by Lisa Acerbo
I decide this is an extra-large coffee and two-donut morning. I step to the counter and order, afraid of the imaginary monster behind me. A little sad and perplexed by my overactive imagination, I leave, balancing donuts and coffee while trying unsuccessfully to not step on the laces of my sneaker, which has come untied.
In what seems like a movie moment outside the shop, Brice reappears. The sun opens her arms from behind a few wispy clouds, the pavement sparkles, and diesel fumes from a truck perfume the nearby air.
“Hi, remember me?” Brice says.
I’m unimpressed by his originality. I shiver even though the May sun shines on me. I put my hand, even though it’s holding a donut bag, above my eyes to shield them from the sun or him, or both.
“Of course, I do.” As I stare at him, I became aware of the fact that I’m in the process of a mental meltdown. I can’t remember anything. Brice, Brice, Brice. I repeat his name in my head.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Good,” I say, unable to enhance the tenor of the brilliant conversation.
I squint into the bright light, and Brice glows as if he was a sign from God. His shining presence jogging my memory of how I rolled out of bed and into the car this morning with no make-up, no hair product, wearing a baggy, marginally clean T-shirt off the floor, no bra. My day is starting off super special. “You look the same,” he says.
“Thanks.” I laugh to myself, noting this conversation is anything but a stimulating crescendo. Did we really talk in the past? Did we sit at work together and laugh through our coffee break? Could the two of us, who were having a hard time forming sentences, actually have had a discussion with one another?
Maybe it’s the fact that Brice still does an excellent job making me nervous, or maybe I still have feelings for this man. Is that possible after what he did? My grip tightens around the crunchy donut bag. I edge my way over to my rather unkempt Matrix.
“The car fits you,” Brice says as I struggle to balance the coffee and donuts on the roof before searching for the key. Does he mean the unwashed car, the nondescript silver color, or is having a Toyota significant?
I dig into my shorts’ pocket for the keys, unlock the door, and throw the donuts and coffee on the seat. My ring snags on some loose thread on my shorts, and I began twirling it around and around on my finger in an attempt to remove the lint that had settled there. I use it as an excuse to glance away.
But the ring reminds me that he must have one, too. A gold band now circles his finger.
“You’re married now?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Yes,” he says.
I twist away again, glancing into the car to make sure my coffee hasn’t spilled. I notice the mess in my back seat. Ever since getting my new job, there has been less time to stay organized, and I have started leaving changes of clothes, bras, and panties in the car.
Please don’t let him glance inside, I silently plead. I double my prayers. Dear God, I promise to go to church Sunday if he doesn’t peek at my personals.
My grandma undies and other unmentionables have managed to creep out of the bag and strategically place themselves in clear position of the back windows. I wish I owned more thongs.
Not at all unexpected, Brice leans in, squinting into the interior. I block his view, inhaling the scent of soap and…him. He is still intoxicating.
“What are you up to these days?” I ask even though I don’t want the answer.
“Same old stuff at the shop. Mr. and Mrs. McLaughlin miss you.”
“They were a nice old couple,” I say, but focus on the relative closeness of his body. I remind myself what he did. “I have to go,” I say.
“I miss you.” Brice grabs a piece of paper and pen from his pocket. “Email me,” he begs, hands shaking as he jots down his email address. More than anything else that fateful morning, his shaking hands tell me enough. He leans in to give me a warm hug before getting in his car and driving away without getting any coffee.
Maybe just maybe, I will email. Then my self-respect fires up, burning me with well-deserved disgust at his continuing unfaithful ways. The paper in my hand is as heavy as betrayal, and I realize I won’t ever get in touch. I deserve better. The paper crunches as I ball it up and throw it on the ground.
#done
* * * *
Bodies fill every seat in the bleachers at graduation. I march inside the large, domed pavilion but can’t find anyone in the crowd. That’s to be expected with the families of more than one thousand agriculture, health, and natural resource students making up the crowd. My palms are moist, my graduation gown heavy, and the rows and rows of bodies cause me to sweat even when the evening breeze arrives.
I fix my honors cords around my neck, making sure they’re aligned. I straighten my crooked hat, but it slowly slides down my forehead again. I wish I had more pins.
I zone out to the speakers. President of the University, Vice-President, department heads, and guest speakers all have something important to say. The guest speakers are two gay guys who run a fashion company but live on a farm. I wonder how they are relevant. Up, down, up, down, my jiggling leg refuses to quiet. And then the moment arrives. The department chairs start calling names. I listen for Tanya, who comes before me. Kyle graduated with his engineering degree; his ceremony ended at one-thirty.
“Danielle Rossi.”
I stand and wobble. I’m afraid of tripping, even though I’m wearing black flats. The walk from my chair takes a decade, maybe more. Professor Kaufmann smiles at me, his hat slightly crooked as well, and I’m better. He shakes my hands, and I’m passed forward to other faculty leaders who do the same. I grab the diploma holder and hang on to the cardboard square as if it is life-saving medicine. I step on a big piece of tape that marks our spot, and the photographer snaps my picture.
I don’t stumble. The bright flash leaves sparks in my eyes as I follow the line back to my seat.
Even though the announcer has to finish the rest of the alphabet, the ceremony is over for me. And I’ve promised my father coffee before I meet my mom, Bob, and grandparents for dinner.
After the last name is called and the applause dies away, I unzip my robe, pluck off my cap, and set out to find Antonio.
I am meeting my dad after the ceremony at Java Jam. I get there first even though I stop at my apartment to drop off my robe. In an hour, I’ll meet the rest of the family at Mario’s for dinner.
I order for him. He always orders coffee, no matter where we go. At Dunkin Donut’s, it might be the obvious choice, but there are other options when we go to dinner at the diner, Friendly’s, or out for pizza. While his meals vary with the venues, coffee is his only constant companion. His coffee always contains a drop of milk, never cream, never sugar. Dark and bitter, he prefers the diner’s brew from industrial-size pots, heated and reheated, tasting scorched. I’m obsessing about the trivial but can’t let it go. It’s like the part of his dysfunctional life, he’s unable to release. I just graduated and should be focused on that, but until I get through this hour, my time is all about managing my father.
“Enough,” I say to myself, and just in time.
The door opens, and he enters. He’s wearing a gray suit with a dark blue tie. The suit must be old, but he is presentable. I hope this is a positive sign. Maybe this will be an easy hour after all.
In his hand, is a wrapped package. He joins me at the small two-top table where his coffee and my Chai latte wait.
“How is your mother?” he asks. “I didn’t see her or any of the family at the ceremony.”
No preamble. No congratulations.
“The crowd was pretty big. She’s fine. I’m meeting them later.” I’m reluctant to share any news or details. He does, after all, have a restraining order against her, yet acts like nothing is wrong between them.
He twirls the spoon in the coffee, letting the silverware drop on the napkin, leaving brown stains. “Nice ceremony. You done good.” He hands me a gift.
“For your new job.” He is gruff. He stares into his coffee.
“I’ll wear it on Monday.” I inch the box to the side of the small table and fold the wrinkled wrapping paper in a neat square. I place that under the box so everything is neat and aligned.
“It’s your mom’s fault that I’m losing the house. After her payout, I can’t afford the mortgage. I love that house. It’s where you and Katie grew up,” he says.
I can’t believe he would start in today of all days, especially after all the conversations where I told him it would be too much. He’d have been much smarter to sell it and buy something smaller. “Dad, leave it.”
“Damn all the meddling.” He squints into his half-drunk cup of coffee like the answers live at the bottom.
I wonder if anyone is staring at us, but I’m afraid to find out. I’m tired of being his sounding board, of hearing about his broken past. It wasn’t my fault. I’ve had enough.
“I think we’re done here, if you have to keep talking about the past.” I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth. I stare at him, and he is first to look away.
We talk about the weather and the college sports teams. The minutes tick by slowly, like the drip of rain off the gutters after a storm. Somehow, I make it through. We part ways with a quick, awkward hug, and I’m off to meet Mom, Bob, and my grandparents for dinner.
#reallydone
* * * *
Graduation fades as quickly as the sunset. I’m stressed by the fact that I need to leave my college apartment on campus in less than a week and not sure what to do. I can’t go home because commuting to my job would be impossible. I’m in my room, packing, boxing clothes up, throwing out old class notes, and worrying about my immediate future as an independent person. As always, it’s Kyle who comes to the rescue.
“I’m getting a really nice rental condo in West Haven. Come visit the complex. I’m sure there’re other rentals,” he says.
“How do you do it? Make everything look easy?” I ask.
“Don’t you know I’m Superman? I’ll even help you move when you are ready.”
I hold him to that promise.
#ilovesuperman
* * * *
I sign the lease, Kyle and Tanya help me pack and unpack, and I invite my mom to my new rental even though most of my stuff still lives in boxes. It had to be done. Her visit, I mean.
Snuggles winds around her feet as she examines the main rooms, opening the drawers in the kitchen, making sure the fridge and stove work, surveying the pantry. She walks into the living room. I sink down on the second-hand couch while she studies the space.
“This is it. This is where you’re living from now on.” She continues to scan everywhere but me.
The answer to that statement is obvious, but I’m determined to act mature, I let go of my previous sarcastic attitude. I meet her eyes, grabbing her attention before speaking.
“I like it. Kyle helped me find it. He lives in the next building.”
One apartment over, someone plays classic rock music a little too loudly, and my mother eyes the front door. She marches over, and I wonder if she plans to open it and yell into the adjoining hallway. Instead, she makes sure all three locks work properly.
She faces me. “Want me help you get organized?”
“No, I’m good.” I plan to do it myself and make this place my own. I’m truly an adult now. Graduated, holding down a full-time job, supporting myself, and doing well.
I shiver a little with nerves, realizing it’s time for the talk. I wait for the right moment. The words in my brain don’t want to form in my mouth, but I force them forth. “I don’t think you need to have a key to my new place. I can do this. I’m doing really well now.” I stare down at my knees, pale through the large, tattered holes in my distressed jeans.
When I sneak a peek at my mom’s face, confusion and sadness fight for dominance. In the past, she had open access to my life. She had keys to my apartments since I started college. With a few words, I take away her ties to my life. Everything feels like it could change for us with this conversation, but maybe that is a good thing. I don’t need her as a safety net anymore.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Now that the first words are out, the rest tumble forth. “It’s a good thing for me to become more independent. I have a job that I travel for, my new condo, and I haven’t had any serious breakdowns in a long time.”
“But what if you need me?”
She’s holding it together but not by much. This is important, but I don’t want to say anything that could set her off. Tears or anger might weaken my resolve.
“I’ll always need you,” I reassure her, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little privacy and independence, too.”
“How will I help you if you’re inside and I’m out? What if I need to get inside for an emergency? What if you want me to feed Snuggles when you are away?”
I can see letting go is hard for her. “How about a compromise? We’ll find a place to keep a spare key, but let’s make it a spare key, not your key.” I can always relocate it if needed.
“I don’t like this.” She stands tall, and I wait for the mom speech that is coming my way.
I start to relent, but then consider how far I’ve come the last year, especially with the new job I never dreamed I could handle. It requires travel and talking, lots of talking, but I’m a pretty damn good meeting planner even if I hate working with Maddie. I don’t let her stop me. Her attitude doesn’t faze me anymore.
“I love you, Mom, and I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but it’s time I start taking control of my life. There will always be a key waiting for you under the mat by the front door, but…”
She cuts me off. “Every crazy person and intruder will look under the mat for the key!”
“Fine. We’ll find a good hiding place for the key.” She drags a long sigh from me. “I just mean that you’ll always be welcome here, but I want to be independent, really independent.” I hope I can impress upon her how important this is. “I know I can always depend on you, but if I keep falling back into old habits and relying on you too much, I’ll never change or grow. I need to stand strong, alone. I relied on Tanya, on you, on Kyle. Now I need to handle life myself. It’s the only way I will change. And I want that. I want, more than anything, to be normal and whole.”
“Wise words from someone so young.” Her eyes water. She drifts toward me, arms open.
I hug my mom, surprised by the tears in her eyes. She had always been the strong one, the one able to pick me up. Lately, she wants to pick me up even when I don’t need it. I wonder if I’m becoming a crutch for her. Maybe she needs a new hobby? Another dog? I hope things are all right between her and Bob.
“Are we okay?” I ask.
“Absolutely. I’m proud of you. And you’re always welcome to come home and do your laundry like you did at college.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Mom, but we have a laundry room here.”
“But it could get expensive.”
I cave. “I will come home with my dirty laundry, sometimes. I promise.” I hear a knock on the front door. “I’m not sure who that could be,” I say as I answer it.
I crack the door, and Kyle pokes his head through. He waves at my mom.
“Hi, Norma. I saw your car and thought I’d pop in.”
She smiles brightly. “I’m so happy you did. I’m thankful you’ll be around for my Sweetie.”
“Always.” Kyle mouths the word “Sweetie” when my mom inspects the counter tops for the fourth time before riffling through my few, less than impressive kitchen utensils.
I shrug. It could be worse. If she doesn’t like what she sees, I’m sure we can fix that with a few shopping trips. Maybe that can be her new role, helping me get all the things this new life needs. W
ho knows, it could be fun.
“We’ll never get the kitchen ready tonight.” She faces Kyle. “Want to join us for dinner?”
He stares, silently asking for permission.
“Why not,” I say.
I end up being thankful for Kyle’s presence at dinner. He skillfully takes my mom’s mind off not having a key with his funny stories about his new, very demanding, type-A personality boss.
It’s good. Everything is.
For the first time, ever, I am really happy.
#allgood
Chapter 11
June 2
You never appreciate what you have until it’s gone. Most people spend their entire childhood yearning to grow up, yet once grown, they consider how nice it would be to spend the entire day without responsibilities, riding a bike throughout the neighborhoods, no worries.
* * * *
I’m working full-time, and it’s hell. Alan, Mina, and Garry spend Tuesday poring over the report I wrote Monday because Maddie was absent after another site visit. They email her and phone with questions and comments, having her clarify certain items before rewriting many pages to be sent off to the client.
But, in the end, Alan is happy, and I’ve avoided one of his notorious fits of hysteria, a nice change from drama queen Maddie. The client will visit our offices on Wednesday, but only Geany’s presence is requested, and I’m thankful. It is close to five, and I’m packing up to go home, when Alan hauls the team into a meeting that lasts well into the evening.
I spend most of the time worrying that Snuggles might be upset about missing her dinner and if Mina and Garry plan to postpone their happy hour rendezvous. After two hours, the take away is seven new physician meetings in twelve weeks.
