Story Girl (17 page)

It was all shattered by the shrill voice of my sister. She was coming for me fast through the trees.

chapter
23

D
OOM WAS CLOSING
in like a heavy fog.

Jenny led me back to the hall, much like a prison guard might lead a death row inmate to the chair. She never released her grip on my arm until we were standing in the middle of what looked like a gathering of a local support group.

My mother’s face was wet, covered in vertical streaks of black mascara. The effect was rather ghastly, but at least it matched her black funeral dress. Each of her wrists was covered in large noisy costume jewelry, so I could tell by the clanking sounds that she was shaking. Mertyl had an arm around her and was being very supportive, although the folding chair she was sitting on didn’t look like it was going to support her through the night.

Next to her was her incredibly thin husband, Harley. He had one of those long grey biker beards without the mustache part, and reminded me of an undernourished gnome.

There was only one other occupied table. My father was sitting with his younger brother – Derek the dentist. He’d brought along his girlfriend-hygienist, Trina. It was hard to believe they were related at all because every feature on my dad’s face was the exact opposite of his brother’s.

“There are only four people here, Jenny,” I said.

“Besides us.”

“Why did you have to rent a
hall
?”

“People didn’t get back to me until the last minute.”

“We’d be better off at a restaurant.”

“There’s room here for dancing.”

“But the place looks so empty.”

“Listen, Tracy – they’re just happy that their children are here.”

“You can’t be serious?”

She pushed a button on her portable stereo and Willie Nelson’s sad voice drifted through the hall.

“You need something upbeat,” I said. “To lift the mood.”

“Dad likes Willie.”

“Still – it’s like a dirge.”

“Don’t bother taking an interest in anything
now
.”

“Where’s the booze?”

“Behind you.”

I turned around to a small folding table holding a few bottles of alcohol, soda pop cans over ice, and a bag of plastic cups. I poured myself a glass of gin – it felt wonderful in my mouth, nice and smooth and barely there.

“Mom’s a mess,” I said.

“I can’t believe you were hiding in the woods, Tracy – that you’d leave them to wander around the parking lot like agitated pigeons. Dad was actually picking up plastic bottles when we pulled in.”

“Good for the environment.”

“You abandoned them and ran away like a baby. That’s not what grown-ups do.”

Just one more thing James and I had in common. And he could go choke on my script for all I cared. Maybe the two of them could live happily ever after – their development forever stunted at the halfway mark.

“Don’t put all this on me, Jenny. You’re the one who was late. I had them here exactly on time. We should have gone to a lodge or something.”

“Why don’t you go and offer people drinks,” she said.

“Do you see me wearing a bunny tail?”

“You’re in stockings,” she said. “Never thought I’d see that again after Girl Scouts ended. Did you even get them a present?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Well – three cheers and a big Yippee!”

I was so tempted to reveal that her picture perfect parents had a counterfeit marriage and that this whole production was therefore a con.

“So why were you late anyway?” I asked.

“Aunt Mertyl needed a Butterfinger blizzard.”

“That’s the last thing she needs.”

“She’d been on a plane all day yesterday.”

I looked back at the gathering. It was now so quiet that even a whisper could be overheard, “I can’t believe this is it.”

“Look, Tracy – I did my best. I made an effort. Have you ever made an effort for somebody else?”

I thought about what Tan had said to me at the spa – something about restless, bored, and selfish.

“If anybody needs me, I’m going to get the food out of my evil all-terrain vehicle,” she emphasized each syllable, spittle flying from her lips to mine.

I wiped my mouth and let her go. My nerves weren’t the only ones unraveling. I wondered if James had a back-up girl on the side. Maybe some poised little thing with a perfect family. The kind of family my mother wanted, but didn’t get to have.

I gulped back my drink and poured another. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the windows, turning the plastic squares of bingo letters into light beams that criss-crossed the room like a laser show. It reminded me of
The Matrix
– and God, how I could use a Keanu Reeves right about now.

I walked through the beams to my father, “Would you like to dance?”

He looked shocked like I’d just stripped off all my clothes, “Stardust is my all-time favorite song.”

“I know.”

My father and I were the first ones on the floor. Clarice soon joined us, twirling around in a cluster of balloons. And then Derek and Trina were dancing elegant circles around our clumsy awkwardness.

Harley started clapping and whistling and I thought he was doing it for our benefit until I saw Jenny unwrapping large platters of deli meat, cheese, and pickles. Luke walked in behind her, loaded down with two pans of lasagna and a large box of red wine.

My mother was now mascara-free and engaged in conversation with her sister – they were slowly warming to each other, remembering the comforts of a familiar landscape. And my resentment toward my own sister was dissolving as I watched her busy herself with the work of organizing, serving, and making nice. It was amazing to me the way she could completely lose herself in such tasks.

Clarice had managed to wrap herself around my leg, and the three of us continued dancing our way around the room, tripping over balloons and trying to keep the slow pace demanded by what might be the most melancholy tune ever written.

The dancing ended when the balloon popped. The startle of it sent Clarice into a fit of wailing tears. But not ten seconds later she was giggling over a large feather that had floated down into her immediate vicinity.

I wanted to feel that way again too.

As I listened to her squeal with joy, I closed my eyes and tried to merge with the unedited yelps of delight – but my attempts to do so were blocked by the anxiety warriors that had embedded themselves in my brain. The ones that told elaborate stories of both my past and impending disappointments, and made cruel jokes about the failed writer who didn’t even deserve such a title. And all too soon, the heroic cries of freedom were only the mad ravings of a bratty child.

All I could do was make myself a big cheese sandwich. As I stood at the table boozing down the bread lumps and obsessing over James, I thought it rather sad how food and drink could always be counted on to numb the agony of insurmountable odds and missing pieces.

chapter
24

T
HE MAN IN
black was singing low about heartache.

But my mood was even darker. I was now directing a full-blown vibrational fury at James. How could he hang up on me when all I’d wanted was a large helping of reassurance.

I took my sandwich and gin and sat next to my mother. Clarice was now running circles around the bingo hall with a large piece of cheddar dangling from her mouth and two saucy sausages in either hand.

“Would you like another glass of wine?” I asked.

“I don’t really like wine out of a box.”

“Okay,” I said, looking directly at her small pile of empties.

“But I guess I’ll have another one anyway.”

“The gin’s good.”

“How’s your sandwich?”

“I put every type of cheese on here, but I still can’t taste anything.”

“Too much can drown out,” she said, her gaze fixed on her granddaughter. It made me nervous when she spoke with such an economy of language. Giving up her niceties probably meant that she was still mad at me, but it might also mean that some new realization was stirring within. And I wondered why we all couldn’t just get to the truth.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.

But then again, maybe the truth was overrated.

“Did Dad say something?”

“About what?”

“Can we talk about it later?”

“Why is everything always later? You keep postponing your life. Wouldn’t you like to have one of your own children plan something like this for you?”

I couldn’t believe this was the same woman who – only an hour ago – refused to get out of the car.

“Uh – not exactly.”

I wondered if she’d even said three words to my father since they’d been here. A poster of William Shatner seemed to be mocking me, as if I’d crash-landed my spacecraft in the middle of a species I could never hope to understand.

Clarice was now frantically poking at the balloons with a plastic spoon.

“That child has a helluva lot of energy,” Mertyl said. She had three gargantuan squares of lasagna heaped on her plate and was drinking a large bottle of Coke while her skinny husband ate a plate of pickles and sipped furtively at his beer.

“Wish I had that kind of energy,” Mertyl said. “But the doctor tells me that I have a gene problem, get tired very easily. Hereditary thing, I guess.”

“Diet and exercise help in that department too,” I said.

My mother gave me a death look and pinched the top layer of skin off my thigh. The sting stung so bad I wanted to slap her and scream that it was such commonplace dishonesty that had ground her life to such an unfulfilling halt.

Uncle Harley – complete with leather vest, chaps, and cap – was trying hard to suppress a grin. He ended up smirking and looking away, the way Sam Elliott might in a similar scene. Obviously, any sort of truthful discussion with his wife regarding this topic had long ago ceased, and had probably never taken place at all.

“No, it’s a
gland
problem,” Mertyl said.

My mother nodded her head politely at her sister but looked quite uneasy, the way a person might if they were listening to an authority figure fart the national anthem.

“I think Pop had a thyroid thingy,” Mertyl said, spraying ricotta cheese into our shared space. Her plastic fork broke from the pressure of trying to work through such massive three-dimensional pieces. Without so much as a sigh, she picked up the stubborn slice with her hand and forced most of it into her mouth.

“Is that true, Mom? About Grandpa?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said – as cold as she could muster.

“I didn’t know Grandpa had a weight issue,” I said.

“It’s not a weight issue,” my mother snapped.

“It’s not about diet or exercise, Tracy.” My aunt spoke slow and deliberate, as if she’d just revealed a major secret of the universe. No way Earthlings, it was never about diet or exercise.

If I didn’t act now, I knew I’d be banished to destination REALITY-WARP, and James and I would be forever broken somehow – together perhaps, but busted just the same.

“There’s a lot of sugar in the Coke you’re drinking. So if your glands are already having to work overtime, you’re not giving them much assistance.”

I angled my legs to the side so that my mother couldn’t reach me.

“What you don’t seem to realize, Tracy, is that I’m a heavy smoker. The only way I can stabilize my cough is with the Coca Cola.” She still maintained her measured tone, as if she were the most rational person in the world.

“Okay,” I said.

“Did you know that the fizzy bubbles cut through the phlegm build-up?”

“I know you smoke, Aunt Mertyl. I’m glad to hear you acknowledge that the smoking does
indeed
cause the cough.”

“I didn’t raise you to be this rude.” My mother’s face had turned a mild shade of blueberry, and I doubted that either of us would ever know what it would feel like to skip naked through a sunny pasture.

“I didn’t realize I was being rude. Aunt Mertyl and I are having a conversation – that’s all.”

“It’s okay, sis. Kids these days are short on manners. Not like when we were growing up.”

Either I was the most insensitive person ever or chronic self-deception made for a very unhappy life.