Fifteen
The weekend passes like I’m trapped in a jar of molasses, or caught in a dream where I’m trying to outrun someone, but can’t find my footing. The person I’m trying to outrun is myself.
This morning at church we listened to the story of Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus, how he fell to the ground as a blinding light surrounded him and he heard the voice of God. As corny as it sounds, I feel like something similar happened during my time in the basement with the interns. I didn’t hear the voice of God, but the experience changed how I perceive everyone, including myself.
Now, standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes, I’m weighed down with the responsibility of casting not one but two votes for the scholarship. I’ve no idea how to choose since I want everyone to win. Also, I’m certain that my ridiculous “true confession” made me sound whiny and privileged, both of which are true. I doubt anyone will even talk to me tomorrow.
On top of all that, last night I checked Carlos’s Facebook page—because I’m an idiot, obviously—and struck gold. He was tagged in a new photo by Rose Rubio, his sister, I realized by checking her page. It’s a fantastic shot taken at a park. Carlos holds a soccer ball in the crook of his arm, wearing a soccer uniform like the other guys in the photo. But on him, the uniform makes him look like the real deal, like one of those unbelievably fast and athletic guys on the European teams my dad watches every summer during the World Cup.
“Carlos does it again,” his sister Rose said in the post. “Goooallll!!”
As perfect as the photo was, it also packed a sucker punch because although he held a soccer ball in one arm, his other arm was draped over the shoulders of a pretty girl who smiled up at him like she knew him very, very well.
I’d closed my browser and vowed to never check his page again.
“Want me to dry?” Dad asks, sidling up to the counter.
Surprised by his offer, I give him a grateful smile and hand over a towel. Usually he holes up in his home office on Sunday afternoons. He’s been solicitous this weekend, asking me how I’m doing at least half a dozen times. He apologized profusely for the basement incident and promised to talk to the interns about it tomorrow.
“Why are you washing dishes instead of just loading the dishwasher?” he asks as he dries the omelet pan.
“It’s a Zen thing. Helps me process stuff.” All of my friends hate dish duty, but I love it. Weird, I know.
“Wax on, wax off,” he jokes, and I flick soapy water at him. His old movie references are never-ending.
Mom enters the kitchen, laden with a stack of handmade clothes. She’s participating in a fashion show in Fort Collins this afternoon, focused on trendy and organic items, made from hemp and other organic fibers. Wealthy granola women love my mom’s line of clothes. Dad sets down the pan and hurries to take them from her. I flash on Carlos, how he’s always the guy holding the door open or helping people jumpstart their car.
“Good luck, Mom,” I say. “Break a leg. Sell a bunch of stuff.”
Mom hugs me from behind since my hands are occupied. She tugs one of my curls like I’m five. “You and your dad stay out of trouble today, okay?”
“We’ll try.” When I was young that phrase was our cue to watch movies and eat junk food together, but we haven’t done that in ages.
Through the kitchen window, I watch my parents after Dad loads up his SUV with Mom’s garment bags and plastic tubs. Dad pulls Mom into a hug and she beams up at him like, I don’t know, it’s their first date or something. It’s sort of weird. And sort of adorable. When he bends down to kiss her, I turn away because it feels like I’m spying. And I refuse to do that, even on people I love. Especially them.
Also, since when did Vader turn up the PDA? Has he always been this way and I’ve been oblivious, like I was with the interns and their struggles? Like I was with Emergent, which I always assumed was a corporate monster, crushing people like an elephant? How much of my resentment is built on false assumptions, or cluelessness?
After Mom drives away, Dad resumes his drying job. “Yoda I am, dry dishes I will.”
“Dad, please. Give it up.” I laugh, which is a relief because I’m desperate to shake myself out of my funk. “How was the game on Friday? Did the Rockies win?” I don’t follow baseball, much to my dad’s disappointment.
“Eight to three. I took some of the staff with me to thank them for putting in so many extra hours lately.”
“Oh yeah? Who’d you take?”
“The social media crew. Brian had a great time. He’s as obsessed with baseball as I am.
“Brian’s cool.”
Dad nods. “Great guy.” He side-eyes me. “But way too old for you.”
Heat floods my body. “Dad! God. Of course he is. Don’t be gross.”
He grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I just…worry about you.”
“Then maybe I should work somewhere else. Away from tempting older men.” I waggle my eyebrows and he snaps the dishtowel at me. I’m only half kidding. Part of me wants to quit so I don’t have to face the interns again.
“You’re working where I can keep tabs on you. It’s bad enough I have to worry about your sister living on her own and meeting God knows who.”
“Apparently she had a date with Thor and it went well.”
“What?” Confusion clouds Dad’s eyes.
“Chris Hemsworth. She says he looks awesome without his shirt.”
Dad looks ready to freak, so I squeeze his arm with a soapy hand. “Kidding, Vader. Take a chill pill.”
“You girls are going to send me to an early grave.” He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Dad. Don’t even joke about that.” A rush of affection for him washes over me and I blurt out an idea. “The Force Awakens?”
He rubs his chin like this is a difficult decision. “Maybe. Do I get popcorn with M&M’s?”
“Ewok’s honor.” I hold up three fingers. “Last one to the TV is a rotten tauntaun.”
And for the next couple of hours, it’s just me and my dad basking in the glow of our shared dorky obsession, gorging on junk food, not worrying about what tomorrow will bring.