that evil lurked in the world and it was out to destroy good people. First, it was that the driver who'd T-boned the car wasn't only drunk but also high on illicit drugs. Then he was smuggling those drugs over the border. Selling them too. Eventually, the driver was a gang member, a sleeper cell terrorist, an undocumented immigrant. At times, all of the above.
It took me years away from her home to understand it wasn't about faith or religious teachings. Faith didn't look at young people and tell them their existence was wrong. Faith didn't restrict food, shelter, and comfort to help them conquer their evil urges. Faith didn't threaten children with disease, misery, and eternal damnation because of the way they were born. Faith didn't force anyone to cut family out of photos, burn them from memories, throw them away like last week's garbage.
It was never about faith.
The next post read, "Need a good pork chop recipe for dinner! Easier the better, crockpot or instapot. This working mama has a crazy day ahead! Child friendly, please! My picky three-year-old is something else!"
A groan slipped past my lips as I scanned the replies. Pork chops and crockpots and picky toddlers. But it wasn't about that. It wasn't even about the niece and nephew I'd never met. It was the appearance of life indented by only one loss. She had all the heartfelt words for my father but nothing more than strategic cropping for me.
My stomach churned the same way it always did when I pinched this particular bruise. It always hurt and it always left me feeling sick.
Scrolling down, I stopped on a photo of Joy, her husband, her kids, and Ma in themed t-shirts at Disney World. The caption read, "We finally made it to the promised land! We are dead on our feet but it's been a fun day! So blessed!"
I had to stop with this. I knew that now and I knew it every time I typed her name into the search bar. But this was the end. It had to be. If I could walk away from sweet boys with stupid muscles, I could stop torturing myself over a family who'd cut me off like a wart in the way of their blessings.
I lowered the laptop's lid and pushed away from my desk. My brussels sprouts needed to come out of the oven.
* * *
Monday morning didn't come soon enough.
I was a fan of Mondays. I liked fresh starts and the urgency associated with a new week. They were the perfect opportunity to put a weekend of questionable choices behind me. And I loved climbing the old stairs up to the office's attic conference room for our seven a.m. Monday meeting. I started out at Walsh Associates ten years ago as a gopher. Whatever they needed, I went to get it. I was sent to collect everything from permits to lunch to broken bricks at the junkyard. That was back when the only Walshes running this sustainable preservation architecture shop were Shannon and her brother Patrick, and our meetings took place around a shared desk while we sat in folding chairs.
As they finished school, Shannon and Patrick's younger brothers—Matt, Sam, and Riley—joined the firm. Miss Andy Asani came along shortly after and Patrick immediately fell for her. Now we had accounting managers and paralegals and office assistants. We were far more than a quaint family operation. Walsh Associates was five times bigger than it was when I spent my days juggling coffee and paint samples.
These days, we met at a custom-built table and sat in chairs that cost more than my monthly rent, and these people were the closest thing to family I knew.
Yeah, I was a fan of Mondays.
I set my coffee and laptop on the table and settled into my usual seat between Sam and Andy. Patrick sat opposite me, already scowling at his screen. He suffered from an acute case of resting grouch face. It couldn't be helped.
"I hate it when Shannon isn't here," he said.
"I know." I opened my laptop and keyed in my password. "She'll be back before you know it."
"Not soon enough," he muttered.
In addition to his resting grouch face, Patrick's tolerance for ambiguity was immeasurably short. He could manage the unexpected with his restoration projects but all hell broke loose if someone reorganized the supply closet without notifying him well in advance. He was notorious for firing administrative assistants—if they didn't walk out first—within weeks of hire. Three months without Shannon, the strategic, financial brains of this operation, was almost unbearable for him.
Soon, Riley and Matt filled the remaining seats and the meeting started. We used this time to share updates on the current slate of projects and plan for upcoming work. Patrick was tied up with a multi-home restoration on Cape Cod and commuting down to Wareham each day this week. I couldn't comprehend why anyone would subject themselves to that drive but questioning Patrick's methods was about as practical as trying to bury a ghost.
"While I'm out of the office, Andy is in charge of building issues and Tom is in charge of business issues," Patrick announced.
At that, the trio of younger brothers exchanged a series of glances, gestures, and arched brows.
"I'd be offended by this but honestly, I'd rather not be the one on the hook," Matt said.
Riley pointed at him. "Same."
"This works for me. I have no desire to handle anyone's issues," Sam added.
