Family Affair (28 page)

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the setting, but after Trish and I have two drinks each and her hand grazes mine, I start to get this awkward, panicky feeling that maybe she’s hitting on me. Which would be ultra-surreal and bizarre. Then her hand seems to accidentally graze mine
again
. Scott was one thing, but
this?
Is Bill next? I don’t know how to react. Was it an accident? Am I supposed to ignore it? Am I being crazy? Do I say something?

I decide to just let it go. That lasts about forty-five seconds.

“Um …” I say.

“Yeah?”

“This is awkward.”

“Being in a gay bar?” Trish asks, surprised.

“No,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m just gonna say this because I don’t know how to react here, and maybe I’m misinterpreting but …” I drift off, not sure how to just say what I said I was going to.

“Dude. What?”

“Were you just …? Are you…?” I manage to get out. “Am I what?” Trish asks, getting annoyed.

“Hitting on me?”

Trish literally does a spit-take. Beer everywhere. “Tell me you’re kidding,” she says.

“I’m kidding?” I say with a raised pitch, sounding much more like a question.

“Oh my God, you’re serious?”

“I was … sort of… But now I’m not…I guess?” I say, somewhat relieved.

“I love you, dude. But not like that. Seeing you more than the ten hours a day I already do would scare me straight.”

“Fair enough,” I say, totally embarrassed by my accusation. “Let’s just forget this happened and blame it on the venue. And the drinks. And my mental state. And you know … global warming. Whatever.”

“Forget this happened? I am going to make you eat shit about this every day for a very long time.”

“Yeah, I pretty much figured.”

I do love being single again.

Christmas cards. I never got the point. Awkward, insincere small talk printed on overpriced greeting cards. I wouldn’t say these things to you in person. I wouldn’t write them to you in a letter. I therefore don’t want someone else writing them for me in four-line stanzas illustrating heartfelt prefab musings on your importance to me. And don’t get me started on the “family newsletter.”

Layla and I always made a mockery of Christmas cards—or at least we played around with the tradition. We’d go to Wal-Mart or Sears or the closest mall and take one of those cheesy portraits and make cards out of the photo, but we’d create a new bullshit backstory every year and dress for the occasion. The DeBonis from New Jersey, moving to Cali after turning state’s evidence. The Hurleys from Dubuque. The Avgambishis from New Delhi. It was silly but fun, our friends always enjoyed them, and we had a good time in the process. (I can’t imagine Heather wanting to do that—although we’ve had a couple more dates that I’ve rather enjoyed. She’s a cool woman, and I’m working myself up to the point where we’ll consummate the third-date rule. I’m running behind schedule, but I don’t mind her thinking I’m in no rush. It sort of adds to my charm.)

I’m just finishing up some plans for the Condors’ season-end banquet when my dad calls to tell me the family’s headed to Sears for a family portrait. I think he’s kidding. When he tells me that Layla is the one behind it, I think I want to hurl.

“Dad, we’re broken up,” I say. “Almost divorced. We never even did a family portrait when we were together, and p.s.,
we’re not her family.”

“Brett,” he says in his sternest voice. “She’s looking for a solid mooring point in the storm of confusion that is your marriage.”

“Our marriage is over,” I remind him. How many times do I have to?

“She wants something tangible to hold on to.”

“Buy her a teddy bear. Better yet, remind her about that stuffed owl her mom gave her. This is ridiculous.”

And yet somehow, four days later I find myself at Sears with my mom, dad, sister, and soon-to-be ex-wife.

“Smile, little brother,” Trish says, when she sees the scowl on my face.

“Fuck off,” I say.

“There’s the holiday cheer I’m looking for.” She shows her own pearly whites and turns back to talk to Layla.

There’s a two-year-old named Monica tossing unwanted props and screaming at the top of her lungs. “Nice, Monica,” her mother says. “Nice …”

“What’s nice?” I ask nobody in particular. “The fact that she’s crying hysterically or the fact that her diapers smell like they haven’t been changed since last Tuesday?”

“Oh, Brett,” my mom says, shaking her head.

“I’m April. Is everybody here?” the gum-snapping, nineteen-year-old manning the camera says once she finishes with Monica. I want to ask if we can spray the place down with Lysol, but I refrain.

“We’re missing one,” Layla points out, referring to Scott, who’s not here yet.

“You are a beautiful family,” the girl says.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Scott says, as he enters, doing a lame Elvis impression.

The girl laughs. She notices the book he’s carrying. “Tad Williams, eh? Nice. I liked his
Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn
trilogy more than
Otherland
, though.”

Nice. Nerds of a feather
.

Scott’s about to reply when my mom smiles and thanks April, too. Then she looks Trish up and down. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“No,” Trish says. “You’re imagining this. I’m actually wearing a ball gown right now.”

“I’m not complaining, honey,” Mom says—but “Is that what you’re wearing?” doesn’t generally come off as a compliment. I can see the raised hairs on the back of Trish’s neck.

“Can you explain the question, then?” Trish implores. “Because clearly this is what I’m wearing. I didn’t bring a suitcase full of options.”

“I was … Oh, honey, I’m sorry. That came out wrong,” Mom says.

“Speaking of coming out wrong,” Scott speaks up. “What does
that
mean?” Trish asks.

“It wasn’t about you, spaz,” Scott says. “I was going to tell a funny story. But never mind.”

“No, tell us,” Trish demands, calling his bluff. She’s clearly counting on his story to fall flat on its face.

It occurs to me in this moment how far apart Scott and Trish are. Never mind emotionally or developmentally or age-wise—I mean how physically far apart the two of them are whenever the family is together. They always seem to find a way to make sure something or someone is between them. Right now, it’s three other Fosters, a faux Foster (Layla), and a wingback chair.

“Trish, what are you trying to prove?” my dad says sternly. “We accept you. No matter who you love or what you wear.”

I don’t know whether it’s the stress of the impending holiday season or Mom’s (no doubt semi-unintentional) slight about what she’s wearing, or the lighting in the store, but Trish is suddenly locked and loaded for bear.

“And we’re supposed to accept you no matter whom
you
love?” Trish hisses. Which in itself is bad, because she never uses “whom.” It’s formal, and that can only mean it’s
on
.

“Trish!” my mom says, and I’m confused. Scott doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, either, from the look on his face, but Layla looks down and won’t look up.

“I’ll pay someone to translate,” Scott throws out. “Who does Dad not love?”

“That’s a great question, Dad,” Trish says, looking straight forward at the camera, still a boiling-yet-covered pot. “Tell us exactly whom you love and whom you don’t. I’m dying to know the answer to that question.”

“What’s she talking about, Dad?” I ask, but my father ignores me, his eyes trained on Trish.

“This is highly inappropriate,” he says.

“Why? Because your secret is out?” Trish replies, eyes ahead, stony smile on her lips.

“Speaking of coming out wrong,” Scott reprises, trying to lighten the mood. None of us are having it.

“Whoa,” I say, but before I can turn on the filter and come up with the right euphemisms or consider the circumstances, there among the twinkly lights, satin bows, Santa and Mrs. Claus figurines, and posters blaring about the
Holly-Days Sale—Savings Throughout the Store!
I ask point-blank, “Did you cheat on Mom?”

“This is not the time, Brett,” my father says. “And no.”

“Yes,” Trish says, not nearly as quietly, staring forward. “He did.”

The nineteen-year-old photographer has been fiddling with her camera, and she becomes even more intent on her lens, trying hard to pretend she’s not hearing any of this. Scott shrugs at her, and she smiles understandingly when their eyes meet.

“You guys,” Layla says. “Let’s not argue.”

“Why are you even here?” I snap, embarrassed that my family is falling apart in front of her.

“You cheated on Mom?” Scott asks my dad. He’s clearly processed it for a moment and now has been struck. Something of an eternal kid, this simpering smartass who revels in people’s head-shaking disapproval has changed a bit in the shock of this awful possibility, and the smartass is gone. “Tell me if this is true.”

“No!” my dad yells. “It’s one hundred percent false. And I just told your brother, this isn’t the time! Do you see your mother complaining?”

“Can we not do this in front of strangers and Layla?” I say.

“Layla is not a stranger,” Scott snaps.

“I said ‘Layla
and strangers
,’ which would imply that she is separate from the strangers. How could she possibly be a stranger? She’s with us every fucking moment of her spare time, like it or not!”

“Well, better get used to seeing even more of her,” Trish says,
still
looking straight forward. She’s smiling maniacally as she adds, “Because it seems we’re both going to have a lot of spare time.”

“What do you mean?” Layla asks.

“The bank called. They just rejected our loan, so Paw Prints photo booths are likely dead in the proverbial water dish.”

“What?” Layla blurts. “They said it was almost a done deal. They wait until we’re this far along and PETCO’s ready to go forward? When did they tell us, and why didn’t you tell me? Why did this happen?”

“About an hour ago, to answer the first question, and I did just now. And remember that lady with Rex the cat? Um, turns out she’s a bank manager.”

“Dad cheated on Mom,” Scott mutters slowly and quietly, still stunned.

“I did not, Scott,” Dad says. “We can talk later.”

The confused and horrified April finally speaks up. “Are you all where you’d like to be for this photo? I have some other people coming and—”

“We’re perfect right where we are,” Trish says.

“Okay. On three, then, everyone say ‘Holly-Days’!” April exhorts. This wipes the smile off even Trish’s face. We stare at our teenage photographer as one seething mob. “They make us say that,” she explains sheepishly. “One … two …”

“Wait—where are Mom and Pop?” my mom asks suddenly and frantically, for some reason using the names by which her own parents went. All of us turn our attention to her.

“Three!”
Click
.

Not exactly a keepsake portrait.

“Is that an existential question?” Trish asks. But the way our mom is looking around isn’t lost on any of us. This wasn’t a charming attempt to lighten the mood, break the tension, or change the subject. She was serious. She’s looking for her parents, my grandparents. But they’re not coming. They’ve been dead for ten years.

“If we’ve come all the way downtown for a portrait, we really should wait for Mom and Pop,” she says anxiously.

My dad just puts his arm around her and walks her outside.

After that, um,
atypical
photography session I wasn’t sure what was going on with the Fosters, but later that night, when no one else is home, Bill calls me to come over. He has me follow him upstairs to what has become an office of sorts, full of boxes and magazines in stacks, papers piled neatly around a desk.

Behind the tallest pile he finds a box with metal edge protectors. He sits me down, pops the top, then pulls out a stack of letters.

I thumb through them, not getting it at first but then noticing they all have
Return to Sender
stamps. And the addressee? Brett’s Aunt Evelyn, Ginny’s sister.

“Check the postmarks,” Bill says. A year ago, nine months, six months, a few weeks. “Go ahead and read one,” he suggests.

I pull out the top letter. It’s an invitation to Thanksgiving.

That’d have been a hell of a stretch for Aunt Ev. She’s been dead for eight years.

I had to run a few errands, but I call Dad as soon as I get home, and it keeps going to voice mail—meaning he’s probably avoiding the whole thing for a while. Or maybe he’s on the phone with someone else who wants to know what the hell is going on but doesn’t want to hold a group discussion. That’d definitely be
my
style.

I finally reach him after an hour. “Alzheimer’s?” I ask after a very long pause.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “The woman in question, whom your sister mistakenly believed I was having an affair with, is June, a college friend of mine—a married woman whose sister-in-law is suffering from Alzheimer’s. She agreed to meet me for coffee, to talk me through some of Mom’s symptoms and see if it all added up. Trish saw her giving me a supportive hug and made all the wrong assumptions. You know Trish. She can get a little overprotective, and she jumps to conclusions. I didn’t want to say anything to you kids about the Alzheimer’s until I knew more, so I just put up with your sister’s nonsense while I sorted it out. I made an appointment for Mom to see our doctor later this week,
but she seems to be worsening, so I’ve pushed it up to tomorrow. You can come if you want.”

The rest of what he says sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me, that
waa-waa
language that’s undecipherable. I hear my dad say things like “forgetful” and “disoriented,” and they hit me like a Mack truck. You hear statistics—“fourteen percent, one in seven, 1.7 million”—and it seems remote. Like tsunamis hitting faraway islands. As if you’re somehow immune. It’s like they say: Nothing really happens in the world until it happens to you. He’s talking, but none of it makes sense. And strangely, the person I avoided throughout the entire Sears photo shoot is the only person I really want to talk to right now. Not Heather, not Doug. Layla.