You Cannot Mess This Up

by Amy Weinland Daughters

  These brief trips had essentially canceled out the longstanding rule that we weren’t supposed to talk about our feelings. Each year we talked more frankly, and even though we hadn’t quite reached the point where we could talk about everything, we were getting there.

  Clearing my throat to get their attention, I asked the question that had been ricocheting around in my head since my second flight, the one that brought me back to the land of the internet. “Do you ever think about what it was like when we were kids? Do you ever think about what you remember and what you don’t?”

  “What?” Kim asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well …” I continued. “Do you ever think about being a kid and wonder why we remember certain parts but not others?”

  “For me,” Rick said, “it’s when I see something, like an old picture, or like that time you guys bought me my old drum set for Christmas, then a memory comes back. Other than that, I don’t think about it much.”

  “I remember a lot of things,” Kim said, looking off into the distance through the huge picture window. “It was perfect, the way I remember it … We were so happy, we had the perfect childhood.”

  “Why do we each remember different things?” I asked. “Like you guys are always saying I made half the stuff up that I remember, but what if I just remember more of the details because of my personality?”

  “I do remember that you were a freak,” Kim said, laughing. We all agreed with that, it was true.

  “Memory is a powerful thing, but we don’t really have any control over it,” I continued.

  “We do choose what we focus on,” Rick said. “You can’t control the memory coming to mind, but you can decide whether it stays there.”

  “Hmmm …” I said, “You might be right about that. But sometimes it’s hard to kick stuff out, maybe because it needs to be dealt with, or maybe because we just get used to it being there. Maybe it’s our identity.”

  “Or maybe,” Kim cut in, “maybe we just think it is. Maybe we can, if we work really hard, flush that stuff out, the stuff that we don’t want and maybe, just maybe, who we really are is behind it.”

  “I guess the only way to do that,” I said, “is to consciously choose not to focus on the stuff you want out. You can’t just say ‘BE GONE’ and it goes. You have to actively choose not to let yourself think about it. To focus your mind and heart on other things.”

  Silence.

  “If you do that, are you also saying that everything that happened is OK?” I asked. “That everyone who ever did anything to cause any of your bad stuff is off the hook? Is it denial, acting like nothing ever happened?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kim said. “I think it just means you’re taking the power back from whoever hurt you and from whatever happened. Maybe it’s forgiveness …”

  “Or maybe,” I said, “it’s forgiveness and forgetness. Moving on simply because it’s the only thing left to do.”

  “I hope people forgive and forget some of the crap I’ve done,” Kim said.

  “You are so right,” I said. “Me too.”

  “That’s brave stuff,” Rick added. “It takes courage, and something much bigger, like love.”

  Silence.

  But this time I think we were all just thinking, not avoiding.

  “Why do each of us have such different memories?” I continued, not ready to drop it. “We all grew up in the same house, with the same people. And it affected us so differently.”

  Silence.

  “What is reality?” I continued, taking advantage of the fact they were still acting like they were listening. “If all of our perceptions are different, who decides what really happened? And does it really matter anyway?”

  “Well,” Kim said, “I guess we’re lucky we did it together, because that way we can talk about it.”

  “Or maybe …” Rick said. “Maybe we’ve all got different takes on it because reality is nothing more than what we want to be, what we need to be, for a single moment.”

  “Wow,” Kim pondered, “I’m not even sure what that means.”

  “Me either!” Rick laughed. “We should stay hydrated!”

  “Yeah!” I cut in. “We need a round of beers. That’s sensible.”

  “My doctor said to push the liquids!” he said. It was one of our running gags – making the consumption of alcoholic beverages seem medically necessary. It didn’t mean we were actually going to grab a six-pack on the way out. It just meant we were going to stop being philosophical.

  Dad and Ms. Finance returned to the room with a set of papers for each of us. Dutifully, we placed them in our Death Camp briefcases like Dad had told us to. We were lucky on a bunch of levels, but him having us prepared for what was inevitable was major.

  “Zip up your zippers, ladies,” Rick instructed. “And keep your satchels close.”

  “Yes!” Kim agreed. “Those complimentary calculators are going to come in handy when the time comes!”

  We could laugh about it, but we were as ready as people were going to be. Everybody’s parents died, but this was a big deal to us. Even if we were just another family among billions, we mattered, we mattered to us, and that was enough. It was like Mary said, every life mattered—it wasn’t insignificant just because nobody ever made a movie about it or put it in People magazine. It mattered because it was ours.

  Back down the cubicle-lined hallway and into the elevator, we were noisy, all talking at the same time and cracking bad joke after bad joke. I guess we were all relieved that this part of the day was over, the part with the meeting where we signed papers just in case Dad went nuts and tried to spend all his money growing grapevines for wine in his backyard, or raising flamingos, or whatever.

  It was his damn money, but still, he shouldn’t go out and do something ridiculous with it.

  “Sexual Relations,” Rick said, slowly and clearly as Dad struggled to hear or understand what we were all laughing about. “Kim had the sexualrelations with him down at the barn.”

  He was referring to a pretend liaison between Kim and a guy we all knew, someone who she wasn’t really going to do anything with, especially not in a metal barn that was falling down. We liked to make stuff up like that, either to annoy Dad or make our lives sound more exciting in case somebody in the lobby of Fidelity Investments was listening in.

  “Kids …” Dad said, shaking his head. “Get in the car, we’re going to lunch at the Chick-Fil-A …”

  “Well, I ‘spect she gone and done it, Daddy,” I added.

  “I ‘spect she has …” Rick said almost woefully, putting his boot up on the back bumper of the Highlander.

  “I ‘spect I did …” Kim added. “I ‘spect I gone and dishonored Daddy and our whole family with those sexual shenanigans. Well, friends,” she continued, almost tripping over her own feet, “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but, well, my womb …” she gasped, “my womb is a barren desert, in which his seed could find no purchase.”

  I had to admit, that was funny, damn funny, and remember funny wasn’t necessarily Kim’s gig, it was mine. She was pretty and knew what to wear under white Capri pants and how to get into a small boat with wedges on. I was hilarious, freaking hilarious. Though it had never seemed enough, the funny business, it was my deal. That didn’t mean she didn’t have her moments of comedic genius, she really did—like the time she wore her red rubber cardinal head late one night in San Antonio, lowering herself into the pool while perched on the handicap lift, screaming “I’m doing it, I’m doing it …” It took about four agonizing minutes for the chair to reach the water, but she worked it the whole painful way. It was hilarious, grade-A amusing and to top that off, she was wearing a bikini. At forty-five years old she had done it in a bikini, and looked fabulous. She was the best-figured middle-aged red bird any of us had ever seen.

  Who in the hell did she think she was?

  LOOKING down at my spicy Chick-Fil-A sandwich, waffle fries, and huge Diet Coke, I wasn’t so concerned
with calorie counts, ethical approaches to food service or even the past—I was hungry. The last time I had eaten was at Bonanza, and though that was really two days ahead of now, it was at least seven hours ago in stomach time. Time travel was a lot like flying to and from Europe—days were lost, meals were repeated and people needed to poop.

  Looking over at Dad, I wondered if he even remembered the meal at Bonanza, the day after Thanksgiving, when the cousin from Ohio banged on the faux-wood booth with a red candle globe, in the shadow of a dimly lit wagon wheel, emotionally stating what she was thankful for.

  Or did that even really happen?

  I looked at him, gnawing on his sandwich like the old man that he had suddenly become, examining it closely in between each bite. What was he looking for? And, more to the point, what did he know? Could he really be responsible for all my memories, specifically the way I remembered them?

  I decided not to ask, for now.

  Because today, not only did I know what I remembered as the ten year-old me, but I knew what I had seen as the forty-six-year-old me.

  For now, I had all the validation I would ever need. Anything else might mess it up even more.

  I wondered if that was also true for the parts of my life that I didn’t go back into time to see? Even those that were too horrible to share? Maybe I didn’t need validation after all. Maybe the memories were supposed to be both real and flawed, two distinctly opposing threads woven into a colorful fabric, as true as they were false and as common as they were unique.

  Maybe it wasn’t all about validation, or proof, or having some authority stamp his/her approval on my document of memory. Maybe it was about me accepting it, me validating it, and me moving on, and not moving on, but owning it and doing with it whatever I chose.

  It was my choice.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  RE VERA FACTUM EST ITA

  Back into the driveway of my parents’ house, Dad asked the three of us to get out before he pulled his car into the narrow spot in the garage. Once he wedged it in, nearly scraping the wall, we walked over to meet him, ascending the two steps up to the back door. Placed ominously to our left was a wheelchair ramp, installed per his specifications when they moved in, in preparation for another future day in our collective lives.

  I don’t believe that the three of us really took notice of that kind of thing, Mom and Dad’s herculean efforts to make sure our future lives were secure and relatively stress free, any more than the younger versions of us noticed how much raw energy and effort went into hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for ten people, some of whom you didn’t really like. I can only speak for myself, but I never seemed to fully appreciate what was going on around me, what others were doing to make my life easier. Instead, I liked to think about what I was doing, flogging myself day by day to ensure my people had bleached underwear, fresh vegetables and clean, sanitary hot-tub water.

  Following Dad inside the door we were greeted by Mom’s yapping Pekinese, Chuy Jalisco. Here was a dog who understood that he had landed in a house of old people who didn’t mind being put on his schedule. He refused to poop unless one of the elderlies, regardless of their condition, would walk him, at minimum, for thirty-seven minutes. He refused to eat his dinner unless one of my parents sat beside him in the living room, waiting however long it took until he decided to both start and finish the meal. He took naps on top of a $1,250 coffee table, the same one we weren’t allowed to put drinks on. And, to top it all off, he barked incessantly at whomever he chose—without ever being asked to stop. In the same way that the US Postal Service didn’t stop delivering because of hail, sleet or snow—Chuy J. didn’t stop barking because of sleeping babies, important phone conversations, or quiet family gatherings.

  “Did he poop, Dick?” was often a side conversation, inserted randomly, when talking on the phone to Mom. There was never any warning. She just blurted it out whenever Dad and “the boy” got back from their walk. “How many?” she would continue, again randomly cutting you off regardless of whether you were relaying mundane life details or announcing that you had just cured colon cancer. What followed next was the inevitable “How big?” to gauge the feces size and “Oh, he’s such a good guy, get the boy a cookie.”

  He never, ever ate table food, except every night when Dad would feed him from his own plate, doling out small, digestible morsels. It was as heartwarming as it was disconcerting. Again, it was their lives, not ours, not our place to comment, but was that damn dog really getting a better childhood than we’d had? And were we really comparing ourselves to that damn dog?

  Dodging Chuy, who was excited and mad all at the same time, we passed through the family and laundry rooms until we reached the big kitchen. Mom and Dad had bought the house, an architectural tribute to the ’70s, a couple of years before and had completely redone it. It was stunning, in line with Dad’s design vision combined mostly with Kim’s and, to a lesser degree, Rick’s redecoration skills. I was not involved much in this sort of thing, first because I lived so far away and secondly, I wasn’t advertised as “on the same page” with the others. I was asked, however, where the giant medieval sword from Spain should be hung. Even more satisfying than watching Dad use the area I so designated for the bulky weapon was Kim being highly offended by both the item and its placement.

  Who in the hell did I think I was?

  Mom was in the kitchen, pulling a Pyrex dish of bubbling spinach-and-artichoke dip out of the oven. She had already laid out a spread of two other homemade dips and three kinds of chips, but the hot stuff was her signature item. “Here you go, Kimber.” Mom motioned to Kim as she placed the dish down on a hot pad on the huge island. “I know you are probably hungry.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Mom,” Kim said, wasting no time in launching in. “The traffic was awful on 45 and I am starving.”

  Like Dad, Mom looked absolutely ancient, especially since I was gauging her age not from the last time I really saw her, in late June, just five short months ago, but in 1978 when she was forty-something.

  “Hi, Mom!” I greeted her, as she literally shuffled around the island.

  “Hi, Amy S.,” she said, embracing me warmly. “I can’t believe you are here for Thanksgiving,” she continued, smiling. “We’re so excited that the boys and Willie are coming too, that never happens.”

  “Yeah!” Kim shouted from over the dips, an array that included what looked like a buffalo chicken and a seven-layer Mexican with homemade guacamole. “It sucks when it’s just all the rest of us.”

  “We’re so excited too,” I said. It was heartwarming, the sucking without us and all. “They’ll all be here in the morning, I know they can’t wait.”

  “I’m so glad your dad’s meetings got pushed up,” Mom said. “Now we get more time with you.” Returning to the sink to wash the tomatoes for the salad she continued, “We’re having filets, they look good. Well, I guess we’ll eat them, someday, when your dad finally starts the grill.

  “DICK!” she screamed, causing Chuy J. to lurch violently. “YOU NEED TO GET THE DAMN COALS GOING IF WE’RE EVER GOING TO EAT!”

  “When are Rick’s people going to be here?” I asked.

  “Rick said they were on their way,” Kim replied, still grazing.

  Joining her at the buffet, I sampled the wares, which were all appealing. One bag of the chips was still icy cold, not long removed from the freezer where Mom also kept dead birds from the yard and dirty diapers, holding both items only briefly before the garbage man came at the end of the week. It all had to do with her being a sanitary czar, keeping things amazingly tidy and clean for someone pushing her late 70s.

  “Don’t spoil your dinner, Amy S.,” Mom warned as I dove into the buffalo dip.

  Kim just looked at me and smiled, almost winking. “Yeah, Amy, you better watch yourself.”

  Just then Rick’s people burst into the room, first little Clara, then Otto, then Fiona, then Estelle and then finally, Finn. The group was all part of the ten-and-under cr
owd, so it hadn’t just gotten exciting, it had gotten crazy—all due to my brother’s prolific personals, the Phallic Font of Grandchildren. I barely got a chance for a quick hug from everyone, including Finn who now and forever would be little Rick in my mind, before they realized that neither of their parents were in the room. Grasping this, they literally dove into the snacks, elbows and crumbs flying everywhere.

  Trying to distance myself, so I wouldn’t be culpable for anyone getting overserved, I edged near Mom by the sink. “How’s it going, Mom?” I asked as she stood hunched over the cutting board.

  “It’s going …” she answered, almost shouting over the noise. “Yes, I’d say it’s definitely going.”

  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but she looked different, almost altered, from the last time I had seen her. She had the same freshly coiffed hair, pressed Capri pants, and pretty blouse, so it wasn’t that. Watching her almost dangerously slice an avocado, I continued to look on in total silence, the state we both enjoyed most thoroughly.

  “Are you ready for Thanksgiving?” I asked. “It’s such a big job with us here and then, well, Christmas is right around the corner.”

  “Now why in the world do you have to go and bring up something stupid like that, right now?” she asked, stopping what she was doing to look me directly in the eye. “You know how stressed out I get.”

  “I know, Mom,” I repented, “I’m sorry, but it will be fun, and you have Jennifer and me to help you.”

  Continuing cutting, she nodded. “You’re right, you’re right … I know you’re right.” Placing the avocado into the salad, she cleaned the knife and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “You know I do miss you, Amy S.,” she stated, not like she had to, but like she wanted to. “And I’m glad you’re here, there is just so much, so much activity …”

  “I know, I get that, Mom,” I said. “But, you don’t have to do it all yourself. You have to let us help.”