The Namesake (17 page)

She chews her lip, wrestling tears, and says, “Ask your mother.”

After Gramp’s surprise and the scene at Alberti’s, not to mention Dad’s hellacious book-on-tape, I needed to reconnect with my True North. So the minute Angie dropped me off, I dialed Florida.

Even though things were a tad strained last time we talked — meaning I was a complete douche — I know Lex’ll be there for me. My flip side.

Still ringing. Hmm, I doubt she’s out this late. From what she’s said, Manatee Village shuts down at dusk. I must’ve dialed wrong. I hang up and try again, extra careful with number selection.

It’s ringing again. Once. Twice. Maybe Lex is still pissed, avoiding me via caller ID. I’m about to give up when she answers.

I try for normal, but the words gush. “Hey, Philomena! God, I’m glad you’re there. Things are out of control. I really need to talk … Lex?”

“She’s um, a little busy right now. Can I tell her who’s calling?”

The troglodyte tone is unmistakable: Wattrous. I’m thrown, can’t imagine what he’s doing there. No, that’s the problem. I
can
imagine; that’s why I suddenly want to gag.

“Hello? Are you still there?” It’s Lex.

“I’m … uh,” my voice grinds like damp gravel. I clear my throat. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Evan, is that you? You sound strange. What’s wrong?”

Knowing it’s no use lying to her, I do anyway. “Nothing. I’m fine. Look, you’re obviously busy. Call me if you feel like it. Tell Tyler I’m sorry to interrupt.”

Before I can hang up, I hear her say, “Don’t be a freak, Ev — ”

I sit, surveying the room. The blue of the lava lamp illuminates Lex everywhere: photos, artwork, stuffed animals.

Climbing from the bed, I cross to my desk, avoiding the telltale floorboard. No way I want to wake Mom. Couldn’t believe my luck when I got home and she was asleep.

Snatching Lex’s card from my memo board, I read it aloud, “Two peas forever” like bitter spit on my tongue. God, it seems like a million years ago.

I drop the crumpled pod in the trash and fall on my bed, mentally scrolling through options: I could make some mural sketches, do some studying. Or maybe sneak to the garage, retrieve the cassette and journal. Listen. Read.

Amazingly, I’m asleep minutes later when the phone rings. I’m tempted to play the screening game myself. Caller ID flashes Florida; I can’t resist.

“Howdy.”

“Do I need to fly up there right now and step on your throat?”

“What, and miss out on Tyler Time?”

“Would you give it a frigging rest? Ever since I told you he’s here, you’ve acted like a major shit heel.”

The way I see it, I’ve got two choices: 1) Hang up, in which case we’re back at square one; 2) Apologize; so no one’s more shocked than me when I go for option 3) Cry like a wussy.

“Evan, please tell me what’s wrong! You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m sorry, Lex. I don’t mean to spoil your vacation. It’s great, you and Tyler getting together, really. I was just surprised to find him there so late. I didn’t realize things had got — ”

“Okay genius, listen. I’m only saying this once. Yes, I like Tyler. He’s a total hottie. Now brace yourself, I’m about to share the intimate details of what we were doing when you called.”

“Lex, no!” I nearly drop the phone. “I really don’t need to know!”

“Tyler and I have spent the past four nights together — listening? — rubber-cementing sequins onto thirty-six pairs of support hose. It was slightly less romantic than you’d imagine.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish. We tried hot glue, but it literally melted the freakin’ hose. I think I have like third-degree burns on my wrist. Live and learn, I always say.”

“Since when?”

“Okay, just stop. You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Minimizing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, my friend, are a minimizer.”

“You mean like a teeny cheap person?”

“Not funny. And you know exactly what I mean. You call me, all whacked out, and then, when I ask what’s the matter, you say everything’s peachy.”

“I never said peachy.” She’s not laughing. “Alexis?” I think I’ve blown it.

Sighing, a faint sign of life, she says, “Talk to me.”

“I’m not sure what to say, where to start, what you’ll think.”

“Now I’m pissed. Since when do best friends edit for content? It’s Alexis, Evan. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“The more I learn the worse it gets.”

“Tell me!”

“There was this priest and Mister Alberti has another daughter, and my grandfather showed me this gravestone. I don’t know, Lex, I — ”

“Slow down. You’re not making sense.”

I know she’s right, but how can I make her understand what I can’t?

“I want you to take a deep breath and start over. Tell me everything.”

“Okay,” I inhale through my nose like Miss Lubeck taught us in Intro to Drama, letting it out through my mouth, I begin. “Aunt Reg had this painting my dad did after encounter … ”

Throat dry, I glance at the clock; it’s 1:53, and I haven’t even gotten us to the restaurant. Lex hasn’t said more than “Wow” and “Uh huh” for forty minutes. That’s got to be her sustained silence personal best. Maybe she’s asleep.

“You still there?”

“Of course. So, are you okay? I mean … it’s a lot to find out.”

“And I haven’t told you all of it.”

“I want you to.”

“I know. But it’s hard. When I was listening to that tape — the stuff with Father Fran — all I could think was
how did he not kill himself then?
I mean, how’d he survive it in one piece?”

“He didn’t.”

“What?”

“No one does.”

As her voice fades, I see her so clearly: Smurf nightshirt, knees hugged to chin, alone in Aunt Bert’s guestroom. Lost.

“He’s gone, Lex. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“He doesn’t have to
be here
to hurt me.”

“Lex, are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just … I was thinking. I can almost understand your dad not wanting to live with the memories anymore. They’re always there, you know? Like an oyster.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like … an oyster takes this grit, this dirt inside, and covers it over and over, coating it to mask the irritation. It creates this lustre, but at the heart there’s just muck.”

“And?”

“And it’s the same with these memories, Father Fran, my stepdad. They’re the nasty secrets our minds try to wipe clean. But instead of soothing it over … instead of a pearl … it’s like,” her voice wilts.

“What, Lex?”

“Instead of a pearl, there’s only a seed, this black seed of shit and shame, and you’ll try anything to cough it out. Some people drink, some starve themselves. Some even try to get rid of it by planting it in someone else. They’re the worst. Finally, you realize it’s always going to be there — so you settle for fooling people.”

“Fooling them how?”

“Pretending mostly. That you’re the smartest, the nicest, the funniest. That you’re
just a little eccentric
.”

“Lex, you are all those things.”

“See, I’ve fooled you, too. Sometimes I even fool myself, Evan. For a little while. But it always comes back, the guilt, the fear. You can’t escape it anymore than you can change your fingerprints or your blood type. It’s always there, because it’s who you are.”

“You’re so much more, Lex — ”

“And you know the only way to get rid of that filth is to cut it out, but you can’t. It’s rooted so deep in your soul, without it you’d be like a shucked oyster, dead empty.”

“So what do you do?”

“You just accept it, learn to act as if.”

“As if?”

“As if you’re normal, as if you’re not damaged goods. Some days it’s easier than others.”

“Do you think it was the same for my dad? Maybe that’d explain — ” I can’t say it.

“Explain what, Evan? Why he killed himself?”

My voice wavers. “Something else.”

“What is it? Tell me; maybe I can help you figure it out.”

“I know … I just … I’m not even sure. It’s Mister Alberti’s daughter, Theresa. He did something. Mister Alberti said he ‘did her dirty.’ ”

I ignore her gasp.

“And that’s all he said?”

“Pretty much.”

“What about Angie? Did you ask her about it?”

“I did.”

“Well, what’d she say?”

“The worst possible thing. She said I should ask my mother.”

“So? Did you?”

“Are you nuts?”

“The jury’s still out on that. Don’t tell me you’re not going to.”

“No way! She’d probably descend on Alberti’s, attack the old guy, burn the place down, who knows what.”

“You owe it to her, Evan.”

“I don’t owe her anything. I thought you understood the way it is with her, Lex.”

“Look, Evan. Don’t take this wrong, but I think your perception’s a bit skewed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It comes out louder than I intended.

“It’s like you think you invented grief. Give your mom a break. He was her husband.”

“Well then she shouldn’t have driven him out of his home.”

“Maybe if you really talk to her, she’ll surprise you.”

“You’re the one who’s surprising me, Lex. What is this ‘Kumbayah’ crap?”

“I just think you owe it to both of you to try.”

She refuses to get angry, which is making me mad. “That’s easy for you to say from a friggin’ thousand miles away! You don’t have to deal with her.”

“Are you really mad at me, Evan? Are you?”

“No.”

“Because all I’m saying is, you’ve come this far, isn’t it worth taking the next step? It’s just a question.”

I surprise myself by saying, “I’m not sure I can live with the answer.”

“Can you live
not
knowing?”

I want to argue; instead I say, “Why do you always have to be right?”

“We all have our crosses to bear, I’m just glad I get to be yours.”

“Ha ha.”

“So, when are you planning to ask her?”

“I … don’t … know.”

“Well, no time like the present and all that. Why not do it now?”

“You
are
nuts!”

“So you’ve told me.”

“It’s quarter to three!”

“Evan, some things transcend the constraints of timeliness.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, do you honestly think there will ever be a
good
time to have this conversation? Personally, I have my doubts.”

“So what are you saying? You just told me I need to ask her. Now you’re saying I shouldn’t?”

“Cripes, sometimes it’s like talking to a hairbrush. NO! I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m saying it’s NEVER going to be easy, but it’s important.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Well, you’d better. Or else.”

“What?”

“I’ll do it for you.”

“Yeah, right. What’re you going to do, call her?” Even as I say it, I picture her singing in Mister Pettafordi’s office. “Oh, God, you’re serious.”

“Evan, I swear, you call me back in one hour with details of your conversation, or I’m calling her myself.”

“Why would you do that? I told you it’s a bad idea to talk to her. She’ll just go ape.”

“Listen, Galloway, you got a whopper of a brain there, but that doesn’t mean you have all the answers. Sometimes it takes someone just outside the bubble to see what’s going on inside. Trust me. Talk to her. And remember, you’ve got one hour.”

She hangs up, the dial tone a siren in my ear.

I’m as shocked by the question as she is. It’s not what I’d intended.

Her breath comes in a weak shiver, and I brace myself for Mom volume. But when she starts to talk, it’s soft, like a bedtime story.

“We never wanted you to know … ”

“What? That I was the replacement?”

“Evan, that’s preposterous.”

“Evan Take Two?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Baby Do-over?”

Bingo. She’s ticked.

“It is nearly three o’clock in the morning, and you have no right barging in here to accuse me.” Standing by the bedroom door like a hostile Walmart greeter, she waits for me to leave. When I don’t, she sighs. “I am not having this conversation.”

I sit on the edge of her bed and say, “Yeah. I think you are.”

“We didn’t raise you to be so disrespectful.”

I’ve had it. “What has being respectful ever done for me? Made me invisible? Easier to deceive?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you not get that it matters to me — that you and Dad lied to me all these years, never told me I had a brother? You called me JUNIOR for God’s sake!”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“How can you say that?”

Crossing to the bed, straightening the comforter, she sits beside me.

“We were just trying to protect you.”

“Well you did a pretty sucky job.”

“ENOUGH!”

That had to hurt. Can you fracture a tonsil? It takes a minute — and several labored swallows — before she continues.

“Okay, fine. We’ve failed you as parents. Where do we go from here?”

God, not the self-pity card. I roll my eyes.

“I asked you a question, Evan.”

“What, ‘Where do we go from here?’ Well, I guess my answer is back to bed. Talking to you is pointless.”

I’m halfway down the hall when she calls out. There’s a quality to her voice I recognize immediately. It’s how she used to sound when I was little and got too close to the stove, the curb, the stranger. Panic.

Peering into her room, I expect to find her still on the bed. She’s not; for an anxious moment, I’m stumped. Is this a joke? An ambush? Is she lurking under the bed like a Boogeymom?

The closet light’s on. I find her inside, perched on the stepladder at the back. As she climbs down, I see the photo album pressed to her chest.

“Want to see?”

In that instant, she’s a seven-year-old offering her art project. Her whole face trembles as she approaches, like her features are going through a random shuffling. The album’s thin — about half as thick as the phone book — but the way she carries it suggests significant weight. I take it. In that moment of transfer, her face settles into a single expression. It looks like gratitude.

She emerges from closet shadow, and the illusion implodes; she goes from grammar school to geriatric. Instinctively taking her arm, I lead her to the bed. We sit side by side, neither of us daring to speak or look at the album between us.

Finally, as headlights span the bedroom wall, she lifts memory’s cover and — careful not to look inside just yet — she speaks. “They weren’t bad people, Evan. Just ill-equipped.” She sighs. “It’s taken a lifetime to understand.”

“Who, Mom?”

“My mother and father. They were supremely unsuited for parenthood.”

“Oh.”

“Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I mean, I’m sure you think your dad and I have ruined your life, and here I am about to tell you how my parents ruined mine.” She laughs, looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

“No, it’s okay. Maybe you need to.”

“Maybe I do.” She brushes her hair back, and I notice how bare her hand looks without the ring. “It was a sad, brief ride being their child. They just never seemed interested, Ev. They gave me the basics: food, bed, great clothes. But the real basics, attention and affection, were in short supply. In kindergarten — I remember my parents laughed about the note — my teacher was alarmed to find my imaginary friend wasn’t interested in playing with me. Pathetic, huh?”

“Well … it is kind of … odd, I guess.”

“But it was what I’d been taught: Be quiet, keep occupied. Stay out of the way, because there was no room in their relationship for me.”

It seems really important to her that I understand this.

“My father never wanted a child; my mother was one. I have very few childhood photos, because they didn’t care to take any. But you could paper a room with their vacation snaps. Oh, I’d get an occasional postcard at school. Always ‘Having a nice time’ but never the rest.”

Realizing she’s squeezed my fingers blue, she gives me a shamed look, loosens her grip. “You know I was sixteen when their plane went down.”

“Yeah.” It was one of the few crumbs she’d ever offered about my missing grandparents.

“But what I never told you is,” her voice breaks, and she puckers into an odd smirk, “I was relieved.” She busts out crying.

“Mom, are you okay? Do you need something, a drink of water?”

She shakes her head. I grab the Kleenex from the nightstand, hold the box out to her, and wait. Finally, she snatches a handful and blots the clump to her face.

“I never thought I’d have a child. I was terrified of the idea. Sure I’d repeat their mistakes. That my child would hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Mom.”

“No?” She looks genuinely surprised.

Have I really acted like I do? “Of course not. But … sometimes.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Please, tell me.”

“You make it really hard to love you.”

“Oh, honey, you’re right. I guess I got so used to having people pull away I never quite wanted to give as much as I should. Does that make sense?”

“I think so.”

We sit quietly, looking just past each other, both afraid we’ve said too much. Afraid to promise we’ll do better. Not sure we could keep that one.

Finally, she clears her throat and, with colossal effort, hoists the album onto my lap. “This was your brother.”

I suppose I expect a mini-me, or a diapered version of Dad, but I see something else.

It’s one of those first-day hospital shots. The baby’s got the mandatory bead strand on his sausagey wrist, his hand raised in a wee gangsta salute. Eyes slightly crossed — chalky, unfocused slits, poked deep in massive cheeks — his head’s a vague cone shape, crested with strawberry fuzz. I can’t stop thinking guinea pig.

“He’s beautiful.”

Mom actually laughs. “You think? I was a bit shocked when I saw him. Clearly, it was a rough trip down the birth canal.”

When I blush, she says, “Sorry. I suppose you don’t want to hear about that.”

“Not really.”

“Turn the page. He gets better.”

I do; he does. I flip slowly, studying photos of Mom and Dad and Baby Evan. Their firstborn. Once his head settles into human shape, he’s sort of cute. There’s a shot of him curled on a blanket wearing this tiny Mickey Mouse shirt. And a first Halloween picture of him dressed as, what else, a pumpkin.

They have pictures of me at this age, too, frames full. Visualizing them now, I connect the dots between our dual babyhoods.

On the next page, there’s a shot of Dad holding him; the baby’s about a year old. I’m not sure why at first, but I feel almost dizzy looking at it. Then I realize it’s the take-one version of a picture on the living room mantel: Dad and me.

In both, my father stares into the camera, holding a year-old Evan. They wear the same sweatshirts. Dad’s says The Old Block; both babies wear a shirt that says Chip Off The Old Block. And in each, father and son wear matching Red Sox caps.

I’m a little angry, realizing they dressed me in dead Evan’s clothes. It just feels wrong. But that’s not what upsets me about the photo. It’s Dad’s expression. Unlike the version with me, in this one he looks happy.

His chin’s glued to the kid’s head, like he’d never put him down. Our shot’s different. Dad sort of bobbles me on his knee, like I’m wired with explosives. He doesn’t seem magnetized to me like he was to my brother. God, it’s peculiar thinking that — my brother — like I ever had one.

“Mom, tell me about him.”

From this mask of fear, she says, “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

She clears her throat and begins.

“We were kids, Ev. But your dad, there was something solemn, sort of a film over him. Even then. An emptiness in his eyes, sometimes. I think it was part of what first drew me in, fragility where you’d never expect it. I suppose I thought I could fill that void.”

As she takes my hand, a tiny static shock makes her pull away. She slides over to her side of the bed, and I swing my feet up, leaning back against Dad’s pillow.

“We met junior year at college. I was in the basement laundry when these legs appeared. He’d locked himself out, was trying to squeeze through the tilt window. Well, he got halfway in when it just sort of gave. There was this huge POP as plate glass smashed to the floor. Scared the life out of me — I nearly maced him. But his dopey grin won me over. We were squatting, gathering shards, when I noticed this big sliver stuck right in his butt cheek. I didn’t think twice, just yanked it out and — oh my Lord — the blood! So, our first date was to the infirmary. He made me go with him to keep pressure on the wound. After that, we were a couple.”

Pausing, she reaches for the glass on the nightstand. As she lifts it to her mouth, I catch the sour scent of leftover wine.

“The following October we learned I was pregnant, and … this is hard. I wanted an abortion. I was just so scared. But your father, it was his finest hour. He said we weren’t just two people anymore, that I’d never be without a family, ever again.”

“And so, we agreed to be together, the three of us, whatever life brought. And, God, that made me brave! We moved in together — your gran loved that. Set up house, finished school, and graduation robes make everyone look pregnant anyway. And when the baby came, well, suddenly that film, it lifted. Your father was a shaft of light. When I said I wanted to name our son after him, he cried and cried. I got scared, Ev, he cried so hard. And you know what he said? He said he was crying because God had given him a second chance. He said this new Evan Frederick Galloway would erase all the smudges from the first Evan.

“God, that first year was like a dream. We lived in this tiny apartment above Jade Palace. Everything smelled of fried rice. I was teaching night classes at the Continuing Ed Center, your dad was freelancing, and your brother,” her voice cracks, “your brother was like a fourteen-month-old fireball. God, that little acrobat!

“One night, in the middle of an English as a Second Language class, your grandfather appeared at the door. He was gray. I knew, Evan. I knew right then. I didn’t say a word to the class, not that they’d have understood. I just ran, left my purse in the desk drawer, and ran.”

She goes silent, closes her eyes. I wait a minute to ask, “What did he say?”

“Your gramp’s a good man, Evan, but not much of a communicator. He drove me to the hospital without a word.”

“When I walked in, your father … he was like a ghost. He wouldn’t look at me. Just kept saying, ‘I sang to him, Kat. That song he likes.’ ”

Closing her eyes, she starts to sing, a tear slipping down each cheek.

Voice trailing, she opens her eyes. Sighing, more of a shudder really, she blows her nose into the wadded tissues and prepares to go on. I want to stop her, go back to my room, pull the covers over my head, pretend we never started. But I can see it in her expression: she needs to tell the rest.

“Your father’d fallen asleep at his drawing board. He was working on a cover illustration. It was a huge break; he had a killer deadline. He’d just dozed off, you know? And the baby, he got hold of the curtains. It’s absurd. They warn you everywhere nowadays: ‘Don’t put the crib near the window.’ But we were stupid, and young. Mostly just young, I’m afraid. And our baby, our boy … your father found him with the cord twisted around his neck.

“He lived for three days before we took him off all those damn machines. There was no brain activity, so. We said goodbye. Or I did. Your father, he just kept singing that awful song.”

Before I can say a word, she’s off the bed, album in hand, heading for the closet. Still facing into it, she says, “Evan, your father and I did love each other. And we had our happy times, but at the heart of it, I’d say our relationship was based on grief. That seems like a powerful bond, but in the end, it just didn’t make for a marriage.”

Then she’s done, and I think I understand, just a little, what it’s been like for her. To have lost them both. To be terrified I’ll be the next Evan to go.

And for a second, I know why Dad did it. Not just because the baby died, or because of Father Fran, or their marriage disintegrating, but because —

“Evan, are you okay?”