Rusty Summer (21 page)

Later, I wake up. Reflect.

Nope.

I fall back asleep. I can sleep like it's my job. I just don't, usually. I find the world too interesting to sleep for twenty hours a day—a huge waste.

But now . . . it's just the ticket. I dream in color.

Later, when I wake up again, it's light. See, that was a joke. It's always light here in the summer.

I must be feeling better.

I look over and Leo is in the other twin bed, along with The Bomb. They are sacked out; the clock says 4:44, so I assume a.m.

So it must be the night light we're sleeping in. It's very discombobulating.

I cautiously get up. I'm hungry. I wander out to the empty kitchen.

Except it's not.

When I round the corner my dad jumps, standing at the open fridge, like he set off an alarm.

He jumps about twenty feet. So do I. We are mutually shocked. We stand and recover.

“Hi, Rylee,” he says.

“Hi . . . Dad,” I respond.

Then we stand some more, him with the fridge door hanging open.

“You should shut the fridge, Dad,” I say gently.

“Oh, yeah.” He gets the milk out. Then he finally shuts the fridge door.

I can't put it off, whatever it is, any longer. I sit down at the table.

“Can I have some cereal too? Please?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He gets me stuff for cereal and sits down at the table. “Here.”

We eat Cap'n Crunch. It's very crunchy. We sound like The Bomb mackin' on dry food.

I start to feel better. Not great, and certainly not pro-Raven, but better.

“Whadaya think of Beau and Leo, Dad?” I ask, though I don't really care what he thinks.

“Well . . . they didn't have much to say for themselves, at first. But, then, boy, they spoke up all right. I didn't know you were feeling so peak-ed about things, Rylee Marie.” He cocks his head to one side—his good ear. I notice a hearing aid in the other ear—or what's left of it. It's pretty scarred and gross.

“Yes, you did, Dad—don't lie; or you would have written me back! Or called! GramMer says she tells you about us all the time. You just checked out because it's easier!”

“I did not! Never! I send your mother money. Every month. I've taken care of you kids.”

“Thanks! Seriously,
thank
you for that!” I'm hissing at him furiously, trying not to wake the house. (And I
do
mean it. I've seen the weary, sullen “single mom/deadbeat dad” attitude of some classmates, and I realize it could have been much worse.) “But that's not the same, and you know it!”

“You sure wouldn't say that if I hadn't sent money! That's all you guys—your mother—ever wanted from me. As long as I kept the money coming . . . good ol' Bank of Dad!”

Okay, this is so unfair I want to punch him in the throat. I sit on my hands and grit my clenched teeth till they squeak. I close my eyes so I don't have to see him.

“Go to hell,” I rage through my teeth. “Don't disrespect my mother.” I feel murderous.

“I'm not, Rylee Marie! Your mother is a wonderful woman, and I will clock anyone in the gawddam' snot locker who says otherwise, but she is hardhearted when it comes to her church! We never had a chance, with that in there! No one wants to be the bad guy all the time!”

I suddenly stop snorting at his phraseology and start listening keenly. The church? What?!

“What?!” I ask.

“The whole damn Catholic church, Rylee Marie! When I met your mother she was a nurse. In a hospital run by a bunch of nuns, one of which was real nice; and after I was healed up I used to come talk with her sometimes—her name was Sister Saint George—because she knew I was lonesome. She set your mom and me on our first date. She thought your mom was just wonderful and would convert me, because your mom always said that she could only marry a Catholic boy.”

I stare at him and chew deafeningly, so he can't see how hard I'm listening. I gesture with my spoon for him to continue.

“One thing led to another, and the next thing I know, I'm crazy about her and I've proposed and she's so tickled, and so is Sister Saint George, and the next thing you know, I'm going to Catholic instruction and gettin' told all kinda dam' things!”

He looks at me as if pleading for understanding. I continue to hide my dawning interest and just play my game face. After a second he continues.

“Well, I mean, fer gawd's sake, Sugar-foots, the whole dam thing is like a fairy story! Talking snakes? Dead guys walking around? Wine just turning into blood? All kinda dam' things I couldn't take serious! And then, your mom got mad! Woo! Your mom can get mad harder and stay mad longer than anyone I ever met! And was I ever in the doghouse. We were already engaged and I said I was real sorry . . . then Sister Saint George told her to not give up, just keep working on me. And your mom really wanted kids—I did too. We thought maybe we could work it out. . . .” He looks at me in anguish.

So that's what my grandma was talking about when she said they weren't “compatible people”!

This is the first I've ever heard of this. He telling me about it finally, adult to adult. I feel a strange stirring of pity for him for the first time, thinking about it all. And I hear a dim refrain begin, and grow and gallop away, one I fear will repeat whenever I think of my dad, for the rest of my life:

They both meant well, my mom and dad, but I doubt they ever had a chance . . . not a prayer.

My sore throat works with mute mourning. Poignantly I wonder if I will ever feel anything else for him. At this point it seems unlikely.

Empathy is exhausting. GramMer didn't tell me her god was so demanding.

 

Later on, her words evoke a memory from a time when I was little. Like really little—

We were all at the Puyallup Fair, Mom, Dad, me, Paul was around somewhere, and GramMer and Uncle Riley were there too. I was probably about four years old but I was bold. I wanted to go on those gondola pods—I don't know what they're called—the ones that run overhead on cables and you ride in them, like at a fair or up the side of a mountain or something. They looked like flying. I wanted to fly in one.

My mom is afraid of heights. She took one look at the little capsule in the air and said, “No way, Rylee.” No matter what I said to plead and trip and whine it was
not
on. At one point I remember having kind of a meltdown and jumping up and down in an experimental tantrum. Sort of like a practice shot across the bow. But my mom remained unimpressed. I remember seeing her look at my grandma and roll her eyes. I also remember that royally pissed me off at my mom and I glared at her. Which caused my mom to give me a little frown.

“You don't need to do everything all the time, Rylee. That's called being spoiled.”

Okay, that was totally unfair. Grimly, I remember feeling a real tantrum begin a-brewing. . . .

My grandma smiled down at me. “Why do you want to go on those big old high flyin' things anyway, honey?” Her face was, in fact, truly interested. Even now I remember having a thought like a flash—my mom doesn't get it, but maybe Gram-Mer does.

“GramMer—I wanna
fly!
” I told her.

I could see GramMer looking up to the thing and back to me and me feeling hope flowing warm like a shower, pouring over my head all down to my little preschooler butt. “Please-please-please, GramMer! Pull-lease, Gramcracker!!”

“Rylee!” It's my mom, good ol' hurt-feelings patrol guard, sounding scandalized. “Rylee Marie! That is a bad word! I have told you not to call her that!”

“Why not? GramMer likes it! She told me I was cuuuuute!” I wail because of the unfairness.

I saw my mom flash my grandma a look of apology. I remember my grandma saying to her, “It's okay if she calls me that, Teresa. It's pretty clever she thought that up all by herself, especially at her age. I do think it's cute.”

But Mom was insistent. “No, it's not appropriate for her to call you that!”

I distinctly remember my grandma looking down at me with her eyebrows raised, like, “Alrighty then,” and then she gave me a furtive look of solidarity and a wink, like, “Well, in that case, it's just going to be our little secret.”

Which still didn't get me up inside those pods and I was feeling like I didn't have any choice except meltdown, when all of a sudden I
was
up—in the air, and weightless and screeching in surprise.

Uncle Riley had come up behind me and grabbed me by my ribs and thrown me into the air.

“Wheeeeeee!” I yell in delight as his strong hands grab me around the middle and launch me into the stratosphere again. Then he catches me and lowers me gently to the earth.

My dad and Uncle Riley have come back from the coin toss and heard what we were saying.

I turn around. My dad is standing there. His eyes are bright and hopeful. He's actually won one of those coin-toss games. My dad is holding a gigantic stuffed Scooby-Doo. It's huge! He holds it up.

“Looky here!” he says to my mom. “Found a little something for you guys.” He's both hesitant and so proud. Even holding him high, Scooby hangs down past my dad's knees. Dad is offering him in an eager way, like something really special.

And I totally agreed! Omg, sign me up! Are you kidding—a Scooby-Doo the size of a baby elephant?! Of course I thought it was awesome!

Then my mom ruined it.

“You can't just give one, Ovid. You need to go win another for Paul before he has a fit.”

We all look at Paul, who is a chubby toddler completely sprawl-crashed in the stroller. He is sacked out—paralyzed with sleep. It seems kind of ornery of my mom to say he's about to have a fit.

Besides, I was a
good
sharer. I was super protective of him, my only baby brother. I still am.

The effect on my poor old dad was instant. He like sagged immediately and his eyes lost their sparkle of hope. He was shut down, in this way only Saint Teresa could create. Even at four years old, I felt bad for him. My mom was kind of being a jerk. She was making him think his win was a fail.

“Yeah, I should have thought of that myself. . . .” he said ruefully and trailed off. I could see he was feeling sad. Since I was pissed at my mom anyway, I took his side.

“It's okay, Dad, I don't care—I'm too big for Scooby-Doo! It's okay—Paul can have him!” I remember I informed him as I glared at my mom.

“Yeah?” my dad immediately took the offered opportunity. “Okay, Rylee Marie, you good kid, then you get to do something else, instead! You got anything you want to do?”

“That!” I told him and pointed up. He looked up and saw the capsule looming overhead.

“Ohhh,” he said, like a moan, as he stared at it blankly. He audibly gulped.

I probably didn't mention he wasn't too keen on heights either.

It was the one way my parents were compatible.

Dad looked up and squinted, pondering the idea. Then my mom did too. Then everyone did.

We all stood gawking like a bunch of peckerwood tourists, which—guess what?

We were!

Uncle Riley caught my eye. “You really think you want to do that? All the way up there like that? Are you a dang bird?”

“Yeah!” I said. I can still remember the blazing enthusiasm that infused me. “I'm a BIRD!”

“Well, so am I!” my uncle cheered. “Let's do it then!—you too, Mom!” he said to GramMer. “It's gonna be fun! Come on!” He grabbed our hands and we scurried over to stand in the line to fly.

We climbed the stairwells and loaded in. The little pod rolled smoothly onto the launching scaffold and off—into thin air! I remember gasp-laughing because of the weird mix of fear and bliss.

“Look, there's your mom and dad!” Uncle Riley pointed to the little bright blobs on the ground. I could see them waving up to us. I waved back.

“Hey, guys!” Riley yelled, like they could hear us. I looked over to my grandma.

“Have you noticed what convincing actors they've become?” I asked her. It was a phrase I'd picked up but never used. I even said it with the same inflection I'd heard it.

This was something I remember I used to do when I was too little to actually know things; I'd hear whatever on TV or wherever, and then go launch it on someone—usually my mom—and observe their reaction. I had heard this on Mom's daytime show, when this lady says it about this couple who were totally miserable and faking getting along. I was on the couch next to my mom and I heard her snort in derision. When I asked her why, she said that was a good way of saying people were pretending to like each other when they really didn't. I remember I found her remark worrisome. Even as a four-year-old.