“Are you two upset because I went out with Marcos last night? Because if that’s the case, if that upsets you, I don’t have to see him. We can talk about—”
“Wrong, Dad! Wrong!” I wasn’t sure why I was yelling. “Downing two bottles of wine last night was one of those stupid high school things that stupid high school kids do sometimes. That’s all! Don’t make it more than it is—” And then I said something I had no idea I was going to say. “And if I was upset about you and Marcos, you know what? You should be saying, Then grow up, Salvie! Stop living your life around me, Dad. Just stop it!”
So there I was, feeling really bad. I was covering my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
My dad had his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you did,” he whispered.
“Dad, I’m going through some stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Stuff, Dad. I can’t talk about it right now. But stuff. Things are happening. And I can’t control it.”
“Who says we’re always in control?”
“I used to be in control of me.”
“Control can be a lie, son.”
“No one ever told me that.” And I started to cry.
My dad held me. “Let go, my Salvie. Just let go.”
“I did let go. I got drunk.”
“Try it without two bottles of wine.”
Hangover
YUP, THAT SUNDAY morning I ran into the word hangover. I didn’t exactly want to be Hangover’s friend. Sam told me to drink lots and lots of water. Which I did. I took a shower. All I wanted to do was sleep. I felt like crap. I mean, emotionally speaking, I felt really, really bad. Sam said it was called “the walk of shame.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the perfect name for what I feel.”
“Well, I feel the same way. I really am ashamed of myself. I mean, your dad’s, like, this great guy, and he’s all about being good to me, and here I get drunk on his wine. Shit, Sally! I mean, on top of everything else, we stole his wine.”
“We’re idiots.”
“Yeah, we are.”
“And then, what I told him. I mean, I shouldn’t have said what I said. I told him to stop living his life around me. But the thing is, maybe I’ve been living my life around him. It’s like I’ve always wanted to please him and be a good boy and all that—?and I, hell, I mean, I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Maybe the truth is that you’ve been living your lives around each other. And maybe you have to do something about that. Both of you.”
“It’s what we’ve done forever.”
“He has to live his life. You have to live yours. Me and Sylvia. We had that down.”
“Oh, God, what am I gonna do? Can we just pretend none of this happened?”
“That’s walk-of-shame talk, Sally. No pretending. Pretending equals no bueno.”
“’K. No pretending. Shit. So how many times have you been drunk, Sammy?”
“I don’t know. Enough times, I guess. I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know why I experiment with mood-altering crap. I always wind up hating myself for it.”
“Walk-of-shame talk,” I said.
And then we both sort of laughed. Halfhearted laughter. Walk-of-shame laughter. Guess we weren’t up to whistling in the dark.
There were clouds floating in the autumn air. It wasn’t really warm, and it wasn’t really cold. But the breeze was almost cold. Dad was sitting on the steps. He had a cigarette in his lips, but it wasn’t lit.
I had our baseball gloves. “Wanna play catch?”
“Sure,” he said.
So we started tossing the ball around.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s okay, Salvie. But let’s make a deal?”
“Okay?”
“I think I need to give you some space, you know? Things are rough for you right now, and you’re not used to rough. I think I spoiled you a bit too much.”
“Sure. That’s why I’m driving my BMW sports car around town.”
“That’s not what I meant. I just protected you—?maybe a little too much. You know what I’m trying to say?”
“Yeah, I think so. You never wanted anything bad to happen to me. Maybe because I lost my mom?”
“I didn’t want you to lose anything else. A little overprotective, I guess.”
“Just a little.” I couldn’t help but smile. “I get that, Dad.”
“But we’re okay, Salvie. Me and you.”
“We’re okay?”
“Yeah, we’re okay.” And then he smiled. “But I’m afraid you owe me for a couple of bottles of red wine.”
I wanted to tell him that we’d figure out the Marcos thing. We’d figure it out. I’d figure it out.
Mima. Cake.
MIMA WAS A REAL TALKER. Loved to talk. But that Sunday, when Sam and I handed her the cake, her face lit up and she hugged us—?but she didn’t talk much. She held my hand and she held Sam’s hand and she held Dad’s hand. But she didn’t say much. Her eyes searched the quiet room, and I didn’t know what she was looking for.
She loved the flowers we gave her, and she asked me to put them on the kitchen table. Dad and Aunt Evie made a late lunch.
Mima didn’t eat much—?but when it came to the cake, she ate two pieces. “Who made this cake?”
“Sam and I, we made it.”
Then she started talking a bit—?but I knew it was taking some effort. “My mother used to bake bread every Saturday on a woodstove. And she knew how to make root beer. Did you know that? She used to make all my dresses. I have her sewing machine. I feel like seeing her again.” Her voice sounded strange and far away, as if she’d left the room. But then she took her fork, asked for a little more cake, dug in, and offered me a bite.
She smiled.
I smiled back.
She fed me a bite of cake.
And I remembered those days when I was a small boy.
As we drove home in the dark, it started to rain.
“It will be her last Thanksgiving.” Dad’s voice was sad. But it was also matter-of-fact. “Everyone will be here,” he said.
I didn’t feel anything.
I didn’t want to feel anything.
I knew Sam was in her own corner of the world. Thinking about her mother.
When we got home, Dad went into his studio. “Think I’ll work awhile.”
The streets were wet, but it had stopped raining, and it was cool, but it wasn’t cold. Sam and I decided to go for a run. I wondered if running in the dark was the same as whistling in the dark.
I don’t know if Sam was crying. She did that a lot. She cried when she ran. It was the grief thing. The my-mother-died thing.
I don’t know if she cried that night as we ran. But I did.
Poetry. Poetry?
THE HANGOVER WAS nothing more than a memory, and the sadness over Mima’s visit seemed to have abated. Abated. Another word Sam taught me. Sam and I were walking to school, and I felt oddly normal, meaning I didn’t have any feelings running through me. Maybe the weekend had tired me out. I was feeling okay. Like everything was okay—?even though it wasn’t. And I told Sam what Dad said about the wine.
“Too bad we’re not old enough to buy Mr. V some nice wine.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
“Hey,” she said, “maybe we can get Marcos to take us wine shopping.”
“So you warming up to him—?or what?”
“I’m just pragmatic. That guy should be good for something.”
I smiled. “Pragmatic. Remember you spelled that word in the spelling bee?”
“Why do you always have to remind me of that day?”