Chapter 13

“Moving is a great idea.” Jennifer grabbed her jacket the next morning and glanced at Lisa. “I would love a room of my own—a quiet place—without an ongoing violin concert, a place with some privacy. School is tough this year, you know?” She leaned down and pecked her sister on the cheek. “Gotta go. Are you coming?”

“I’m right behind you.”

Jen rushed out the door. College life suited her. Her sister had made a big deal about Jen’s high school graduation and invited all the relatives to celebrate. Everyone had come, which was nice. But Jen had been happy to leave high school behind. She was ready for a fresh start, new friends, and to  explore possible careers, preferably those that paid well.   

During this first semester at Boston University, Jen and Lisa left the house for school and work at the same time. Mike had the honor of getting the little ones fed and out the door before he went to the stadium. Lisa said it was his most important responsibility with the twins and Em. And his only one. Every other minute he spent with them was fun time.

Jen didn’t see it that way, but gut instinct urged her to keep quiet. Aside from the morning rush, the kids and Mike had little time together, so they used it to mess around, toss a football or jump rope, with Emily the “expert” in rope jumping. The younger ones basked in Mike’s attention. In Jen’s opinion, their time together was more important than Lisa understood.

She was eighteen now. No more social security payments came into the house for her. Legally, she was able to live on her own. But now that she could, she didn’t want to leave. Dr. Julie said Jen was “integrating” the pieces of her life, that she recognized she still had a family, just with a different configuration. Whatever.  

Forty minutes later, she slipped into a seat at the back of her first class, Creative Writing. Her least favorite subject, the only one she didn’t like. She’d wanted to get the two required writing courses out of the way quickly. During the summer, she’d completed Expository Writing. At least, in that course, she’d read some good short stories on which to base her own essays. In this class, everything she wrote had to come from her own brain. Her imagination. She hated the idea, considered it an invasion of privacy. The journal she kept at home was for her eyes only, the way personal writing should be.  

She’d quickly figured out that despite using a common prompt for their essays—such as a photo—each student’s interpretation revealed part of themselves. The thought gave her hives. She didn’t care about her grade at all, as long as she passed the damn course. 

Sighing deeply, she raised her eyes to the professor at the front of the room, wishing she were in her accounting course or calculus class or economics or…or…anything else. Her finance program pulled at her as strongly as the force of gravity. 

As though he’d read her mind, the instructor said, “There are no grades on the essays I’m returning to you because they are the first you’ve written this semester. Most of them contain plenty of suggestions in the margins. In red!”

 Jen groaned along with the rest of the class. No grade. Now each of her future essays would carry more weight, and she’d have to spend real time on them.

“These essays were a warm-up based on personal experience. I’ve found there are fewer blank minds that way.”

Jennifer had to agree. If the prof hadn’t suggested a few life topics, she would have stared at an empty page for hours, wondering what to write. She tuned in again.

“I’ve chosen a few of the best to be read aloud anonymously. Remember, only your code number is on the sheet. No one will read their own work in front of the class.”

What a relief. Jen couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to reveal herself to a room full of strangers and… Oh. My. God. Someone was reading her essay right now! A smooth tenor who seemed to know where to pause, when to have his voice rise and fall, and how to make each word count. She stared down at her desk, eyes burning, ears burning, wishing she were a million miles away.

The Longest Journey

Most journeys are measured in miles. My longest journey began and ended in the moment my parents died in an auto accident almost two years ago. On that day, I left childhood behind and clawed my way up, up, up to adulthood.  At least, I tried to. My older sister wasn’t home, and the three younger kids ran to me first on that terrible, life-changing day. 

The deep voice continued reading in what became the tomb-like silence of the classroom. Nothing rustled. No one moved, coughed, or whispered. Jen peeped sideways. Every student sat angled toward the speaker, a tall, wiry guy who needed some meat on his bones. The fault made her feel better, for whether he knew it or not, the guy was revealing her soul to the class—and she didn’t even know his name.

She identified the concluding sentences: 

Although the distance between Woodhaven and Boston is one hundred miles, I measure my journey in light years. The wounds of childhood still bleed, and my journey continues. 

She didn’t expect the deathly silence afterwards; she didn’t expect the outbreak of applause. She wanted to run, run, run. But if she did, everyone would know the story was hers. She clutched the sides of her desk and just breathed. Inhaled. Exhaled. Then she dared a peek at her classmates and recognized the truth. They all knew. She was the only one not clapping or looking around the room to identify the writer. One by one, the glances of the other students rested on her.

She stood and gathered her books together. “So much for anonymity,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ll be dropping the course.” She headed for the door. 

“No! You can’t do that.” The tenor’s voice. His tone hard now, and insistent. 

Jen swiveled and stared at the speaker, at the boy who’d dared read her work. Boston University was a top-flight school, filled with bright students, bright minds. But this guy had no authority to speak to her like that.

She glanced toward the professor, who nodded sympathetically and said, “Mr. Collins has said aloud how we all feel. The class will be richer for your presence, but of course, that’s up to you.” The man glanced at Collins, leaned against his desk, and seemed to be waiting.

“We don’t even know your name,” said the reader. “I think of you as ‘the quiet girl,’ the one sitting in the back of the room for two weeks with nothing to say. But I won’t think that anymore. You’re bursting with things to say, and if you don’t, you might explode. You can’t leave.”

His dark eyes beseeched her, but Jen shook her head. “Sorry. You’re wrong, and this class is not for me.”

In fact, his reasoning was total bullshit. Jen had a journal at home to write in. She had a logical mind; equations turned her on. Sure, she still cried and wept sometimes, maybe a lot of times, but she hadn’t “exploded” in a long time. And didn’t plan to. Why had he used that word? Furthermore, she wasn’t going to discuss anything with nosy Mr. Collins, especially in front of twenty-five others.

She pressed her lips together and headed for the door. 

“I bet the class is a requirement for your degree,” called Collins.

She jerked to a stop. He was right. And now, backed into a corner, her insides began to churn like molten lava ready to explode. 

#

“I wanted to kill him,” Jen said later. “I was shaking. Like I’m shaking now just thinking about it.”

In the living room that evening with Jen and Lisa, Mike listened to his young sister-in-law. He watched Jen look down at herself, her arms trembling.  The girl stood, then sat, not knowing where to alight. 

“Want me to go to class with you?” he offered. “I’ll set the guy straight.”

Her horrified expression! He worked hard not to laugh. “Kiddo, the guy was making a move. It was a powerful pickup, maybe awkward in front of the class, but he’s got the hots for you. That’s what this is all about.”

Two sets of eyes widened. He glanced at Lisa. “What?”

“Men! Is that the only theory you could come up with? Is it always about sex?”

“With men, yes.”  

“He’s too skinny,” offered Jen. “And he’s too smart. But he’s got eyes darker than midnight, eyes that really pay attention to you, and a speaking voice…oh, my God. He could be an actor, a real actor in a Broadway play.” She shook her head, then stared at the ceiling. “When he read my stuff, his pitch, his inflections…reminded me so much of Daddy.” 

Her voice broke, her chin hit her chest, and Mike knew she was on the verge of a meltdown. In this family, meltdowns happened, less frequently now, but… He was almost used to them. 

A rustle of sound caught his attention. Three little people sat crossed-legged on the threshold of the room. Their appearance strengthened his decision to move the family to a larger place, where privacy could be found. But now, the younger children’s presence distracted Jen, who looked annoyed.

Brian jumped up before his sister could scold. “I can sound like Daddy, Jen.  Remember when we used to eat supper and he did jokes?’” The boy disappeared for a second, then returned with two spoons and gave one to Andy. The boys held them to their mouths like microphones and made eye contact with their audience: 

Brian: “My Gracie is so amazing, she fattened up a turkey one Thanksgiving with corn and chestnuts…I never saw a fatter turkey.”

Andy: “So, you had a great Thanksgiving dinner?”

Brian: “Nah. Gracie didn’t have the heart to kill it, and now the bird comes back every year for a good meal.”

Mike cracked up. He couldn’t help himself. The boys had nailed it, and Mike could clearly picture Rob and Grace Delaney at their dinner table, laughing it up while Robbie ran his comedy and captured the audience. To his horror, however, Lisa burst into tears. Jen followed. Then one by one, Emily, Andy, and even Brian, who’d started the whole thing, began crying. The twins had done too good a job.

Unexpectedly, Mike choked up, too, pulled under by the grief around him. His defense was weak today. 

#

Monday, December 20, 2010 

The Boston Globe—Sports

PLAY-OFFS AHEAD

MIKE BRENNAN BORN TO LEAD

In his first season as QB, Mike Brennan clinched the Riders’ position in the play-offs after yesterday’s win against the New York Giants.  

“He’s growing into himself,” said Coach Nick Russo, “and we want to keep him centered.” The coach grinned. “That would be under center, but no pun intended.”

In this writer’s opinion, Brennan looked and played like a veteran, not like a typical first-year starter who needs two or three seasons to become an elite NFL quarterback. Brennan is already there. He’s a decision-maker who can throw and scramble.

“Mike’s confidence is contagious,” says Darrell Sommars, wide receiver, whose thirty-five-yard reception scored the final TD of the game. “Before you know it, everyone feels like a winner. Like we can get places as a team.”

Excitement is high in Beantown with legions of fans eager to cheer their “Cannon Arm” quarterback and their home team to victory. No one expected a bite at the Super Bowl after the change in quarterbacks early this season, but Brennan made it happen. The new QB’s already made history in this town—in his first year.

#

On Monday morning after the game, Mike browsed a copy of The Boston Globe while on the plane flying back home. Amazing how the club had gotten copies of the paper so quickly. He didn’t question it, he simply enjoyed reading the story.

Just as much, he’d enjoyed the celebration at the hotel last night. For the first time, the very first time, he’d felt like a celebrity. The play-offs rated as big news. The coaches had relaxed for the moment, and the team’s owner had offered a gracious toast to the players. A plethora of wives were there, too, beaming smiles at their husbands all night, asking about Lisa.

His wife never went to the away games and hadn’t been there last night because of Emily. His parents agreed to babysit for any weekend at all, but the little girl got hysterical at the thought of being separated from Lisa, even with Jennifer promising to stay home. 

He was getting tired of Lisa and him not coming first. Tired of explaining to his teammates and seeing them pretend to understand. Maybe some of them did. No one’s life was perfect. But he would really have liked Lisa at his side last night. He did enjoy the back-slapping, however, the good feelings that permeated the club, the anticipation they all shared about the play-off game next Sunday. He joked with the men, greeted the wives, all the while thinking about Lisa.   

He hoped next week would be different. Whether they won or lost, he wanted his wife to be at the Miami play-off game in two weeks. They’d talk about it tonight, after dinner, if they could find a quiet spot in that small house.

He felt better after stepping into the kitchen after the flight. Across the doorway was a large banner saying Welcome Home, Hero, with smiling faces all around. On the table sat his scrapbook with the latest stories already cut and saved. The boys had been busy. A note from Lisa—special dessert tonight—which meant she was going to the Italian north end of the city for ricotta pie. 

For a moment, all his irritation vanished. His personal home team loved him, supported him. Maybe Lisa wouldn’t be averse to going with him to the play-offs. Maybe an extra visit for Emily with Dr. Julie would do the trick, and Lisa would relax and actually enjoy herself. A lot of maybes. Sighing, he reached for the phone and dialed his parents. If he lined up Auntie Irene and Uncle William, as well as Jen, as babysitters, he might stand a good chance of taking his wife out of town.

At seven that evening, Mike looked around the festive and messy kitchen table, loaded with leftover lasagna, eggplant parmigiana, as well as the ricotta pie. Lisa almost apologized for not resisting the homemade meals once she entered the grocery and inhaled the wonderful aromas.

“I wish you’d do it more often,” he said, winking. “You work too hard. Now, you look relaxed and so pretty.”

She still blushed at compliments, and when she peeked up at him with those eyes, now soft and loving, the last two years disappeared like quicksilver, and he saw the unfettered girl who’d opened the front door to him that first time on Hawthorne Street…was it almost seven years ago? 

“Lisa.”  He breathed her name.

Her blush deepened, and he was filled with satisfaction. The evening ahead looked promising—a commitment to the play-offs was only the beginning.

“About the next game,” he began, his attention totally on Lisa.

“The play-offs!” A twin chorus with a lot of young boy chatter–—opinions, fortune-telling, and wishful thinking. Mike should have remembered that, in this family, everyone had something to say about everything. He made a chopping motion with his hands, and the kids shut up.

“My folks are set to come so you can go with me to Miami.” He paused for a beat. “It’s two weeks away. How about it? I’ve missed you the entire season.”

Lisa held up a finger. “I’d love to…but let me think.”

Mike felt himself smile. She actually looked eager.

“The Christmas break is next week, and I’ve got to be back at work on Monday, January third. My resignation’s not in effect until the fifteenth. Yay, law school.” 

“Take a vacation day,” he said quickly. “We’ll probably fly back on Monday and be here by the time the kids get home from school.”

“Hmm…that might work,” said Lisa. She looked at her brothers and sisters. “So, you all heard that?”

“No problem,” said Jen. “I can take care of them. Your folks don’t even have to come, Mike.”

“Yeah,” said the twins, eyes gleaming. “We’ll be good. Right, Jen?”

“Not right,” said Lisa. “Irene and William will come, and you’ll be on your best behavior. Got it?”

The boys quieted down. But one little girl’s frightened voice spoke.

“No, Lisa,” said Emily, walking around the table to squeeze onto her sister’s lap. “You can’t go. What if the plane crashes, and you and Mike go to heaven, too?”

Lisa’s eyes widened, her lips thinned. She clutched her little sister and began rocking her. Mike knew where this conversation was going and didn’t like it. Maybe another man would have had more patience, maybe another man would have cuddled Emily on his lap at that point and reassured her that all would be well. But Mike couldn’t do that. Mike wouldn’t do that. How could he promise that nothing bad would happen to the plane, or to Lisa or him in any way? They could be robbed at gunpoint simply walking down a street. Who knew what the future held?

He glanced at Lisa. “This is ridiculous. It’s been almost two years. Isn’t she making any progress?”

“Of course she is,” Lisa replied softly, nuzzling Emily. “In fact, I’ll ask Dr. Julie about this on Wednesday.”

He rose so abruptly his chair crashed to the floor. “Is Dr. Julie in charge of our everyday lives? You’re supposed to be the QB at home, Lisa. If you let the weakest player take the lead, you’ll be nowhere.”

She was on her feet now, too, eyes blazing. “I am responsible for the health and well-being of these children, and that has to come first.”

He’d touched a nerve, and it sizzled. But there it was. Spoken out loud, and they’d all heard.

“I’ve never once asked you to choose,” he said. “But this trip is important to me. And it’s happening before you go back to school at the end of the month. There’s no scheduling conflict.” 

“No fighting! No fighting!” Emily’s cries broke the immediate silence as a watershed sluiced down her piquant face, her cries turning to sobs and her narrow chest beginning to heave. Mike saw it all and, in one smooth motion, tucked the girl under his arm and held her over the sink as she threw up.

Unless he took Emily with them, he’d be going to Miami alone. Damn it.