Not Ready for Mom Jeans (13 page)

I zoned out after Natalie complimented Jake on “helping” me take care of Sara. As though he had a choice and should be lauded for his sacrifices and for giving me a “break.” Instead of responding, I focused on remembering all the lyrics to R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine).” As soon as dinner ended, I grabbed Jake’s arm and towed him over to the bar.

“Your mother and Natalie are killing me,” I said.

“I know. I’m sorry she’s driving you nuts. We’ll just hang out here, near the bar.” Jake put twenty dollars into the tip jar on the bar and nodded at the bartender, then leaned forward and kissed me.

“Can I get a shot of you two?” The wedding photographer appeared next to us.

We obliged and turned toward the camera and smiled.

“OK, great. Look right here,” he said, and positioned his camera. “OK, OK, great, ready? Smile!” he said, and dropped his camera down to the level of his crotch and took the picture. “Good one,” he said, and walked away before either of us could react.

“Did we just get our picture taken from a guy’s crotch?” Jake asked, looking confused.

“I think so,” I said. We watched the photographer move around the room, doing the same thing to other guests, leaving them befuddled as he left.

“What if that’s really not the photographer but just some sick guy who wants people to look at his crotch?” I said.

“Like if he didn’t even have film in the camera?” Jake said.

“Hey, did you guys get your picture by some guy’s penis?” Doug said from behind us.

“Yes! What do you think the deal is with that?” I said.

“Either some pervert or it’s a new style technique in photography,” Doug said.

“Whatever the reason, it necessitates a glass of wine,” Jake said, and signaled the bartender again.

I reached into my purse to grab my lip gloss and felt photographs. I pulled them out.

“Jake, did you want to show these pictures of Sara to your great-aunt before you get too impaired? She’s been asking to see them forever.” I waved the photographs around and gestured toward Aunt Ellen’s table.

“Oh yeah, good idea,” he said, and put down his drink.

I grabbed a bottle of water off the bar and we walked over to Great-aunt Ellen, who was delighted to see new pictures of baby Sara. Until she came upon a picture of Jake holding Sara in the Baby Bjorn.

“Oh no! You don’t put her in one of those, do you?” Aunt Ellen looked alarmed.

“The Baby Bjorn? They’re totally safe, Aunt Ellen,” Jake said. “She won’t fall out.”

“Fall out? I’m not talking about her falling out. Those things can hurt a little baby’s …” She trailed off and nodded at me, like I was supposed to know what the hell she was talking about.

“Hurt what?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“You know, this area,” she whispered, and motioned to her lap.

“Oh no, that’s … fine. That … isn’t hurt at all,” Jake said.

“No! It does hurt them! She might not be able to have children! And little boys—did you know those can push their penis back inside their body?”

That did it. I was in the middle of taking a sip of water and I nearly spit it out.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, choking.

“Promise me you won’t use that ever again! Don’t you want to be a grandmother someday?” crazy Aunt Ellen asked me.

“For sure, I promise!” I said enthusiastically, nodding my head. “I think your aunt is off her meds again,” I whispered to Jake as we walked back to the bar. Aunt Ellen was also off her meds at our wedding, when she asked if Jake and I had met while dancing in the circus.

An hour later, when Marianne suggested we hold a family vote as to who was cuter—Ash Leigh or Sara?—I signaled to Jake and we left.

In summary, I did not kill anyone or, more important, myself yesterday.

That’s all I can really ask for when I am forced to spend time with my in-laws.

Monday, April 14

We had dinner tonight at my parents’ house since we missed Sunday night dinner due to my pounding headache caused by thousands of pints of ale and Marianne’s nasally voice.

Dinner was not what I would call awesome.

It started off business as usual as we arrived. My mom was in the kitchen, simultaneously stirring beef stew, typing an Excel spreadsheet on her laptop, and watching the news while my dad sorted through the mail.

“Hey, you two! Come on in, dinner’s almost ready,” my mom said, and gestured for us to sit down.

“There’s my beautiful granddaughter!” my dad said, and rushed over to Sara, still in her car seat.

“Be careful, Dad, she’s been a beast today,” I said.

“She probably just missed her grandparents,” he said, and jiggled her little foot as my mom walked over, too.

Sara took one look at them and started wailing.

“She’s probably thinking, ‘Oh no, not these two again.’ ” My mom laughed.

“She should be so lucky,” Jake said.

“Where’s the siblings?” I asked.

“Mark’s watching some game on TV and Sam’s upstairs on her phone. She had a really rough weekend, so give her a break,” my mom said.

“What happened?”

“From what I can tell, something about her best friend going out with some guy she liked. Anyway, she was sick all day yesterday and stayed home from school today.”

Jake and I exchanged knowing looks.

“Sick or hungover?” I asked.

“She’s not—I don’t—hungover, probably,” my mom sighed.

“Who’s hungover?” Sam asked as she walked into the kitchen. She had eyeliner smudged around her bloodshot eyes and her face was pasty white.

Oh yeah, definitely a hangover.

“You,” I said.

Sam rolled her eyes and flicked her long, straight hair, with hundreds of dollars’ worth of products in it, over her shoulder and put her hand on her hip. “Whatevs. Why are you so annoying?”

“Not sure,” Jake responded evenly.

“No, seriously. You think you’re so cool, but you’re not.” Sam threw her arms over her head and her shirt lifted. I could see she had a belly button ring with a bejeweled dragonfly dangling from it.

“Did you hear that, Jake, we ain’t cool!” I laughed as I brought my hand to my cheek.

“Dorks,” she muttered. She leaned forward and peered at Sara. After a moment, Sam turned to my mom and asked, “Why’s her head so big?”

I reminded myself strangling my sister in my parents’ kitchen with her iPod earphones would probably not make for a relaxing dinner. Jake rolled his eyes and went into the family room.

“Her head’s fine, Sam,” I heard my mom say as she picked Sara up.

Sam shrugged and shuffled out of the room.

“I’m going to go find Mark,” I said, and jogged out of the room. I found him sprawled out on the couch in the dark watching a baseball game.

“Cubs winning?” I asked as I kicked him a little on the couch.

“No, losing. As usual. What’s new?” he said in the darkness.

“Nothing besides plotting new ways to kill our sister.” I sat down next to him.

“Always good family fun,” he said. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something?”

“Why are you such a leech who practically lives at Mom and Dad’s when you have your own apartment in the city?” I said quickly.

“No. I already know the answer to that one and it involves the fact that my apartment doesn’t have toilet paper or food. I wanted to ask you: what’s a good restaurant in the city?” he asked.

“For what occasion?” I asked him as I stood up and flicked on the light.

“Ow, not cool,” he said, and squinted his eyes. “To take a, um, friend.”

“Like a date?” I said, and stood over him.

“No, not a date. Like a friend who is just cool,” he muttered.

“Right, sure. Do you love her? Do you want to marry her?” I clapped my hands together.

“Forget it, this is why I never tell you anything,” he said, and turned his eyes back to the television.

“OK, OK. Um, take her to Nacional 27. Good music, good food, and even better drinks.” I nodded.

“Thanks. Was that so hard?” He stared at the television, ignoring me.

“So, who is she?” I punched him on the arm.

“Just someone I went to college with.” Mark grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.

“Do I know—”

“Dinner’s ready!” my mom called from the kitchen.

“Just don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said to him, and punched him on the arm again as he stood up off the couch.

“She’s out,” Jake said as I walked into the kitchen. I looked down at Sara, angelically asleep in her car seat.

We all sat down for dinner.

“This stew is great,” Jake said as he shoveled the beef into his mouth.

“Hmmm … mmmhhmmm,” Mark said.

“What was that?” my mom asked.

“What? I’m trying not to talk with my mouth full,” he said, and smiled at me.

“Thank god, it’s only taken twenty-three years,” my dad said, and passed me the bread. “Sam, bread?”

“What? Oh no.” She didn’t even look up from her
US Weekly,
totally engrossed in a story about Suri Cruise.

“Sam, could you put down the magazine and talk to your family during dinner?” my mom said.

Sam didn’t respond.

“Sam?” She tried again.

“SAM!” This time I yelled.

“Jeez, relax. This whole family is so effing psycho. Mark and Clare do, like, whatever and I’m the one who gets ripped on.” She threw her magazine down on the floor, narrowly missing Sara, and crossed her arms.

“Get over it,” my mom said to her. “Clare,” she said, turning to me, “I never got a chance to congratulate you on your essay. We all loved it.”

Sam perked up. “Yeah,” she said enthusiastically.

I almost asked if she was kidding. A warm feeling came over me like,
She likes me! She likes my writing! She thinks I’m a cool big sister! She wants to hang out and be best friends!

“I was wondering, since you’re a writer or something, if you will write my college entrance essays?” she said.

And … back to reality.

“What?”

“My. Essays. College. You. Write. Do. Understand. English. You?” Sam’s eyes widened and she stared at me.

Jake started laughing and he and Mark high-fived each other, like they always do whenever Sam says something particularly obnoxious.

Before I had a chance to respond, my mom put her hands out.

“Enough. We’re done.”

“Really? It was just starting to get funny, Mom,” Mark said.

“Ew, what’s wrong with you? Why do you have to be so—,” Sam started.

“YOUR MOM SAID, ‘ENOUGH’!” my dad yelled.

We all jumped a little and knew we’d gone too far if we’d pissed my dad off. He was mild-mannered; the only time I’d ever seen him truly blow up was when Mark was in high school and he and his friends chopped down our neighbors’ tree while they were on vacation to use the wood to build a bonfire.

We all sat silently, admonished.

“Guys, listen. We have to talk to you about something.” The catch in my mom’s voice made all of our heads snap up in unison and look at her. She looked at my dad and continued. “It’s really no big deal. I don’t want anyone to worry, or to freak out.”

I knew right then I wasn’t prepared for whatever was going to come out of her mouth next. I just sat frozen, my heart pounding.

“I went to the doctor a few weeks ago and they found a lump in my right breast,” she continued.

The ears began ringing and I prayed she would stop and say,
Just kidding! Let’s have dessert!

“I had a biopsy done and it came back malignant.”

She stopped and took a deep breath and my dad squeezed her hand.

We all just continued staring at her.

“Malignant is … ?” Mark asked.

“Malignant is bad. Malignant means”—she took another breath—“cancer.”

There are very few words in the English language that inspire instant dread, instant nausea. “Cancer” is definitely at the top of the list.

I looked at Jake, who looked like he’d turned to stone. Sam was quietly examining her nails and Mark was turning red.

“This is bullshit!” Mark exploded, and slammed his fist against the table, causing all of us to jump. “You’re totally healthy. How the fuck does something like this happen?” He jumped up and paced around the table.

Sara woke up and started wailing. I mutely went over to her and picked her up, feeling as though my insides were hollowed out.

“Mark, I’m going to be fine. We caught it early. Fine, I’m going to be fine,” my mom repeated.

I wordlessly handed Sara to Jake. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what questions to ask. I felt like I should react, but I didn’t know how. So I just sat in my chair and stared at the patterns on the wood floor.

I saw mascara-stained tracks across Sam’s face. I stood up and walked around the table. I tried to put my arm around her, but she jerked away.

“I’m fine. I’m just worried,” she said, and wiped her face.

My mom explained that even though they caught it early, the doctors still wanted her to go through radiation and chemo as a precaution. Radiation and chemo mean real-life sick stuff. They mean she really has cancer. They mean sickness, losing her hair, exhaustion …

I don’t understand why this is happening. My mom has always been there for every one of us. She’s been a great person her whole life; she’s been a healthy person. She used to run fucking marathons in college. This feels like one big joke, like I’m expecting God to jump out from behind the bushes and say,
Gotcha! Man, you should’ve seen the looks on your faces! Oh, and here is a million dollars for your troubles.