Driving With Dead People (12 page)

Now that I was thirteen and in junior high myself, I didn’t want privacy. I wanted to hang out with someone. I sat upstairs on Becky’s bed and listened to her practicing the piano.

Mom was gone more and more. She was taking a full class load, and had met other students who were her age, many of them divorced. These women became good friends, giving Mom hope that she could make it out of her marriage.

I was glad Mom was happier, but I was seeing less of her.

Sometimes after my basketball or volleyball practice, I’d be waiting for Mom to pick me up an hour or more after everyone else had left. When she’d finally pull up, she couldn’t understand why I was so mad. She was distracted by Wright State and having trouble adjusting from life as a student to life as a mom.

“I have a crisis,” I told her when she finally arrived after practice one day. Since junior high had begun, I was constantly having a crisis, so she wasn’t alarmed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There’s something wrong with Miss Mattingly,” I said, throwing my red duffel bag over the backseat and climbing into the front. Miss Mattingly was skinny, tall, and wore pleated khaki skorts. She taught PE.

“Is she sick?” Mom asked.

“She’s perverted,” I told Mom. “So I guess I’d call that sick.”

“JoAnn and Becky love her,” Mom said.

“What? JoAnn doesn’t love her.” I snapped my seat belt into the buckle. “When JoAnn’s grades slipped, Miss Mattingly forced her to sit in front of the whole study hall at a special table where ‘dumb people’ sit, so she could watch her and make sure she was studying. But it was really about humiliating her.” I was getting worked up.

“But your grades are good, aren’t they?”

“It’s not about grades.” I rolled my eyes. “Just let me tell you and quit interrupting.”

I explained to Mom that every day in gym, after we’d changed into one-piece cotton uniforms, Miss Mattingly lined all the girls along the wall and walked back and forth with her clipboard, calling out names for roll call. If you were on your period, you had to say “M” in a loud, clear voice. This was mortifying. No one wanted to announce they were on their period. I wanted to die on the spot every time this happened to me. If you said “M,” Miss Mattingly marked a big red
M
by your name and you weren’t expected to shower. But if you didn’t have an
M
by your name, you had to take a shower. Miss Mattingly was obsessed with the crime of pubescent girls’ not showering.

The perverted part took place in the shower room. Miss Mattingly sat on a low wooden chair near the showers with her clipboard and a stack of white terry cloth towels. After you showered, you had to walk up to her completely naked, say your towel number, and wait while she found your name and put a checkmark by it. Finally, she’d hand you a towel to cover yourself. Until the towel went around you, Miss Mattingly was looking you up and down. All of us were disgusted.

I was embarrassed enough by my body, without Miss Mattingly (who lived with Miss Olson) staring at me naked and keeping a record of my periods. What the hell?

Mom called Mr. Conroy, the junior high principal, who told her it was his first complaint in Miss Mattingly’s tenure. Where was everyone?

My freshman year in high school, I joined the speech team as another way to work on my acting. Mr. Selman was a new teacher and speech coach, but I didn’t know him very well. In October he came over to Julie’s house for dinner. He was a bachelor and had just moved to town. Dave and Joan were always welcoming new members of the community.

Mr. Selman was heavyset and flat-footed with wiry black hair and thick chapped lips. When he laughed, it sounded like a foghorn going off, which made everybody laugh.

I sat down at the Kilners’ kitchen table across from Mr. Selman. Dave and Mr. Selman were laughing and joking like old friends.

Selman looked over at Julie and said, “I think I saw you sitting on the Do Not Enter sign after school last week.”

Julie threw a strawberry at him and his right eyeball fell into his lap. He looked down, picked up the glass eye, casually cleaned it with his napkin, and stuck it back in. I must have been gaping in horror.

“Monica, I know this looks tragic, but really, must you stare?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Selman,” I said, picking up my fork.

He did the foghorn laugh. “It’s okay. Seeing someone’s eyeball fall out is a good reason to stare. Joan, could you please pass me the green beans?”

Julie kicked me under the table and I kicked her back. I had never met anyone like Selman, and not just because of his glass eye. He was really fun, but he looked at me in an intense way, like he couldn’t wait to hear what I had to say. No adult had ever looked at me like that.

Freshman year, I had my first car date. It was with Keith Phillips, whom I met at a speech competition. I was fourteen and he was seventeen. We became inseparable from October through the spring and I was in love for the first time.

Keith and I went to high school ball games and to see
The Goodbye Girl
. We kissed and ate hamburgers at Bob’s Burgers.

He invited me to his senior prom, picking me up in his mom’s blue Oldsmobile, wearing a light blue tux with a ruffled blue shirt. He liked blue.

I wore a long clinging pink gown, a half bra stuffed with a combination of rolled-up white kneesocks and bunched-up Kleenex, and Mom’s uncomfortable white heels that made me taller than Keith. My bra kept slipping down until my kneesock-Kleenex boobs were jutting out of my stomach. I had to keep tugging it back into place as we danced to “Your Smiling Face” by James Taylor and “Three Times a Lady” by The Commodores. I sat right next to him in his mom’s blue car as we drove home.

When we walked into the house, Mom and Dad were already asleep. Keith suggested we go up to my room. I wasn’t allowed to have boys upstairs, but I didn’t want to be a naïve freshman, so I said yes.

I was worried about the socks and Kleenex in my bra as we climbed the stairs. What if he tried to get to second base?

When we got to my room, Keith sat down on my bed and, instead of kissing me, told me his parents were divorcing. I wasn’t surprised. I’d never even seen his dad speak to his mom. Instead he sat in his chair and grunted whenever she asked him a question.

“There’s more,” Keith told me. But then he began stuttering and looking at the floor.

He patted the space next to him on my bed. I kicked off Mom’s uncomfortable shoes and sat down.

I was positive he was going to say he loved me, but instead he mumbled something like, “Mmm’s a homosexual.”

I couldn’t understand him. “What?” I asked.

“Mom’s a homosexual,” he said quietly.

I couldn’t believe it. Shirley? She had just cooked us steaks before the prom. I tried not to judge, since Keith was already upset. But that was probably causing the divorce.

“Keith, I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“You’re taking this well,” he said.

“I’m not going to judge it,” I said, and he hugged me tight.

“I haven’t seen men since we started dating,” he said. “I would never have done that.”

I shoved him away from me. “What?”

“I haven’t seen men since we started dating,” he repeated.

“
You’re
a homosexual?” I asked.

“I told you I’m homosexual.”

“I thought you said ‘Mom’s a homosexual.’” We were both confused. “Why were we talking about your parents divorcing?” I asked.

“Because I don’t want that to happen to us,” he said.

I stood up, not caring that, once again, my fake boobs were protruding from my stomach. If I’d been wearing a perfectly fitted Christian Dior gown with a pair of my own fabulous breasts perched high on my chest, I’d still have felt ridiculous. Everything was ruined. Couldn’t he be in love with another girl? Couldn’t he just think I was ugly or boring or something? Did he have to be gay? My very first boyfriend?

“I’m relieved I told you.” He tried to smile.

“Well, thanks for taking me to the prom,” I said, heading to the door.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, but I wasn’t. I walked downstairs in my bare feet, and Keith followed.

A ticker tape of the previous six months scrolled through my brain: Keith at his classical organ concert, Keith avoiding anything but kissing, Keith getting accepted to Westchester Choir College. I wondered how many people had already figured it out, which made me feel even more ridiculous.

After he pulled out of the driveway, I sat down on the steps of the front porch in my prom dress and cried, pulling kneesocks and wadded-up Kleenex out of my bra. JoAnn had picked gorgeous, sweet Bill Lawrence, and I’d picked a homosexual.

Something was definitely wrong with me.

I stood up, wiped my nose on the wadded-up Kleenex, and headed back inside.

One morning the summer before my sophomore year, Mom woke Becky and me.

“Get dressed.”

“What’s going on?” Becky asked.

“We’re taking a trip,” she said.

“Where?” I asked, coming out into the hallway.

“Florida. We’re getting out of here for a few days.”

“It’s dark out,” Becky noticed.

“We’re getting an early start.”

Becky and I sleepily packed the suitcases Mom had left open on the floor of our rooms before she’d headed downstairs.

Mom was already showered with lipstick on, and her suitcase was packed and in the trunk of the Pontiac.

“Are we leaving home?” I asked, panicked. “Is this it?”

“We’re not moving out,” she said. “Your dad hasn’t been home for three nights in a row. I don’t know where he is or who he’s with, so we’re going to have a nice vacation at his expense.” She waved Dad’s MasterCard triumphantly.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Before he gets back,” she confirmed.

“How’d you get the card?” I asked.

“Never mind.” She slid it back into her purse.

I dragged my suitcase to the car. Dad was going to shit his pants when he got home.

We drove all day not knowing what to think but happy to have Mom’s full attention. Mom was in a great mood. She had a jazz station on the radio, the windows down, and we were talking.

“Do you think you’ll divorce Dad?” I asked from the backseat. It was Becky’s turn to sit up front.

“Probably,” she said.

“When?” I was fourteen years old. I still had a lot of time left at home. I couldn’t imagine what we’d do for money if Dad left.

“When he least expects it,” she said. I looked out my window at the mountains of southern Kentucky and saw a Stuckey’s restaurant whip by.

“Won’t he be mad when he sees we left?” I asked.

“I don’t care.
He
left and didn’t tell anyone.”

“He’s gonna be furious,” I said, shaking my head.

“Let’s just have a good time,” she said. “We’ll have a real vacation for once.”

When we got to Florida, we stayed at Mammaw and Papaw’s trailer outside of Clearwater.

“How did you get keys to the trailer?” Becky asked.

“I called and asked for them,” she said.

I was glad to be at Mammaw’s. That meant someone knew where we were.

The next morning we went to Walt Disney World and Mom told us to buy whatever we wanted, as she ran up Dad’s credit card. I’d never seen anything more sparkling and happy than the Magic Kingdom. Every cliché and commercial I’d ever seen or heard about it was true. I walked around all day with a dopey grin on my face. After the eleven p.m. fireworks Mom bought me a fluffy pink elephant that was so enormous, I could barely carry it to the car. I slept in Mammaw’s trailer with my arms around that elephant, happy and safe.

Despite the dread of Dad’s inevitable wrath, I was still able to enjoy Mom’s newfound sense of fun. She didn’t make us pick up our clothes or shower every day. A couple of evenings she actually left dirty dishes in the sink and washed them the next morning—not asking us to help. Mom hadn’t worn lipstick or curled her hair since we passed the Georgia state line.

We probably spent about a thousand dollars on Dad’s card, but when we got home, he was spooky-nice to us. I couldn’t believe it. Mom barely spoke to him.

Over the next few months everything snapped back to the way it had been. Mom took classes, Dad came home only to sleep, and Becky and I stayed out of everybody’s way.

One evening in October, Mom put on the forty-five record of Barry Manilow singing, “Ready to Take a Chance Again” and exclaimed dreamily (a tone I’d never associated with her) that she’d met the perfect man: a man named Jim. That night she walked into the dining room and told Dad she wanted a divorce.

Amazing as it sounds, I don’t think he saw it coming. I’d never seen him speechless or without the impulse to hit or destroy something, but that’s what happened. He just sat there looking smaller than I’d ever seen him. I actually felt sorry for him for being sucker punched. I felt sucker punched too, even though I’d known it was coming.

“I’ll stay till Christmas,” he snapped, “for the sake of the kids.”

“You haven’t spent an entire Christmas day with us in over ten years.” Mom laughed.

“I’ll leave after New Year’s,” he grumbled, shoving his chair away from the table.

If Dad was genuinely stunned, I was genuinely panicked. I didn’t want Dad around either, but where were we going to get money? Who would take care of the house? And at the top of my list was who was Jim—and what if he turned out to be worse than Dad? It wasn’t as if Mom had a glowing track record for choosing gentle, caring partners.

Mom was so in love she wasn’t thinking about any of those things. If she and Jim had to live in a car, it would have been fine with her.

I had to figure out what I was going to do, and in order to do that, I had to know what Mom was up to—how serious she was with Jim. Turned out all I had to do was ask. She was so giddy, she blurted out everything.

Three times a week they were rendezvousing in a park outside of Dayton. They ate in small, out-of-the-way diners and stayed in Cincinnati hotels where they wouldn’t accidentally run into Dad or Jim’s wife (yes, he was still married).

“It’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said, packing a small suitcase. She was meeting him at the Hyatt Regency in Cincinnati that night.

“How are we going to get by?” I asked her.

She stopped packing and turned to me. “Better than ever, that’s how. With Jim, I finally have everything I ever wanted.”

“What about his family?” I asked.

“He’s filing for divorce too. His wife is insane—much like your father. Hey, they’d make a great pair.” She cracked herself up.

I walked up to my room and put
A Chorus Line
on my stereo. I took out my jewelry box with the plastic ballerina and sat down on the carpet with my back against my bed. I flipped open the lid. The ballerina popped up and twirled to the tinny music. I pulled out the money Mom had stolen for me from Dad’s truck. It didn’t look like enough.

I spread it out on the carpet and counted twenty-five dollars. I had used a lot of it through the years on trips to Kings Island amusement park or to buy albums. I should have thought ahead.

I gathered it up again, stuck it back into the box, and closed the lid.

Mom was getting out. But I couldn’t go anywhere.

It was freezing cold the December night Becky and I met Jim. Mom made sure to tell us that he was everything Dad wasn’t. He was educated, working on his PhD, and was the head of the continuing education program for women at Wright State. He was handsome and loved good music. I didn’t care about any of that. He was screwing up my already shitty life.

Mom, Becky, and I were going to see
The Nutcracker
at Wright State and then were meeting “the boyfriend” at Pizza Palace in Dayton.

Mom was happy, happy, happy. She had been in this mood since September, ignoring my inability to eat or sleep from the stress of not knowing what was going to happen.

All through
The Nutcracker
, my head was throbbing. Mom was going to be with Jim whether I liked him or not. She’d told me, “I spent my entire life taking care of kids, and now it’s my turn. You can damn well deal with it.” If he was an asshole, I was doomed. Becky had two years left at home, but I had three.

I couldn’t concentrate on the ballet, which was a good thing, because the dancers were leaping into the air and accidentally smacking into one another.

I looked over at Becky and whispered, “What in the hell is going on up there?”

“Chaos,” she whispered back. A ballerina’s leotard split open down the back, buttons scattering across the stage.

“Someone’s gonna trip and then it’s really going to get interesting,” I whispered. Mom glared a
Stop humiliating me by talking
look in our direction.

Afterward, we drove to Pizza Palace.

We got there before Jim and were sitting in a booth looking out toward Manning Road, where Mom kept pointing.

“He’ll come from that direction,” she said.

“You already said that,” I groaned. Mom smirked.

“He has the most gorgeous long fingers,” she chirped.

“You told us that, too,” I said.

“Are you planning on ruining the entire evening? Can’t you ever be happy for me? Oh, there he is.” She leaned on the bench and waved frantically out the window. A small man in an old green Chevy Nova waved back. He parked next to Mom’s Pontiac.

I watched him unfurl out of his car. He was actually quite tall, with thick whitish red hair. When he got closer, I could see his bushy red eyebrows and brown button eyes. He didn’t look like an asshole. He had a sweet smile and a long straight nose. Still, I decided to hate him.

“Hello,” Jim said to the table. Mom jumped up and gave him a kiss on the mouth. I’d never seen her kiss anyone, never Dad. Was she trying to make me vomit?

“Girls, this is Jim,” Mom said, grinning so wide I thought her cheeks would explode. She loved him all right. She was
crazy
about this guy. I was fucked.

“Is anybody hungry?” Jim asked.

“I’m starving,” Becky said. I just sat there.

“Let’s order something, shall we?” Jim scooted into the booth next to Mom. He could kiss my ass.

Earlier, Mom had tried to prepare Jim for our meeting by telling him that Becky was shy and I was outgoing. But Becky and I were such nervous wrecks that she couldn’t stop talking and I said nothing. Jim reversed our names throughout the entire meal.
What a loser.

I left the restaurant hoping he would fall into a sinkhole, never to be seen again, especially when Mom left Becky and me sitting in her freezing car while she stood by Jim’s Nova kissing him and laughing like a teenager. I was a teenager; I was supposed to be doing that.

I missed the old mom, the one who sat around reading books and riding down country roads looking for hawks circling overhead. At least I knew who she was.

Christmas came in a blur. Dad began moving his stuff to a yellow A-frame house he’d bought at a place called Lake Hiawatha. It was a gated community eighteen miles away with a giant wooden totem pole erected by the front gate and oversize oars hanging above the entrance. I couldn’t picture Dad living in a relaxed lake community, but that’s where he ended up.

On Christmas night our house was dark except for one light in the kitchen and the Christmas tree lights in the living room.

Mom was with Jim in Dayton, Becky was on a date with her big lug of a boyfriend, Paul Stanley, JoAnn was with her old high school pals, and Jamie was drinking with our cousin Paul.

I was lying on the carpet staring at the tree when I noticed a small unopened package shoved clear underneath. The tag read “Monica” in Mom’s slanted elegant handwriting. I knew that inside that box was something important, since it was such a coincidence: a gift left behind just for me, to find at the exact moment I was feeling so lonely and worried.

I unwrapped it slowly, preparing myself for the monumental revelation it held. I opened the lid and pulled out a fountain pen with
WRIGHT STATE
printed down the side of it. I walked into the kitchen and threw it in the trash.

The next morning Dad came home to pack his clothes.

“Your mother’s a slut,” he told me. “She’s been seeing this man for years.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, Dad,” I said. He threw a lamp against the wall. I jumped.

“She’s a liar,” he continued, “and you’re just like her. The whole bunch of you are crazier than hell. Squirrelly bunch of moochers.”

I turned on him. “I saw you in the car with Carol Young.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I saw you. She was sitting right beside you.” I was starting to scream.

“You’re so pathetic, all you have time to do is make up lies.”

“You caused all this!” I was yelling. I couldn’t control myself anymore. All the fury and hate came out at once. “You’re the reason everything fell apart!”

“You’d better watch yourself. You’re lucky to have a roof over your head. You don’t even deserve to be living in
my
house. I could kick your ass out on the street today. You think I owe you something? I don’t owe you shit.” Dad laughed and turned to walk out of the room.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO ME! I DON’T CARE IF I’M OUT ON THE STREET! I DIDN’T ASK TO BE HERE!” I screamed.

Dad stopped and without turning around said, “You shouldn’t be here. You were a mistake.”

I clenched my hands into two tight fists, lifted them over my head, and slammed them between his shoulder blades with all the strength my arms, my fury, and my hopelessness could muster.