Family Affair (30 page)

There’s no possible way I can formulate some momentous, moving introduction in the amount of time I have, so I decide just to wing it.

“Yeah?” someone says through the intercom, and I’m momentarily speechless. “Uh… um …”

“I think you got the wrong apartment,” he says. “No, wait!” I shout. “Nicky?” I ask. “Who wants to know?” he says.

“I’m married to Layla,” I say. “I mean … yeah. Your daughter, Layla. She’s your daughter. I’m her husband. Technically. Still.”

Seconds feel like days as I stand there and he doesn’t say anything back. Then I hear a loud buzz, so I push the door open and walk in.

It’s even dumpier inside than out. There’s no elevator, so I walk up four flights of stairs and find the father formerly known as Nick Brennan, currently masquerading as Nicky Foxx, shockingly resembling the face I’ve spent more time looking at than anything else in my whole life, staring back at me.

“Is she okay?” he asks. He doesn’t motion me in.

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s okay.”

He looks me up and down. I imagine he’s summing me up—deciding if I’m good enough for his daughter—and I think to myself this guy has a lot of nerve giving me the once-over. I do the same, though. He has her chin—or I guess she has his. And his nose. And his teeth. She always said she never had to wear braces, and I guess he’s proof of good dental genetics. His dark brown hair is short and neat, a few streaks of gray at the ends. His
mouth hangs slightly open, in either amazement or lifelong exhaustion; I haven’t been around him long enough to know which. He wears dark slacks and a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt with the faded logo of some diner on it. I’m kind of blown away looking at him.

I only met her mom a few times before she passed away, and that was so long ago, but I remember thinking that Layla had her mother’s eyes, that they crinkled at the sides when she smiled and laughed. I thought someday she’d get lines there and be pissed but I’d always think they were beautiful. Like her.

“I’m Brett,” I say. “Brett Foster.”

“Right,” he says. “I knew her last name became Foster. Come on in.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I follow him to the couch.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks. “I’ve got whiskey, beer, and maybe some Tropicana, but I’m not sure on the OJ.”

“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“You’re a coach, huh?” he asks. “I read something about you taking your team to a few championships.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But that’s not all I do. I mean, it’s all I’ve done. But I’ve been recently inspired to do something I should have done a long time ago.”
Oh, crap. I’m running off at the mouth again. Oh, well
.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Oh, just this business venture. It’s a great idea, but I didn’t have the bucks to start it for a long time. Finally I just said fuck it and at least got started on making a sample or six so I’d have something to show someone who could actually get me the capital—”

“We should talk,” he says. “I always know people with too much money looking for promising ground floors to get in on.”
Huh
, I think. I look around, taking everything in. The place is
dark and dusty. Nick has posters of old rock bands—Van Halen, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin—all over his walls. There’s another of Eric Clapton, and a tapestry hanging from the ceiling. This isn’t the home of a fifty-year-old man. Or it shouldn’t be. I’m not convinced he can get me the money to make my Wonder Armour. Not that I even came here for that in the first place. I get myself back on track.

“So how’s your life?” I ask, hoping he’ll say, “Empty. I miss my daughter. I hate myself.”

“It’s pretty good.” So much for that. He goes on, “You probably think I’m an asshole for leaving Layla and her mom.”

“No, that’s not,
not
, my business,” I say. Then, deciding it’s absolutely my business, I ask, “Why did you?”

“I had dreams. I had dreams of making it big. I wanted to be out on the road doing gigs, or in the studio every night writing songs with my band, or rehearsing. I couldn’t come home every night and take care of a wife and baby. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do both things. So yeah, I was selfish. But the truth is I didn’t think I was leaving forever. I thought I was gonna make it. I thought I’d come back with lots of money—I’m talkin’ life-altering money—and they’d be pissed, sure, but they’d get over it. And the cars and the clothes would make it that much easier. I wanted to be Eddie Van Halen, you know?”

“Okay,” I say, allowing him his side.

“But that didn’t happen. And there are so many reasons. One, because there already
was
an Eddie Van Halen. Two, because everybody
else
at that time was also trying to become Eddie Van Halen. Everybody was trying to look like him and play like him and sound like him… and nobody did it as good as he did. Then it was like everybody kept trying to one-up Eddie. Playing faster and louder and longer… it became too much. Eddie was the perfect blend of everything a guitar player should be. He was technical, yet he played from the heart. It was natural. But all these guys kept getting so technical. Does that make sense?”

“I guess.” I shrug, not sure what Eddie Van Halen has to do with his abandoning his wife and two-year-old.

“It’s like, let’s say you get a scoop of vanilla ice cream and you love it. It’s the best thing you’ve ever had. So the next day you want it again. But this time you put hot fudge on it. And that’s great, too—it’s even better than the plain vanilla. So then you add strawberries to it, and then peanuts or cereal or fuckin’ M&M’s. Before you know it you’ve got this crap in your bowl, everything’s overpowering the one good thing you started with, and all you want is a fuckin’ bowl of vanilla ice cream.”

“Right,” I say. He does have a point.

“So I tried inventing my own thing. But by the time I realized that I needed to do that, music had changed. MTV had its stranglehold. The music business changed forever. For record companies it was great. But from the point of view of a musician, it was the worst thing that ever happened to the business. It took an auditory art and made it visual. When you walk into an art gallery and you look around at the walls, you’re checking out a visual art. When you buy a record—we had records back then—and you listen to it, that’s what you call an auditory art. That’s what music was supposed to be: something that stimulated your auditory senses. But MTV took music and made it a visual art, and it became more important to the audience what you looked like than what they were listening to. I wasn’t about that. I was about good music. Quality music. Not a three-minute movie. It got to the point where artists were writing songs with the visual of the video in mind, not thinking,
Is this a good song?
Music isn’t supposed to appeal to your eyes or your nose or your sense of touch. It’s supposed to appeal to your ears.”

“Right,” I say. I’m not sure if I should cut him off.

“So one night I was playing in a Night Ranger tribute band, and one of the managers at the club knew I was getting burned out. He knew I needed cash and offered me a job a couple nights a week
doing sound, and I took it. And I’ve been doing that now for almost twenty years.”

I listen to him go on and on about this stuff, and in a way it makes me hate him less, knowing that, at the very least, the thing he left Layla and her mom for was something he lived, ate, and breathed. He didn’t just pick up and start another family somewhere, like some people’s parents I know. He had a dream. It just didn’t work out.

“Probably more than you wanted to know,” he says, a bit embarrassed. He lights his third cigarette since I’ve been here. “I always say,
don’t get me started on music.”

“It’s interesting. But it’s not why I’m here,” I admit.

“For the record: Honestly, I thought I’d make it. I thought I’d make it and make them proud and come back and spoil them rotten.” He taps his lip with his thumb, and I can swear he’s breathing more heavily. “But that didn’t happen. And of course when you’re trying to live the rock-star dream, you get mixed up in some bad shit. I was doing drugs back then. A lot of drugs. So was everyone I knew. And I had friends who were divorced and saw their kids, and they’d get high before they picked them up for visitations. I knew I didn’t want to be
that
guy. The last thing I wanted to do was be hangin’ with my kid and have to sneak off to do a line in some bathroom. And then, God forbid, get in a car with her and drive her home. I couldn’t risk that. So I stayed away.

“Yeah, I got clean, but so much time had passed by then. I was ashamed. I felt like a loser. And I don’t feel like a loser in
any
other area of my life. So I guess it’s partially pride, but it’s also because …you know… I’ve kept tabs on her. From a distance. I know she’s okay. I may be an asshole, but I feel like she’s probably better off without me. I’ve been watching. I know she has a new life. Your life. Your family.”

“Well, Nick, or Mr. Foxx … if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re right,” I tell him. He brightens a little. “You’re an asshole.”

He squints at me as if he’s winding up to say something, then just chews his lower lip and nods.

“But in life, we sometimes get second chances,” I go on. “And where Layla is concerned, it may just be time to get the band back together….”

Christmas Eve. Probably my favorite day of the year. Usually. At the Fosters’, we’ve always had a tradition of opening up one present each on Christmas Eve and saving the rest for Christmas morning. Granted, this is a childish ritual done mostly for the benefit of impatient kids, but Brett, Trish, Scott, and I were all just big kids anyway, so we never discarded it. I love the warmth, the smells, the food, the excitement, the house full of people—everything. It’s the perfect day. And as it only comes once a year, I always try to wake up at the crack of dawn to make it last that much longer, to get the full experience, to milk the day for every last second.

I don’t know how it’s going to go this year, things being as they are, but I walk into the Fosters’ house determined this time to maintain my dignity, what with my little meltdown at Thanksgiving. I’ve had a few months now to get used to the separation, and I’m dealing with it a little better. I feel pretty confident that Heather won’t be there, since she wasn’t at Thanksgiving and now Brett’s dealing with his sick mother. I also like to think he’d leave that line uncrossed. Bringing a date to the corn maze
was one thing, but holidays are sacred. And this being my most favorite holiday … well, I just feel relieved knowing it’s for family only.

Of course the first thing I see when I walk in is Heather. So much for Brett having a conscience. Or class. Or any regard for my feelings, my heart, or my favorite day of the year.

“Hello, everybody,” I say. “And Heather.”

There is a chorus of hellos back to me, but the only one I can hear is Heather. Maybe because the devil is speaking through her. “Hello, Layla. Nice to see you again.”

Vermin. Scum. Home wrecker
. That’s what I want to say back to her. I say nothing, though. I try to smile and accidentally bite my lip, which I know will turn into a canker sore in two days, and I hate her even more.
Whore
.

Dinner is awkward and painful, and I don’t know my place. I’m watching Heather be included in things she has no business being included in, and nothing tastes good. I can barely get the food down, and I fake smiles and hardly speak through the whole meal.

“Layla,” Ginny says, as she clears her plate. “Come.”

I take my plate and follow Ginny into the kitchen, and although no words are spoken, there’s plenty being said. We immediately get into a rhythm with the dessert prep, and I feel like I can breathe again. We always bake fresh gingerbread cookies right after dinner, so they’re hot off the press when we open our one gift. Then Scott always launches one of his ritualistic lines: “Check it out, Dad,” he’ll say, “you always wanted us to get ahead in the world,” and he’ll bite the head off the gingerbread man. Every one of us shakes his or her head, but it still makes me feel good.

Ginny pushes two bowls toward me: one in which she’s already mixed the flour, salt, baking soda, and spices; the other is empty, but she knows I’ll pick up where she’s left off. The
second bowl will be for creaming butter, sugar, eggs, and light molasses.

While I’m going to town on the wet ingredients with the electric mixer, Ginny is lightly flouring the surface for me to roll the dough once it’s ready. It’s somehow calming—the rolling and the flattening—even if I am imagining that the rolling pin is a Mack truck and the dough is Heather’s face.

I roll the pin harder and faster until Ginny notices and starts to laugh. “What are you doing to that poor gingerbread?” she asks, playfully touching my nose with a flour-coated finger.

“I’m … What?”

“It’s supposed to be a quarter-inch thick when you cut the men out,” she says. “Not paper-thin.”

“I hope you’re making gingerbread women, too,” I hear Trish say from behind me. I turn and give her a hug.

“Do we have women, Gin?” I ask.

Ginny just looks blankly at me.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” I say.

“Sexist pigs,” Trish mutters, and she swipes her finger in the bowl, samples some of the leftover gingerbread dough, and prances out.

I look at the flattened dough and realize that it would be impossible to cut cookies out of it, so I scrape it all up—it really is quite thin—and make a new ball to roll, this time being careful not to take out any aggression.

Once I’ve rolled and cut the cookies, I get to my favorite part: decorating them. I put M&M’s on for eyes—which I suppose are technically larger than gingerbread people’s eyes, but if they have a thyroid condition, they could potentially have big buggy eyes like that, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I look up at Ginny as I place the last set, and pop a handful of leftover candies into my mouth. I feel a calm just being there with her.

Until
she
walks in.

“Can I help with anything?” Heather asks. “No, I think we’ve got it,” I say.