“He has stamina, Mom.He’s been married to you for over thirty years.” I had long since stoppedtrying to stay out of things between my parents. That might sound crazy to thenormal, non-confrontational person, but for me, I’d learned my lesson the hardway too many times. If I stayed out of it, it never ended. If I jumped in andstarted reminding my parents of how much they loved each other, they stoppedjust to get me to stop.
It was how I keptthe peace.
One might thinkthat this would make me brave enough to jump into any kind of conflict or throwmyself into volatile situations or maybe, even simply stand up for myself. Butthe truth was, having to handle my parents all of my life made any kind ofconflict extremely uncomfortable for me.
I evencongratulated myself for the great relationship Vann and Vera had. I took fullresponsibility for them loving each other so much.
I couldn’t stand themfighting when we were kids. I burst into hysterical tears the minute theystarted after each other. It wasn’t so much that Vann cared so very deeply forme, rather he has always hated when girls cried. It’s one of his biggest fears—weepyfemales. So he would do anything to get me to stop—even get along with hisannoying kid sister.
As we got older, Vannstarted treating me less like a girl and more like a sister which meant mytears had less and less effect on him. So, during our teenage years, I stoppedcrying and resorted to simply leaving. We could have been in the middle of ahomework assignment or a Vera-inspired cooking experiment, but if theatmosphere felt even slightly tense, I would pack up my things and leave.
Not for their sake,but for mine.
Fighting drove mecrazy. And after having listened to a pretty constant soundtrack of it for myentire life at home, I had gotten decently good at stopping it, fixing it, orrunning away from it.
“He can’t affordthe divorce,” my mom grumbled.
“Mom, he knows I’llset the table for you. I always do. And I always will.”
She snarledsomething under her breath and threw potholders at the table like Frisbees. Mymom was this interesting mix of plucky, tell-it-like-it-is ballbuster, andpearl-clutching church lady. In one breath, she’d give my dad hell or tosspotholders at the table like she was afrolfingsuperstar, and the next she’d lecture me for complaining about my boss orputting my elbows on the table.
When the potholderswere set, she spun back to her stove and mumbled angrily about my dad’sgrotesque use of his napping privileges. I already knew what kind of night itwas going to be before my dad ever made an appearance. If my dad was on hissecond nap today, there was a reason.
Because in thishouse, if Mamaain’thappy,ain’tnobodygonnabe happy until the very, very end oftime. Like the way end. Like after the epilogue and acknowledgments and sequelpreview.
I picked up threenapkins and started folding them into origami cranes, placing each one in thecenter of our ancient Corel plates. The eat-in kitchen was small and dated, butit did something to ease the aching in my hollow chest.
My parents weredifficult and angry and deeply bitter, but they also cared about me aboveeverything else. And I knew they loved each other. Even if they had a hard timeadmitting it. But it always made my memories an interesting mix of longing andloved, of bad memories mingled with great ones.
“You know he losthis job again,” my mother said in a harsh whisper. “Again, Molly.”
I stared at mymom’s back and lost the ability to form words. Her stiff shoulders and roboticmovements said words she would never say out loud.What are we going to do now?
She never askedthat question aloud, because she’d always had the answer. She would figure itout. On her own. Without help and without my dad. She would scrimp enough moneyto get by and continue to do whatever it took to pay the bills and put food onthe table. She would do what she always did—clean up my dad’s mess.
My dad had neverbeen able to keep a steady job.Which was kind of funnyconsidering how many times he had been hired.That was the thing aboutmy dad, he had no trouble finding work. He just couldn’t keep it. People lovedhim. His bosses always started out loving him.Iloved him. He was boisterous and charming and completelyirresponsible.
And he was asalesman. When I was very little, he sold cars. And knives, and cookware, andeven life insurance policies at one point. In middle school, he’d moved tocanvassing neighborhoods to sell roofs and then fences and finally gutters.When I got to high school, he had a steady job of selling medical equipment outof an office.
My mom and I hadsincerely hoped that the office job would be a turning point for him. He evenwore a tie to work and came home every day whistling.
But whatever it wasthat afflicted my dad when it came to finally pulling ittogether,had reared its ugly head and come back with a vengeance. When he lost theoffice job, he didn’t find another one until after I’d graduated and left thehouse.
In recent years,he’d had sporadic part time work with a tree service, but he wasn’t exactly aspry twenty-something-year-old. Manual labor was hard for him at his age. Sohe’d given that up, to try his hand at selling boats.
He’d managed thatfor eight months.
My heart dropped tomy toes like it was made of stone. I grasped at my chest where there was only agaping hole now. “He’ll find another job, Mom,” I assured her in an insistentwhisper. “He always does.”
She didn’t turnaround. She didn’t even flinch. “At least you’re not here anymore,” she said.
I focused on thenapkins again. I didn’t know what she meant by that. Maybe she was happy Ididn’t have to carry these burdens anymore, that I didn’t have to watch my dadspiral into depression as he tortured himself for not being able to keep worklike most other people. Or maybe she was happy she didn’t have another mouth tofeed and body to take care of. Maybe she was just glad she had one less thingto worry about now.
“If you need help, Mom,I can—”
Her hand snapped upcutting my words off, stiff as a board. “No, we don’t need help. Especially notfrom our daughter. You got your bills to pay, and that new car of yours, sodon’t you even think about us. This is your father’s mess. Let him figure outwhat we’re going to do.”
The hole in mychest widened, cracking my body cavity with dense fissures that spread likedisease all the way to my toes. “Well, just let me know if I can help,” I saidstubbornly. “You’ve taken care of me my entire life, it’s important for me tobe able to help you.”
