Loving Emily (27 page)

“It was our issue, too!”

Molly’s lower lip is trembling. “Yeah! It was our issue, too!”

“Don’t you remember, Mom? Molly and Maddy had nightmares for months after that! They saw Michael lying in the driveway. They thought he was
dead
!” Now Molly’s crying openly, and Maddy’s starting to sniffle. A second later, the dams burst. Both girls are spewing tears.

“I hope you’re happy, Ryan!” Mom gets them up from the table and propels the sobbing girls out of the room. “Now what am I going to do with these two?”

“Ring for Rosario. She’ll show you the ropes.”

Silence. I sit there with my dad, pissed off and making no apologies. Dad has no expression on his face at all. I know he’s not happy with me right now.
Tough,
I think. I’m not happy with
him.
Mom and Dad have done me wrong, and I’m calling them out on it, big-time.

“Why don’t we continue this in my study?” he suggests. The study’s the only room in the house, besides Rosario’s quarters, that has escaped Mom’s fleet of designers. The leather sofa’s worn and comfortable. I’ve spent thousands of hours on it, listening in on Dad’s meetings, talking to him about scripts, casting, locations, editing.

Dad intercoms up to the master bedroom. “Nadine?” Mom’s there, sounding tearful. “This may take a while. Why don’t you get some sleep, okay? Ryan’ll come talk to you tomorrow.” He rings off and sits in his old Lazy-Boy, another cherished survivor of the designer wars. I am sitting low in the sofa, legs splayed out in front of me, arms crossed on my chest. I am looking at Dad through narrowed eyes.

Dad’s voice could slice a diamond in half. “Tomorrow, I expect you to apologize to your mother and sisters.”

From the set of his jaw, I know he means business. I stare at the edge of the rug. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“
Okay
. I will. “

“And Ryan? Don’t
ever
speak to your mother that way again.”

I feel his anger now, slicing through me like a thin, steel blade. I nod, unable to look at him. “I won’t. I swear.”

One good thing about Dad is, when something’s over, it’s over. My promise is good enough for him. He moves on.

“So let’s hear it,” he says abruptly. “What’s on your mind?”

I let him have it. The whole overdose story, how scary it was, the aftermath for me and the twins. Mom and Dad’s frequent absences from home. Their lack of involvement. I hold back nothing. I am shaking with rage. I didn’t even know I had this kind of anger in me.

When I’m done, Dad says, “So I guess it wasn’t a dinner invitation. It was more like an ambush?” Behind the irritated words, I hear something else, though—embarrassment or regret.

“Probably, but you deserved it,” I tell him. “Besides, what kid has to invite his parents to dinner in his own home? Parents are
supposed
to be home having dinner with their kids, at least once in a while.”

“All right. Point taken,” he says. He goes over to his bar and pours himself a Cognac. “Want one?”

“Yeah.”

He started doing this when I was twelve, serving me no more than a splash of liquor – it was the ceremony that mattered, not the drink. Today he measures me out a shot glass full, pouring it into a brandy snifter and handing it to me.

We sit there, being manly together. I know what he’s doing. My dad’s a master negotiator. Right now, he’s slowing things down, cooling me off, before we go at it again. I can feel it working, particularly after a few sips of the Cognac.

“Did you know your mother and I almost divorced?”

“
Really?
When?”

“Four years ago.”

“Why?” I ask.

“That’s between me and your mom. Let’s just say, we both made mistakes.” After a minute, he continues. “We went to counseling for a year, right before that trip to Cannes. That week after Michael’s overdose, we weren’t with Nat and Yancy.”

I think back to my conversation with Yancy. She had said Mom and Dad weren’t there and she would pass them a message. “Where were you?”

“Paris. We renewed our marriage vows and had a second honeymoon. It was important for us.”

“We’re important, too.”

“You three are the most important,” he agrees. “I’m just telling you what happened.” Dad swirls the Cognac in his glass.

“To be honest, I don’t think Nat and Yancy even told us that Michael had OD’d until we met up with them for the flight home.” Dad stares off into space, trying to remember. “Right or wrong, we thought of it as the Westons’ problem.”

“How can you say that, with Molly and Maddy crying every night and waking up with nightmares?” I can’t believe he didn’t notice that.

He goes to a shelf, pulls out one of his old calendars, and leafs through it. “Right after Cannes I was filming in Morocco for four months. So, I was gone during the time you’re talking about.” He and I look at each other from across the room. “I realize,” he says, “that didn’t do you much good. I wasn’t there for you.”

“Mom was here. She should have helped us.”

Dad suddenly looks tired. He walks back toward his Lazy-Boy. “Ryan, your mom loves you kids, and she tries. But she doesn’t have a clue how to deal with you.” He stands there by the books on his shelves, tracing a hand across a couple of them.

“She’s really kind of fragile, okay? Could you just back off for once, give her a little bit of a break?”

I nod. I’m staring at my shoe. I study the ins and outs of my shoelace. “Okay. I can try, too.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Dad says, “with my schedule and the problems Nadine and I have had. I’ve focused on work and the marriage, and Ro’s handled the three of you. We’ve kept all the balls in the air, but barely. And you kids haven’t gotten much from me and your mom.”

He stands up. “Let’s go outside for a minute, get some air.” He opens the French doors on one wall of his office that lead out to our garden with the reflecting pool and fountains. We step out and walk down in that direction.

The fountains are all lit with white light. There’s a little wind, which sends spray from the fountains against my face. I’ve always loved the sound of the running water and usually keep my bedroom window open so I can hear it at night.

We stand there for a moment, then I ask, “Why do you guys have to go out so much?”

“It’s important for my work. And it helps Nadine to get out, too.” Dad hesitates, then says, “And frankly, you weren’t such good company for a while there. We were having a lot of problems with you, acting like a belligerent smart ass. We thought it was hormones, but now I realize it was this thing with Michael.”

We walk along the reflecting pool and look across the lawn to the swimming pools, tennis court, and small basketball court. We have a long lap pool, a deep pool with a slide and diving board, and a separate shallow pool for little kids. I remember many outstanding summer afternoons with a pack of boys over to shoot hoops, play tennis, and have diving contests.

“Yeah, well, if you’ll have dinner with us sometimes, I’ll stop being a smart ass,” I tell him.

Dad gives me a dry look. “How about you stop being a smart ass, regardless,” he says. Then he goes on. “It takes hard work, you know, to have all this.” He sweeps an arm toward the pools and the rest of it.

“I’d rather have you than some tennis court.”

“I’ll work it out so we’re home more. Maybe not as much as you’d like, but more anyway. The truth is, I’d like to see you kids, too.”

For a while, we talk about other things: about school, the upcoming summer, the work on
Mystery Moon.
I update Dad on Chrissie’s condition.

“She’s okay to audition now.”

“Good! I’ll have Mitzi set it up.”

Dad and I have walked back through the French doors into his study. “In a way, it’s too bad you’re spending the summer in England,” he says.

“Why?”

“If you were here I’d ask you to work with me on the set. On
Mystery Moon.”

“Really? You mean, as an assistant?”

He nods. “You’ve got talent, Ryan. You did a great job on that film.”

He sits down at his desk again, while I go over to this big free-standing globe he has. Dad thinks I’ve got talent. He’s never said anything like that before.

The globe’s one of those things that, using modern technology, has been carefully aged to look like it’s a two hundred year old precious relic. Ever since I was little, I’ve tried to see how fast I could get it to spin. I put a finger on it and start it twirling.

I did a great job.
I give the globe an extra whirl.

“How are you feeling these days? With Michael gone?” Dad asks.

“I really miss him. But, it’s weird how so much has happened to me since he died. Even
because
he died. I feel like more has happened to me since September than in the whole rest of my life.”

“It’s a damn shame about Michael,” Dad says. “But I’ve been really proud of you this year. You’ve grown up a lot.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. Working hard, good grades, beautiful girlfriend.” He pauses. “Getting laid.”

I jump, almost knocking over the globe, my face on fire. There’s no point in denying it.

“How’d you find out?”

“The gardeners mentioned all the guests we were having for a while there. As a matter of fact, it was all because of Alberto’s little boy.”

“Hector?” I ask, incredulous. It was my buddy, Hector, who finked me out?

“Yeah, it was funny. Apparently, Hector discovered a baseball cap on the doorknob of the guest house, got all excited, and went back to pinch a couple of them.” Dad doesn’t comment that there haven’t been any caps to pinch for a while, and I don’t bring it up.

“But they were always still there… afterward!”

“Yeah, Alberto kept making Hector put them back. That’s when he mentioned the guests to me.”

Betrayed by a four-year old. I don’t know what to say. I throw Dad a cautious look.

“Are you being safe with her? This is important.”

“Yes.” When he looks at me closely, I say “Really, Dad. It’s okay. I promise.”

“Be good to that girl. Treat her right.”

“
Dad.
I do.”

“I believe you. You’re a good boy. A good person.”

I suddenly feel tears at the back of my eyes. I turn toward the globe again and twirl it, getting it spinning crazily. No crying allowed. It wouldn’t be manly.

“M
om?” It’s the morning after the Dinner from Hell. I am standing in the doorway of her office, where she sits at this super-rare, valuable antique desk she found and then loaded up with the latest, most up-to-date computer equipment.

I take a close look at her. She’s so thin and frail, I could blow her over with a single puff of breath. She’s really pretty, actually, once you get past the fingernails and jewelry and designer clothes. She has this wounded look in her eyes.

“I’m sorry about last night. I was a total dick.”

“Language, Ryan.” She looks at me over the top of her glasses.

“I was a total jerk.”

“That’s better,” she says. And then she laughs. My mother has made an actual joke. I’m so surprised that I laugh, too. I try to think of something more to say to her, something real. The problem is, I realize, I don’t know my mother at all.

“I talked to Dad for a long time last night,” I tell her. “I got a lot of stuff out of my system.”

“So I heard. I guess I haven’t been such a good mother, have I?” Slowly, with great care, she picks up several paper clips, dropping them one by one into a heavy crystal bowl on her desk.

“Mom…”

“No, I understand. It never came naturally to me, you know.” She speaks slowly, as if from some sad, dark place deep inside of her. “But I do love you kids. I didn’t mean to let you down.” She stares, sad and dry-eyed, at the top of her desk.

I can’t believe what an asshole I was, that I hurt my mother this way. I’m beside her in two strides, patting her on the shoulder. “You didn’t let us down,” I tell her. “We love you, too.”

The first part of that isn’t true. She did let us down. But I let Michael down, too. I guess if I want him and the karma gods to forgive me for my mistakes, I ought to forgive Mom for hers.

And the second part of what I said is true. I do love my mother, and so do my sisters.

Mom smiles at me. “Thank you for being so good with the girls. We could really see that at dinner last night.”

“I assume you mean before I went postal.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.” And now she laughs again, and so do I.

“I’m really sorry for the times we’ve disappointed you,” she says. “Next time, don’t wait three years to tell us. No need to suffer in silence.”

“Okay.” Mom and I have a long way to go, but this was a first step anyway.

•   •   •

Now it’s the girls’ turn. I knock on the door of Maddy’s room, where the two of them are sprawled in bean bag chairs, pretending to do their homework. Maddy’s room is all pink carousel horses, and Molly’s is all yellow birds and butterflies. I give the girls another year before they rebel with lava lamps and posters of boy bands.

“I’m sorry, you guys,” I say.

“For what?” asks Maddy. She’s been growing out her hair and has started wearing it in long blond braids.

“For being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Molly replies. “You’re a dufus.”

“You’re a dork,” says Maddy.

I grab a foam basketball and aim it at a small hoop on the wall. I put it there for Maddy, but I’m the one who usually uses it. I shoot the ball while I talk, but it hits the rim and bounces away, while I scramble after it.

“Watch it, you guys. We’re from the same gene pool, you know,” I tell them.

“What does that mean?” Molly wants to know. She’s just gotten glasses, and I’m not used to the way they look on her.

“It means we come from the same parents, so anything I am, you guys are the same.”

“Oh, well in that case, you’re
beautiful
!” shouts Maddy.

“You’re smart!” That’s Molly.

I shoot again and this time score two points on the hoop.

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Then, I ask them, “Are you guys mad at me for yelling at Mom and Dad last night?”