by Lori L. Otto
“No third chance. I have my dignity.”
“Good girl.” I pat her forearm lightly, smiling warmly. Her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.
After we have a drink, I offer to walk Emi home. Her apartment is a few blocks southeast of mine, so it’s practically on my way home. I don’t want her out alone this late at night, anyway. She decides to just get a cab instead. When the taxi pulls up, I hand him a twenty and give him her address. She rolls her eyes at me as I open the door for her, but doesn’t argue. She knows there’s no point.
“You don’t want to split the cab?” she asks.
“No, I feel like walking. Like ya, Em,” I tell her, closing the door.
“Like you, too,” she sings to me her usual response.
Chapter 3
Chapter Three
I’ve just stepped out of the shower when I hear my mother’s familiar knock on my front door. I hurry to find some clean jeans and throw them on, buttoning them up as I welcome Mom into the apartment.
“I’m not too early, am I?” she asks, holding her arms out to me for a hug. I embrace her and kiss her on the cheek, shaking my head at her as I pull back and smile.
“You look nice, Mom.” She had chosen a slimming black dress with a plunging neckline. The diamonds my father had given to her on their first anniversary are polished and seem overly showy today. Her hair is newly-bleached, her make-up perfectly applied.
My mom is stereotypically beautiful. She was the perfect trophy-wife for my father. It wasn’t until after he was gone that she truly came into her own, and I’m proud of all she has accomplished.
“You look… wet,” she jokes.
“Yeah, sorry. Just a second. Let me grab a towel. Have a seat.” She perches on the arm of the sofa as I towel-dry my hair.
“You didn’t just get up, did you?” she questions me. “It’s after one.”
“It’s a new years resolution to sleep in, Mom,” I explain with a sheepish grin. “You always encourage me to keep my resolutions.”
“Maybe that’s not such a good one to make, sweetheart. The day’s half over!”
“Nah. I’ll be up late.” She smiles, knowing there’s no use in arguing. She walks over to my closet and pulls out a blue button-down shirt and a sports coat, holding them up to me.
“These are nice,” she says, although I know she’s not making an idle comment. It’s a suggestion.
I sigh, resigned. “You’re taking me to one of your fancy hang-outs today, huh?”
“It is a special occasion, Nathan.” I nod and take the clothes from her, laying them on the bed as I find an undershirt. She sits back down on the sofa. “Cipriani, is that okay? They’re holding our table.”
“Of course it’s fine,” I tell her. “Whatever makes you happy, Mom.”
“Just getting you to spend this afternoon with me makes me happy. You know that.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” I pull the jacket over the shirt and run my fingers through my damp hair one last time. “You ready?”
“Ready,” she smiles, standing and hugging me once more. She pulls my shirt collar out from under the jacket. “The car’s waiting downstairs.” Mom never learned to drive and was chauffeured around by her driver or her current husband most of the time. She would take taxis in emergency situations only, but I never knew her to take the subway. On days like today, that was a good thing. I knew she’d be the target of a mugging, never one afraid to show her wealth.
On my way out, I whisper a message in my doorman’s ear. “If Laney stops buy, can you get her number?”
“Which one is she?”
I roll my eyes at him in frustration. “Current girlfriend.” Maybe not. Maybe I should have said the last girl I had over who isn’t Emi. He knows, though, and nods his head.
“Have a nice afternoon, Mrs. Schraeder. Nate.”
“Thanks, Marcus,” we say in unison. Mom and I climb into the back of the town car. I drum out a beat on my knees to a song that had been in my head until my mom puts her hand over mine to stop me. It was a nervous habit that she hated, always preferring conversation to me being silent, “lost in my own head,” as she would put it.
“Sorry. How was your New Year’s?” I ask her.
“James and I had a nice night. We stayed in.” She tells me the details of their low-key evening at home as we make our way toward the restaurant.
My mother and step-father– although I never really thought of him as such– never went out on New Year’s Eve. I could understand my mother not wanting to go out, but James was closer in age to me than he was to my mom, and I never could understand why he didn’t like being out on the town celebrating. Before they married– in fact, before they even met– I would cross paths with him often at some of the A-list clubs in town. He’s nine years older than me… a nice enough guy, and I know they’re in love, no matter how unconventional their relationship is. He’s very different from my father. I knew she chose him for that reason. It wasn’t that she didn’t like my father… being reminded of him would just be too painful for her.
“How was your New Year’s Eve?” Mom asks me once we are seated at our regular table.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing the corners of my lips to turn up. She glares at me.
“Sweetie, what happened?”
“It’s nothing, Mom. Just a stupid fight.”
“With Emi?” she asks. I scoff at her assumption. Mom thought of Emi as the daughter she never had. In her mind, there was no Nate without Emi, and no Emi without Nate. She was right, of course. I feel the same way…
“No, with Laney… ”
“Oh, of course.” My mother corrects her posture. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sure it will be,” I assure her with as much confidence as I can feign. “She drank too much and started being really unreasonable. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Of course it’s more than nothing, but I don’t really enjoy discussing my failed relationships with my mother anymore. The conversation had begun to bore me, and I could read on her face that she never really took any of my girlfriends seriously. She had other ideas.
“Mrs. Schraeder? Nate? It’s nice to see you both here today,” the manager greets us at our table. My mother holds her hand out to him.
“Giovanni, thank you for saving our seat. Call me Donna, please, I tell you that every time.”
“Of course, Donna. My apologies.” He smiles humbly. “Sparkling water?”
“Yes,” we both answer. An attractive, blonde waitress delivers our drinks less than a minute later. We place our regular orders with her, as well, and my eyes follow her, study her, as she walks away.
“She’s new,” Mom comments, getting my attention. I ignore her observation, hoping she didn’t notice me staring but sure that she did.
“How are you holding up today, Mom?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I’m okay, sweetheart.” She places her hand on mine. “You?”
“I’m good.” I don’t necessarily need these get-togethers anymore. I’ve remembered my father in my own ways enough over the years, but I do it for my mother. Celebrating my father at this time of the year is more important than any birthday or holiday to her.
“Your father would have loved this weather today,” she starts. “It was just like this on our wedding day.”
My parents got married on New Year’s Day, twenty-nine years ago. I was born the following November. Growing up, we had celebrated their anniversary as a family every year until he passed. Since then, my mom and I make it a point to have a day together to honor him at the beginning of every year.
“I was going through the attic the other day, and I ran across that painting you had done of you and him.” I frown a little, remembering the artwork I had created from a still photo of my father and me. I hadn’t seen it since about a week after we buried him. My mother’s parents helped her put away many mementos of him because she couldn’t bear the pain it caused her to see them every day.
“I r
emember that one. Did you bring it down?”
“No,” she says quietly. “It still made me cry.”
“Good,” I tell her. That painting is too personal to me. Most portraits I have done are. Those aren’t the paintings I display at gallery shows or even in my apartment. My public style is abstract. I’ve hidden away the portraits, choosing to keep those for me and only me. I know I have an eye for portraiture that most artists dream of having… and I know I would be more “successful” as an artist if I decided to go that route, but it’s sharing too much of myself.
“It is so beautiful, though, Nathan. Your father loved you so much.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I squeeze her hand.
I loved him, too. He could do no wrong in my eyes, even though he apparently had one major flaw. A fatal one, as it turned out.
My mother and father met through my maternal grandfather. Dad was a successful business man, working for my grandpa. He was intelligent, dedicated and focused, and worked his way up through the company quickly. Grandpa always said he saw himself in my father, so on the day he turned 55, he handed over the company to Dad, turning him into the youngest executive the company had ever had at twenty-eight.
Wow. My dad was my age when he began running his own company… and when he met my mother. He had accomplished so much already in his life. I reflect inwardly on what I’ve done with mine. A fledgling art career. Fleeting romances. Too much idle time on my hands. I wonder what my dad’s expectations would have been of me, had he lived to see me become an adult. I wonder if I would be a let down to him, or if he would have accepted the man I’ve become as my mother has.
Shortly after dad took over, he met my mother. She was only eighteen, a recent high-school graduate who always dreamed of the perfect nuclear family. She wanted a successful husband, two or three children she could raise at home, a nice house… a picket fence… my mom was a dreamer, an idealist. She knew what she wanted and she knew she’d attain it.
Her father encouraged her to apply for a position as a personal secretary for dad, trying to teach his daughter to have a little independence. Begrudgingly, she applied for the job. The interview turned into a romantic dinner, and it was apparently love-at-first-sight. My grandfather couldn’t have been happier for his daughter and his protégé. He knew Mom would be in good hands, all her dreams realized. She never worked a single day while my father was alive.
My parents married six months later. Dad swept her off her feet and she had the wedding that every girl dreams of. “That was the most magical day of my life,” my mom remembers fondly. She always says that no other day could ever compare to the day that she married my father.
Mom got pregnant quickly, but complications arose, and it turned out I would be the only child she would ever have. My father was delighted to have a son, and instead of being sad about her inability to have additional kids, she focused all of her attention on giving me the perfect life. I was their gift, their little miracle. They lavished me with their love and anything I ever asked for. And my mom spent all of her time with me. I never went without, but I also never took anything for granted. My dad taught me early on that hard work brought us the fortunate life we had. I knew the consequences of all the things we had, too: he sacrificed his time to make sure Mom and I never went without anything. From the outside, we did look like the perfect family.
In her eyes, no man would ever compare to him. She had told me that many times over the years. She loved him deeply. His tragic death nearly destroyed her. He had become her life.
This tragic death was caused by his secret life. Well, it was a secret from me. All those late nights in his private study, or away at the office… I just assumed he was that busy. I accepted it; after all, I had no idea it should be any other way. Except for that one day– the day he died– I only have happy memories of my father. After his busy workweek, he reserved the weekends for me and Mom. Every Saturday morning, my mother would wake up early and fix breakfast for us. Cereal was a bad word on weekends. It was always eggs made to order, a choice of either pancakes, Belgium waffles or toast, and a big glass of milk or orange juice. Dad would also have bacon or sausage, but I couldn’t stomach either. I still remember the graphic news report on slaughterhouses that stayed imprinted in my mind. I was only five when I saw it, but I never ate meat again after that. There was never any argument. My parents let me be me, all my life.
On those lazy, quiet Saturdays, Dad would consume insane amounts of coffee. Even today, when the aroma of a rich roasted brew hits my nose, images of my father play in my mind. It’s bittersweet. I kept thinking that the memories would fade over time with such a common smell, but they never did. I smile to myself at the thought.
“I remember how I would serve you two in bed while you watched cartoons for hours,” my mom says. “I loved to see him revel in the joys of your childhood those mornings. He was such a professional most of the time, but with you… he would hold you in his arms and not laugh at the television program, but at your reaction to the shows. It didn’t matter how bad his headache was, he would suffer through anything for you. I loved that about him.”
“How bad his hangover was,” I correct her with a wistful smile. She looks away from me briefly, but nods. Even to this day, she doesn’t like to admit what he was.
An alcoholic. He was an alcoholic. I never would have believed it until his actions could hide the fact no longer.
“What was your favorite thing to do with Dad on Saturday afternoons?” she asks, focusing once more on the positive aspects of his life.
I ponder all the choices. Every Saturday afternoon, it was just the two of us. Mom would go out with her friends and Dad and I would find various ways to entertain ourselves. In the summer, we’d go swimming in a large pool he had built in our backyard. We were the only people in the neighborhood with a pool. You would think this would have attracted children from all over, but even as a young boy, I was more entertained by my own active imagination. I never really had any real friends until Emi came along in high school.
In the winter, we’d go sledding. On particularly mild days, we’d go for long bike rides. We visited zoos all over the east coast. My dad thought I might be a veterinarian when I grew up. I never really shared with him my artistic endeavors. It wasn’t that he didn’t care… but drawing and painting were things I enjoyed doing alone, and when my dad made time for me, I wanted to make every second count. I’m glad I spent those Saturdays with him. In the evenings, after a full day together, Dad would retire to his study and I would retreat to my art room. While he “worked,” I committed to paper or canvas the memories and feelings of those days in abstract brush strokes and vivid colors.
For a second, I forget my mother had asked me a question.
“My favorite days were when we would feed the ducks and geese at Central Park.” From my apartment window, I can see the area where the birds would nip at our feet as they volleyed for bread. I would have paid three times as much for my loft for that view. In those moments together, my dad and I talked about so many things. I was still a child, but he showed me his vulnerable, emotional side. He showed it to no one else, not even Mom. Those afternoons that we shared validated me later in life, and made me more confident in the man that I have grown up to be. I pity those men who feel that having real emotions is a weakness. To me, it makes us all more human.
“And then, on Sundays,” my mom cuts in, “well, those were my favorite days. I knew it was important for you two to have your time together on Saturdays, but I loved Sundays the best. I loved getting dressed up and going to church, and then brunch after… ” Her eyes begin to tear up and we clasp each other’s hands tightly. After brunch, we would sometimes go see movies or go shopping as a family. Other days we’d go for long walks or fly a kite in the park. If the weather wasn’t good, we would go to museums.
“I loved it when it rained,” I tell her.
“For the museums,” she responds with a smile. “You loved the art muse
ums.”
“Still do.” I smile fully, grateful that I had parents who introduced me to culture and encouraged my interests.
The vast majority of my memories of Dad come from those weekends. It was almost as if he didn’t exist in my world during the week. It was my mother who would help me with my homework in the evenings. Our housekeeper cooked meals for the two of us. I didn’t miss my father during the week, though. With such a sheltered childhood, I assumed all families operated in the same way.
One April night, when I was ten, I woke up to the sound of my mother screaming. I sat up and huddled in the corner of my bed, against the wall, my blankets pulled up to my chin. I cried, too afraid to get up until her wailing turned into quiet sobs. The phone rang a few times without being answered. My over-active imagination created all sorts of scenarios, each one more horrible to think about than the last. I never heard my father.
I couldn’t hear my father. That single thought is what eventually lured me from my bed. Why wasn’t my father answering the phone? Or helping her? Could he not hear that she was in pain, hurting, upset? I pulled myself together and decided I needed to help her. Not knowing what was waiting outside of my bedroom door, I picked up a baseball bat that had been given to me by one of my mother’s friends. It was the first time I had ever held the bat in my hands, having no interest whatsoever in sports. I gripped it tightly and cracked the door open until I could finally see my mother hunched over on the steps. I could still hear her crying, although it was obvious she was trying to keep her noises to a minimum.
I tiptoed to the top of the steps and watched her, my presence unbeknownst to her. She sat on the very last step with her head in her hands. She was still in her pajamas, her hair messy. I immediately knew something was wrong. No matter what time of day or night, my mother’s hair was always perfect, her make-up applied. She always wanted to look her best for Dad.
