Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (8 page)

“Cake and strawberries.”

“Do we have any ice cream?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says a little wearily. “I’ll have to check.”

“I’m in the mood for ice cream.”

My mother gets up and makes her way into the kitchen, and I suddenly feel sorry for her. She invited a guy she liked to meet her kids and then…well, he met her kids.

Inspired by sympathy, I make an effort, turn to Paul, and ask him some questions about the creative writing class. He’s happy to answer, and Jacob joins in our conversation.

Not Milton, though. He stares at the table and waits for Mom to come back and tell him whether there’s ice cream or not.

“There isn’t, just whipped cream,” she says. “But no dessert until
after
the whole picking-out-furniture thing.” I get the feeling she’s bribing Milton into not fleeing, the way a parent might tell a toddler he’ll get a cookie if he sits nicely during dinner.

“Why should I pick out anything?” Milton asks Mom after we’ve all gotten up from the dinner table and moved into the foyer. “I don’t have my own place yet.”

“I just want to make sure you get your fair share,” Mom says. “We’ll figure out what to do with it—put it in storage, keep it at your father’s place or at mine when I get one. We just need to know what we should hold on to for you.”

“I only want the stuff in my room.”

“That’s all yours.” Mom’s voice softens when she talks to Milton. I think she forgets that he’s twenty now. To her, he’s still the little boy who needs her. “But someday you’ll have a place of your own, and you might want our old coffee table or maybe a lamp—”

“All I want is the stuff in my room. Can I go now?”

Mom raises her hands and lets them drop hopelessly at her sides. “Fine,” she says. “Go. I’ll pick out some things to put aside for you.” He’s gone before she even finishes the sentence, so she turns to me and repeats it: “I’ll pick out some things to put aside for him.”

“Do you honestly think he’ll ever have his own place?”

“You better hope so,” she says crisply. “Because Dad and I will be dead one day.”

“Lovely. You know, if you just made him go outside now and then—”

“Please, don’t start with that now, Keats. Here.” She picks up a stack of Post-it notes in different colors, which are sitting on our old narrow marble table. “You can be green. Stick one of these on anything you like.”

I unenthusiastically accept the pad of little green Post-its. “This feels weird. I shouldn’t get to just mark anything as mine, not if I’m the only one doing it. It’s not fair.”

“I’ve already marked a few things for Hopkins—in yellow.” She points to the little flap of yellow paper on top of the marble table. “See? I thought this would be great in her apartment.”

I hadn’t even thought about wanting the table, not for a moment, but now that I see it’s been claimed for Hopkins, it occurs to me that it’s pretty cool—and maybe even valuable—with its thick slab of dull gray-and-rust marble and spindly wire frame.

Mom didn’t even ask me if I wanted it before marking it for Hopkins.

But then I think, Hopkins
should
get it. She’s the one saving lives. She’s the one my mother
wants
to have get it.

Mom has turned to Jacob and is fanning out a couple more pads in her hand. “Blue or pink?”

“He gets a color?” I ask. “I mean, I’m fine with it, but—” I stop, not sure how to point out that it’s a little weird for Jacob to be included without sounding mean.

“I’m representing your father,” Jacob explains as he—predictably—goes for the blue. “Your mother asked me to see if there’s anything he could use in his new apartment.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But I think Jacob should pick out something special for himself, too,” Mom adds. “He’s been a huge help to both of us over the last few years.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t need anything.”

“Nothing here is worth much,” Mom assures him. “It’s a sentimental value kind of thing only, so don’t be noble about it.”

“And even our sentiment isn’t that valuable,” I say. “Let’s be honest.”

Paul, who’s standing a few feet away, a genial smile on his face, guffaws at that. I can’t tell if it’s sincere or not. I wonder what he makes of all this.

My mother is wearing a touch of makeup tonight and looks pretty fabulous. She’s really too young and too pretty for him now that I look at them both. Also too smart and too interesting. I got the sense over dinner that she was a little bored with him, a little impatient with the conversation. And now, as he gives that overly hearty laugh, I see a very brief expression of distaste flit across her face. Or maybe it’s discomfort.

It’s definitely not infatuation, which is a relief. I’m not ready for my mother to start getting all starry-eyed over some stranger.

“Let the games begin!” she says. “Scatter and tag, my children. Scatter and tag.”

“This family is so freakin’ weird,” I mutter as I walk away.

I wander alone into the living room. Mom was telling the truth when she told Jacob we didn’t have anything valuable. This room has the nicest and best preserved furniture in the house, and even so, there’s not much anyone would want: two matching faded sofas bought at some department store in the ’80s (not old enough to be vintage or new enough to be fashionable), two plaid armchairs that I never liked, a plain wooden coffee table that’s way too big for my apartment, a piano that—

Wait, the piano is interesting.

My job is so uncreative: it would be nice to come home and do something artistic, like play the piano. I’d need lessons, of course, but I bet I’d learn faster now than I did when I was young and resistant to the whole idea of practicing.

I wander over and check it out. It’s an upright Kawai in decent shape, although the hinges on the bench feel a little loose when I open it to see what music books might still be inside.

I pull out my cell phone and call Tom to ask him if we want a piano.

“Why would we want a piano? Neither of us plays.”

“It’s free, and I took lessons for years.”

“I’ve never once seen you play.”

“I stopped when I was twelve.” The truth is I gave up when it became clear that I would never come close to being as good as Hopkins. My teacher, Mr. Chesley, thought he was motivating me by constantly talking about how my sister had been one of the greatest students he’d ever had, but it just made me want to stop trying.

I run my fingers along the shiny black wood, which is dulled now by a layer of dust. “It’s pretty nice. Pianos are valuable, aren’t they?”

“Are you thinking we’d sell it?” Tom asks.

“No, just saying. Maybe I could try taking lessons again.”

“Well, we don’t really have space for it, and I don’t see the point, but it’s your call. If you really want it, we’ll figure something out. Are you coming home soon?”

“Not for a little while. Hey, Mom has—” I’m about to tell him about Paul Silvestri, but Jacob comes into the living room and I stop.

Jacob realizes he’s interrupted a phone conversation. “Sorry,” he says and moves back toward the door.

“It’s fine,” I say and then into the phone, “Gotta run. Bye.” I turn off the phone and beckon Jacob in with it. “I’m just trying to decide if I want the piano.”

“You play?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking I might like to try taking lessons again.”

“The only song I could ever play was ‘Heart and Soul.’”

“That’s basically it for me, too.” I sit down on the piano bench and pat the space next to me. “Let’s see if we remember how to do it.”

“This won’t be pretty.” He sits down next to me. “Which part do I do?”

“I’m taking the easy part.” I start with the
doo, doo, doo, doos
. I have to say “doo, doo, doo, doo” as I do it to keep the rhythm steady, and Jacob laughs at me. I make a face at him, and then he starts in on the melody. We’re terrible at first, both of us messing up and choppy and out of sync, but gradually we improve until it’s clunky but recognizable.

We start bouncing our bodies from side to side in rhythm to the music, and Jacob sings, “Heart and soul, I fell in love with you,” and then I sing, “Heart and soul, just like pink shampoo,” and we keep making up nonsense lyrics and playing until I finally shout, “How do we
stop
?” and he says, “Like this,” and just stops playing and so I do, too, after one last loudly sung “Doo, doo.”

We both jump at the sound of applause behind us. We turn around, and my mom and Paul are standing there, laughing and clapping. We both get up and give exaggerated bows.

“That was great,” Mom says. “I think the piano’s a little out of tune, though.”

“I think
we’re
out of tune,” Jacob says.

“I always was,” I say. Mr. Chesley used to get excited because Milton could identify any note without looking, and apparently Hopkins learned to read music almost instantly, but to me he was always saying, “Can’t you even
hear
that that’s the wrong note, Keats? Listen. Can’t you hear that?” I never could.

“I haven’t had a tuner here in years,” Mom says. “Milton won’t play, no matter how much I beg him. He had such a good ear, too.…Anyway, the last time a tuner came out was probably over three years ago, but back then he said the piano was in pretty good shape.” She drifts closer. “Oh, look,” she says. She picks up some sheet music that was on top of the piano—it’s been left there for years, a remnant from the last time one of us played. “Dvořák,” she says softly.

I know nothing about Dvořák. No, that’s not true. I know one thing about him: he’s my mother’s favorite composer. And whatever that particular piece of music is, it’s way beyond anything I was ever able to play.

“Hopkins always played this so beautifully,” Mom says wistfully, gazing at the music. “I miss hearing her.”

“Does she ever play now?” Paul asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think she has a piano in her apartment.…” She straightens up with sudden energy. “She should take this one! I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. It may be a little difficult to get it up her stairs, but there are people in New York who move pianos—they’ll figure it out. Once it’s there, maybe she’ll start playing again.”

Jacob says tentatively, “Um, Eloise? Keats was saying she might want it.”

“Really?” Mom looks at me, surprised.

“Not really.” My face feels hot. I could kill Jacob. “I thought about it for like two seconds, but Hopkins should totally have it. It’s basically hers, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Mom says. “I want this to be fair to everyone.”

“We don’t even have room for it in the apartment.”

“All right then,” Mom says, and quickly plops a yellow Post-it on top. “But I want you to have something special, too, Keats. Something as big as the piano.” She scans the room a little desperately. “Oh—I’ve always loved that painting.” She points to the largest piece of art in the room, an abstract painting with lines scratched into dark layers of paint.

“Really?” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Why?”

She looks hurt. “Never mind. Just…keep looking.” She leaves the room.

* * *

I head next to the small, dark library off the downstairs hallway. It’s crowded with overflowing and haphazardly stacked shelves of books, two worn-out, old leather armchairs, and a matching pair of tall, arching reading lamps, but the only piece of furniture that would realistically make sense in our modern, already-furnished apartment is the small round table between the two chairs. It’s covered with books that have bookmarks sticking out or pages folded down to keep a place saved. Some are lying open and facedown like the reader will pick them up any minute, but a couple of those are dusty and have clearly been abandoned for a while.

My mother is a voracious but inconstant reader. She keeps different books going in different rooms of the house and is always searching for the one she wants at any given moment. But when she’s really into a book—like past the three-quarters point—she won’t put it down until she’s done, no matter the hour or the chores or the kids waiting for her.

The table’s nice, though. I pull a Post-it off my pad and stick it on top.

“Good choice.” It’s Jacob from right behind me. It’s annoying how he’s always sneaking up on people like that.

I don’t respond: I’m still annoyed with him about the piano thing. What gave him the right to speak for me? To embarrass me?

“Your dad needs lamps,” he says, cheerfully oblivious to my resentment. He tilts his head to study the two steel and copper floor lamps. “You think anyone would mind if I tagged those for him?”

“No. Go ahead.” I move away from him and study the bookshelves. They’re packed with decades’ worth of books stacked every which way. I wonder how Mom’s planning to deal with these: I wouldn’t mind picking out a few.

Jacob says, “You play a mean ‘Heart and Soul,’ Keats.”

“Yeah, I should enter competitions.”

“Seriously, it was fun.”

Again, I don’t respond.

He tags the two lamps and then lingers for a moment, like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I just keep walking around the edge of the room, studying the books and vases and pictures on the shelves. He’s starting to say, “Hey, do you—” when my phone rings. I hold up a “wait a sec” finger and answer it. It’s Tom.

“You done yet?”

I promise him I’ll leave soon, and when I end the call, Jacob’s gone and Mom’s calling for us to come to the dining room.

Dessert is a slice of prebought and replated angel food cake with a dab of whipped cream (squirted from a canister) and a few strawberries scattered on top. Mom didn’t even bother to hull the strawberries. It’s pleasantly sweet, and Milton (who came back down even though there’s no ice cream), Paul, and I gobble ours down and say yes when Mom asks if anyone wants seconds. Jacob eats most of his but declines more, and Mom doesn’t serve herself another slice but keeps carving out little bits of cake and eating them with her fingers.

I get a text from Tom asking me if I’m coming home, so I push back from the table after my second helping and say I have to go.

“I’ll walk out with you,” Jacob says, jumping to his feet.