Pretending Normal (16 page)

“They hired a lawyer.
Some man from Pittsburgh.” I take the fork, twirl it between my fingers. “They want him to prove it’s dangerous to stay here. And they want Kay and me to move in with them for good.”

“Oh, my.”
She sinks into a chair, fingers her blue and white flowered apron. “Oh, my.”

“She said we’ll have to go to court and tell the judge why we shouldn’t live here.”

Mrs. Peterson’s eyes widen. “You would do that?”

I slip around the answer.
“I want to be a normal teenager, have a regular life. Routine. That’s what I want, Mrs. Peterson. I want routine.”

She shakes her golden white head.
“I think this will not happen unless you speak up against your father. And when you do, it will be very bad.”

“I know.”

“You love your father.”

I don’t answer.

“You love your father,” she says again.

Do I?
 

“And this is so sad, when a child must become the parent.
So sad, and yet he needs you.”

“I don’t want him to need me.”

She pulls out a white, lace handkerchief, dabs the corners of her eyes. “You are a very brave girl, Sara.”

“No, I’m a coward.”
The tears come then, scalding my cheeks, burning deep inside. “Do you know sometimes I wish he was dead? Isn’t that horrible, Mrs. Peterson, to wish your own father dead?” I slump forward and bury my face in my hands.

Warm hands pat my back, stroke my hair.
“You love your father, no matter how you try to fight it. But you must also love yourself and do what is best for you, even if it means leaving him.”

I open my mouth to speak, tell her she is wrong, I don’t love him, I
hate
him, but the words get muffled in the flesh of my palms and all that comes out are more tears.

***

Maria Tegretti’s latest letter informs us that classical music is for
mature
listeners, like herself. Rock n’ roll is for those with a less
discerning
ear. Discerning is her word. And, she’s going to hear the world-renowned Austrian violinist, Anton Sterendsky, who performed at Carnegie Melon at the age of ten. Nina worships her big sister but this doesn’t keep her from begging for Maria’s rock albums. Sister worship aside, there’s still common sense.

“I think Edward is winning the guy race,” Nina says, one afternoon as we share a basket of Benny’s Deluxe French fries doused in vinegar.
We are sitting in the same booth I sat in the night of the dance, the night I saw Peter.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“All guys are such pains in the asses. Who needs them anyway?”

“Well, can’t you tell from her letters?
She goes on and on about Edward, how they went to a baseball game and the theatre. But what about Fernando? Or Simon? They’re history, I can feel it.”

“She should dump them all.”

Nina picks up a fry, dips it in ketchup. “They’re not all Peter Donnelly,” she says, biting the fry in half.

“Can we not talk about him?”

“Sure, but I feel like every time we talk about a guy, any guy, Peter’s sitting right here, between us.”

I shrug.
“I’m working on it.”

“I know.
Your life is as shitty as mine right now. And with your Mom gone—”

“Let’s not talk about it, okay?
Nothing’s going to bring her back.”

“My Mom lost her mother when she was thirteen, stomach cancer they said.
Before she died, she said what would make her happiest is seeing my mother enjoy life. She said she’d be watching her, and every second of happiness my mother had would be hers, too. I’ll bet she’s fucking crying up there right now, don’t you?” She pulls another fry from the pile, stuffs it in her mouth. “But it can be different for you, Sara. You’ve got a choice. You can make your mother happy and nobody can take that from you.”

“Maybe.”

“Just because you get all A’s, doesn’t mean you know everything
.” Nina laughs, back to her old self again. “If you did, you’d be able to tell that Edward is Maria’s numero uno boyfriend.”

“Well, I might not know about Maria, but I do know about Nina,” I tease, feeling suddenly hopeful, “and her numero uno boyfriend
—Jay Galeston.”

Nina just laughs and stuffs three French fries in her mouth.

***

It started with the bottle of vodka last week.
Smirnoff’s has become his choice, beating out Cutty Sark, probably because it’s clear and mixes so well with orange juice. He glides around these days like a hinge on a well-greased drawer, as he pours from the bottle and takes in the world around him through bloodshot slits.

“What’s with him?” Kay whispers one night, the second the garage light comes on and we s
pot the back of his head through the window.

“What do you mean?”
I squirt Joy in the sink, turn on the spigot.

“He’s been acting so weird,” she says.
“Worse than normal. When have you known him to ask us about school? Ever?”

“Never.” Clusters of bubbles form in the water. “I think it’s the vodka.”

“At least he’s not on us all the time the way he was before.”

“Yeah, but now he’s almost
too
mellow.”

“Maybe it’s because of T-Rex.
Have you noticed how he follows Dad everywhere? He even started scratching on the bathroom door last night and you know what? The old man let him in.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Swear.”

Maybe it
is
because of T-Rex. But I still think it’s the vodka.

Do I care?

I don’t know.
All I do know is I don’t want to stand in front of a judge and broadcast my miserable life to the whole world. But what choice do I have? None. That’s what, none, because Aunt Irene called Mrs. Peterson yesterday and told her Mr. Jebowitz is calling tomorrow.

There is a rip straight down the middle of me, one part ready to leave, the other obligated to stay.
The first part wants to dry my hands on the green and yellow dishtowel, go upstairs, pull out the pale blue Samsonite from the back of the closet and start packing—shirts, jeans, two dresses, two U Penn sweatshirts, underwear, socks.

But there are other things that will need packing too, reminders that might fade
—a photo album, my high school yearbook, my books, thirty-two at last count, all of my college brochures, a black and red tortoise shell comb and a conch shell, both gifts from Aunt Irene and Uncle Stan’s trip to the Jersey Shore, three blue ribbons that say ‘Norwood Junior High Girl’s Relay Race’, First Place, 1972, 1973, 1974, one for each year. I will also pack my mother’s hair brush, silver-plated with a fancy little design etched on top, her White Linen perfume, and the wooden jewelry box Frank gave me when I was ten. It belonged to his mother and was made out of a solid rectangle of cherry, so different from the ones in stores today that have been glued together from scrap wood. This box is smooth and shiny with a red velvet lining. This I will keep, one small, decent memory of him.

T
here is another piece inside of me that pinches, orders me to stay. Who would blame me for getting out? Who would even know my mother had asked me to stay?
He’s going to need you, Kay will, too, until I can get home and get around. It’ll take me a while. You’ll have to be the strong one. You’re a good girl, Sara. You’ll take care of them.

Why does everything have to be so confusing?
Why can’t there be a right and a wrong? And why can’t he disappear so I can do the same?

“Sara?”

“What?” Jerry and I are walking home from school because his car is leaking oil. Again. I am only half listening to what he is saying; Mr. Jebowitz is going to call me today at Mrs. Peterson’s house and I have no idea what I will say to him.

“Is she as weird as they say she is?”

“Who?” Is Mrs. Peterson sitting by the phone?

“You know, old lady O’Grady.”

“Ms. O’Grady? No, she’s not weird. And she’s not really that old, either.”
We’re leaving… me and Kay…

He slides a look my way.
“You
like
her?”

I shrug.
“She’s nice.”

“I heard she had a kid.”

I say nothing, but Jerry doesn’t notice. He’s too busy relaying information he thinks I need to know. He takes his job of delivering the
honest truth
according to Norwood very seriously.

“Yeah,” he lowers his voice, though there is no one near us, “they say she had an
affair
with some married guy.” He rolls the word ‘affair’ around on his tongue, spits it out. “Even followed him to Buffalo, had his kid, a girl, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with her or the kid, so she gave her up for adoption and came home.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that’s what they say. Actually, my dad told me when he found out you were going to her house.” He nudges his glasses back up on his nose, scratches a pus pocket on the side of his face. “I guess the girl got adopted by some family in Rochester, but she’d be grown up, probably with kids of her own by now.” He lifts his lanky shoulders. “I don’t know.”

You’re right, you don’t know.
Neither does your father. It
was a boy, Jerry, not a girl, and guess what? He didn’t get adopted and he’s not in Rochester and he didn’t have kids. You know why, Jerry? Huh? Because he’s dead!

“Neither do
I,” is all I say. We’re almost home, heading down the hill toward my house. I check my watch and think about Mr. Jebowitz’s phone call.

“Have you heard,” he stops, scratches his head, “no of course you haven’t.
It’s about Peter.”

“Jerry, I really don’t want to talk about him.”

“I know, I know, but I have to tell you this… before you hear it from somebody else. Word has it Peter’s supplying all the parties, not just in Norwood either, and he’s not even trying to hide it.”

Why, Peter?
Why would you do something so stupid?

“I just thought you should know.”

“I shouldn’t know, I don’t want to know.” Then, because I want to lash out, I say, “Why don’t you tell your father, Jerry? He’d want to know.”

“I’m not a narc.”

“And I’m not interested in hearing about Peter Donnelly.
So stop talking about him.”

“Okay, okay. I’m not a narc, Sara.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you say something like that?”

“I don’t know.
I’m sorry.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I mean, really.
It’s gotta be tough… with your mom, I mean without her… with just your dad around.”

Not for much longer
. “I’m fine, really.” We are at my house now.

“Okay then, see you tomorrow.”

He starts to leave, just as Mrs. Peterson’s front door bangs open and she rushes out, bun flopping, sturdy shoes clomping down the steps toward me. “Sara! Sara!” Her face is flushed and blotchy, her eyes wet. “Your father! Your father!”

“What?”
He found out about the lawyer?

She wrings her hands between the folds of her white apron.
“There’s been a terrible accident at the mill. Five people. Dear God, five people… and your father’s one of them.”

***

Mr. Jebowitz may have tried to reach me on Mrs. Peterson’s phone but I don’t know because I am on my way to Beechmont Hospital in Mr. Peterson’s black LTD.

When I arrive, Aunt Irene is already there, thanks to Mrs. Peterson’s quick thinking.
“Oh, Sara.” She smothers me against her chest, her red and white bead necklace gouging my cheek. “What are we going to do?”

It is a general question, cast out in the middle of the half empty waiting room.
Mr. Peterson is standing a little behind us, holding his Pittsburgh Steelers cap. “Excuse me a minute, dear”—Aunt Irene unravels my arms—“I have to talk to Mr. Peterson.” The three other men in the waiting room, ranging in age from mid-twenties to mid-fifties, lower their papers as she glides toward Mr. Peterson. She has that effect on men and knows how to hold their attention without saying a word. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but Mr. Peterson is nodding, looking at me, and when Aunt Irene finishes talking to him, he walks up to me, squeezes my hand and leaves.

“How is he?” I say, meaning Frank.

Aunt Irene ignores the question. “Let’s go sit over here, where we have a little privacy,” she says. I follow her to a gold, vinyl couch in the corner. We sit and she crosses a leg, the red sundress with white piping pulling over her hips.

“Aunt Irene
—”

“It’s bad, Sara.
Very bad.”