Chapter 24: Families. Jesus.
Friday morning
I sleep in the next morning, and in my sunless basement room, I would’ve been quite content to keep sleeping in, but voices drifting down from the kitchen above wake me around nine. At first, I just lie in bed, listening to the cadence of my mother’s voice, noting how the softer rumble of my father interrupts it at predictable intervals, and the melody of their mixing voices forces my eyes closed again, not because they’re lullabying me back to sleep, but because there’s something painful about it. Something about their voices that makes me think of Jenny, and the daughter who isn’t ours, the children who aren’t ours, the whole fucking family we’ll never have, and how we could’ve had kids who grew up listening to the intermingling sounds of our voices lullabying them back to sleep on lazy spring mornings.
I’d managed to stop thinking about Jenny, for the most part, over the last five years. That was why I’d stopped talking to her — not talking to her had made it easier not to think about her, and not thinking about her had made it easier not to miss her so fucking much, and not missing her was supposedly helping me to “move on.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
And then I come back to Ohio, and Jenny waltzes into Soul Mountain with her adorable little kids, including a daughter she’d named for me, and five years of “moving on” evaporated in an instant and I was back to where I’d started.
She’s like a fucking ghost limb, still hurting despite being amputated years ago. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, push the thoughts away.
“Nine years,” I mutter out loud. “It’s been nine fucking years, Anika, so fucking stop it with your fucked-up lesbian drama shit.”
There’s another voice vibrating its way through the floorboards above, and I know it’s not goddamned Marty McFly, so I’m guessing it must be Gerry.
An upset Gerry. The voice gets louder, higher. My mother breaks in, then my father.
I throw the covers back, pull a hoodie on over my sleep t-shirt, and climb the stairs.
I open the door to the kitchen to find Gerry angry and red-faced, my mother matching his temper inch for inch, my father looking hesitantly between them.
Whatever’s happening stops the instant I walk into the kitchen, everyone falling into tense silence in the way people do when they’ve been arguing and someone not involved interrupts. Mom looks down, picking at the corner of the Marcine Observer laid out in front of her. Dad stands, walks over to the industrial-sized rice cooker that’s lived on the corner of the kitchen counter for as long as I can remember. Gerry adjusts the Buckeyes cap on his head and folds his mouth down into an unhappy grimace.
I decide not to comment on the toxic atmosphere, make my way to the cold remnants of scrambled eggs still sitting on the stove.
“Is there any bacon left?” I ask, voice froggy with sleep.
“I ate the rest of it,” Gerry confesses. “Sorry.”
“There’s more in the freezer if you want to cook it,” my Dad says from his spot next to the rice cooker.
I sit down at the table next to Gerry, stealing a glance at Mom. At least her eyes aren’t red-rimmed from crying this morning, so that’s good. I’ll take an angry Momma over depressed Momma any day of the week.
“So. Today’s the big day, right?” I say, referring to the surgery.
Dad walks over behind my mother, places his dal on the table and his hands on her shoulders. She reaches up automatically, squeezes his fingers. It’s a gesture I’ve seen repeated countless times over the decades, and it brings out another painful whisper of Jenny from somewhere deep within the recesses of my mind.
I look down, focus on my eggs.
Dad shakes his head as he massages Mom’s shoulders. “The surgeon called yesterday. We’ve been rescheduled for Monday afternoon.”
I glance around the table, taking in the faces. Gerry’s gazing off into the distance, still stewing on something. Likewise, Mom’s also distracted, and Dad, as always, is distracted by Mom.
I decide to confront whatever’s happening head-on. “Is that what you guys were fighting about? The surgery?”
Gerry brings his attention back to the table, looking at me, then our parents. “No. I brought up the payroll situation.”
Oh, Jesus. I might actually need coffee for this.
“And we told your brother it’s none of his business,” Mom says, biting off each word.
“We made payroll,” Dad says, and by the way he says it, I get the feeling it’s not the first time he’s said it this morning.
“We made payroll, yeah, but not with enough money left over to buy groceries next week,” Gerry retorts.
“We’re managing just fine!” Momma yells, one of her hands curling into a fist on top of the Observer. “We’ve managed Soul Mountain for twenty-five years, and we’ve out-lasted almost every other business in downtown Marcine. We don’t need you telling us how to run it.”
“Buying groceries on a credit card every week isn’t sustainable,” Gerry says. “And from the looks of your credit card bill, you’ve been doing it for a while.”
My mother tilts her head back, looking up at my father’s face above her. “Why does he have access to your accounts, Pathik?”
He ignores her question, addresses Gerry instead. “The restaurant goes up and down. You know that. We won’t always be in trouble the way we are now.”
Gerry wipes a hand down his face, trying to contain his temper. (Dutch, Gerry, and I all take after my mother in the temper department. PJ is as mellow as his namesake.)
“How can you not be concerned about this?” Gerry presses. “Dinner’s been busier than I’ve ever seen it, we’re getting more customers than ever before — ”
“Which is why we aren’t concerned, babu,” Dad says.
“Don’t call me that, I’m not anybody’s little boy anymore,” Gerry snaps, rejecting the Nepalese term of endearment. “We’re barely scraping by. We’re one disaster away from shutting our doors.”
Everyone reverts to tense silence.
“It will work out,” Dad says after a few seconds. He sits down to eat his dal.
I argue with myself for a moment, oscillating back and forth between wanting to weigh in and wanting to stay out of it. But frankly, I’ve never been fucking capable of keeping my fucking mouth shut, so the internal argument doesn’t last long.
“What’s with the loan?” I ask my parents. “Gerry showed me the books. Seems like all the profit’s being eaten up with loan payments.”
Momma purses her lips, and the look on her face says I’m about to get a sharp verbal slap that begins with a drawled-out, “Giiirlll…”
But before she can speak, my father surprises me by being the one to answer. “As we told your brother. It’s not your concern.”
Gerry draws in a breath to start a fresh tirade, but I reach my hand under the table, put my hand on his leg. He deflates, the air rushing out from between clenched teeth. It’s rare that I’m the one advocating for calm and diplomacy, but if my father’s the one putting his foot down, then the conversation definitely isn’t going to go anywhere. Mom’s normally the stubborn one. Dad stepping in indicates something major, something absolutely out-of-bounds. At least for now.
I decide to change the subject. “So, uh, if the surgery isn’t happening tonight, do you guys think I could get the evening off? I kind of made plans.”
This seems to surprise Gerry. “Plans?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s this word that means you have an intention to do something other than hanging out at your parents’ restaurant for fifteen hours straight.”
“It’s fine,” Dad says. “And thank you for taking on so much for us the last few days.”
I shrug. “It’s what I’m here for, right?”
Mom’s lips purse again and she raises an eyebrow like she questions my motives. Which isn’t very fucking cool, if you ask me, given that I broke my basketball contract and dropped my whole fucking life to come back and help. Not that I had much of a life to drop.
But before I can give her a defensive What?, my dad runs with the topic change like the diplomat he is.
“What have you got planned, Ani?” he asks conversationally. “Seeing old friends?”
“Something like that. It’s Grace Adler’s bachelorette party tonight. Turns out she’s getting married this weekend.”
My brother’s face clouds and he squints at me skeptically. “You hate Grace Adler.”
“Hate’s a strong word, babu,” I say.
“Don’t fucking call me — ”
“Language!” my mother snaps.
“Oh, come on. We’re not teenagers anymore, Mom,” Gerry says.
She points at the ceiling. “Whose roof is that, Geronimo? Mine or yours?”
He groans. “Yours. But — ”
“‘But’ nothing,” Mama says, warming up to a lecture. “My roof, my rules. I’m tired of hearing my children use foul language at my kitchen table. You’d think we never taught you any better.”
It’s a surrogate argument, of course. They’re power-struggling over language because my parents already shut Gerry down on the topic of the restaurant.
And once again, it’s my father who intervenes. Always the peacemaker.
“It’s nice that you’re supporting Grace,” he says, as if my mother and brother aren’t steaming at each other on either side of him. “And I’m sure you’ll run into lots of other people you grew up with at the party. It must be a very long time since you’ve seen them.” He smiles around a spoonful of dal. “It will be a nice reunion for you, bahini.”
Gerry’s still skeptical. “You’d never go to a bachelorette party voluntarily, let alone Grace Adler’s. Is this about that girl? Amy?”
I give Gerry the kind of death stare older sisters reserve specifically for their younger brothers.
“Who’s Amy?” asks Mom.
“Just someone I met on the plane. She’s in town for Grace’s wedding. Turns out they went to college together.”
My mom raises her eyebrows, doesn’t say anything. My dad gets interested in his breakfast. As much as they didn’t like the idea of me being with Jenny, they’ve liked even less the parade of short-term relationships and one-night stands that have characterized my love life over the last decade. I don’t blame them for thinking a girl I met on the plane and who will only be in town for a little more than a week is yet one more example of my inability to settle down with someone.
I think about defending myself, telling them whatever they’re thinking is wrong and that there’s something different about what’s growing between Amy and me, but the truth is they’re probably not wrong.
What I say instead is, “So you don’t care if I take the night off, right?”
My father nods and smiles. “Of course. I was planning to cover the dinner shift tonight anyway. Enjoy the party.”
#
After I finish breakfast and shower, I send a group text to my brothers and sister.
Sibling meeting,
my text announces.
2pm CST. Skype. It’s important.
What’s it about?
Dutch asks.
I’m busy at 2pm
PJ replies.
You’ll find out what it’s about.
PJ, clear your schedule.
This is really short notice
he answers.
Sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t
important.
Is this about Mom?
writes Dutch.
Goddammit you two.
I’m not explaining over
text. That’s why we’re
meeting. Just show up.
I’ll see what I can do.
PJ says.
Fine
Dutch says, then inquires:
Gerry??
My phone dings immediately with Gerry’s reply.
I’ll be there. And Anika’s right, this
is important
he says.
See u 2 online.