The Wrong Family

by Tarryn Fisher

  “Okay, spill,” Vicky was saying. Winnie didn’t want to spill; she didn’t like when the tea was about her, but she’d forgotten Friendsgiving, and telling Vicky about Dakota would distract her from that.

  She launched into the story after an eager “Spare nothing!” from Vicky. Hosting the damn thing had seemed like a good idea a year ago. Now Nigel was going to resent her even more.

  By the time Winnie sat down at her desk, Vicky was in full advice mode. She half listened to Vicky’s story about her delinquent sister-in-law who always placed the blame on her brother Tommy when they fought. “...so really, Winnie, we don’t know the story, and Manda is probably overreacting.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said.

  During college, Vicky had a horrendous crush on Dakota, who was a freshman to her junior. She’d wanted to marry him “So we can be sisters!” When Dakota deflected her advances, Vicky had moved on to his roommate: Mack.

  Winnie held the phone between her shoulder and ear and typed her password into her computer. She was thinking about the joints in the back of her underwear drawer, the ones that Dakota had got for her. She wasn’t usually a weed smoker, but lately, she was so stressed she felt like she was losing her mind.

  “Have to go, V, I have a million things to do before tomorrow.”

  “Okay, text me the deets.”

  “Sure.” Winnie hated when Vicky said “deets.” She also hated that Vicky insisted on calling their gathering Friendsgiving just because Taylor Swift did it.

  After she hung up with Vicky, she called Nigel straightaway. When he picked up, it felt like a great fist had grabbed her stomach and squeezed.

  “Are you serious, Winnie? We just moved Dakota in. No.”

  “Nigel, they planned their trips to visit family around this. We’ve literally had these plans for a year. We can’t just cancel on them!”

  “We can, because things happen. They’ll get over it.”

  “I can’t believe you’re being so dismissive about this.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke again.

  “Okay...okay.”

  Winnie felt the hands loosen on her stomach a little. “Okay...?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to fight about it. Just okay.”

  * * *

  Nigel was in a surprisingly good mood on the day of Friendsgiving. She was suspicious; was he holding back his irritation? Winnie had to remind herself that she was being negative with no real basis for that feeling. When she needed supplies from the store he volunteered to go: “What my baby wants, my baby gets!” he called on his way out the door.

  His errand gave Winnie time to get herself ready. She shot upstairs to do her makeup and slip into a dress she’d bought online for the occasion. She had always wanted to be the most interesting person in any room. She’d gone to great lengths as a child to stand out; once, at thirteen, she’d chopped off her waist-length hair during one of her parents’ dinner parties, announcing to a room of her father’s coworkers that she was done with blatant sexism. A few years later, during her emo phase, she’d fed right back into that blatant sexism and paid one of her brother’s friends to tattoo the words Sweet Girl on her upper thigh. And late into her teenage years, Winnie had decided that sex wasn’t a big deal at all and freely slept with whomever she felt she had a connection with, all this during her self-professed “hippie stage.” Now that she was a grown-up, Winnie felt like she was still playing a role—a more grounded and responsible one. She recycled voraciously; grew her own organic vegetables that she fed to her perfect child and smart husband; had gay friends, Black friends, West Indian friends, and—more recently—a trans friend. Winnie volunteered, always kept spare dollars in her purse for the homeless, and kept her tight-knit group together by being the peacemaker. When Winnie came downstairs, Nigel had come back, and he was whistling.

  “You can make your risotto, right?” Winnie asked. “The one everyone loves?”

  “Yep.”

  “And pick up a case of wine from the—”

  “Got it,” he said.

  Nigel did make his risotto. It was on the stove when the first of their guests rang the newly installed “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” doorbell. Don and Malay, who arrived wrapped in scarves and toting a bottle of Bordeaux, were exclaiming about a museum opening like it was the second coming of Christ when Nigel walked into the living room. Despite their being Winnie’s friends from grad school, and that they were horrendously pretentious, they loved Nigel.

  Winnie knew her friends, and they weren’t as nice as they pretended to be. Nigel had been taken on as a sort of pet to the group: the kid with the single mom who grew up eating Hungry-Man dinners and went to community college. They fed him pieces of their intellect and humored his lower-middle-class mentality with stories of their own artistic and ostentatious upbringings. Nigel always acted like this was a real treat, but after they were gone, he and Winnie would laugh about all the obnoxious things her friends had said. It became part of their marriage, what made them a team: “We’re laughing because you’re all the same.” Nigel had stolen the line from Kurt Cobain, but that made it even better to Winnie.

  Don’s dad owned racehorses and Malay’s mother had been an international supermodel in the eighties. When Malay saw Nigel, she spread her arms wide and he stepped into her hug without reluctance. Winnie watched in amusement as her husband became entangled in Malay’s scarves, his watch snagging a piece of the silk. Don stepped in to help.

  “Just another man trying to snag my wife away from me!” Don winked conspiratorially at Winnie, who smiled weakly in return. He was dressed in a brown leather jacket and skintight black jeans. It might have worked if his body weren’t shaped like a rectangle. Once Don had them free, Nigel offered to take his jacket.

  “It’s part of my outfit,” he said, placing an offended hand over the right pocket of said jacket. Winnie smothered a giggle and tried to catch Nigel’s eye. But he wasn’t looking at her, he was too distracted to care about their friends’ idiosyncrasies.

  “Still driving that Subaru, I see.” Don smirked over his little round glasses.

  “It won’t die.” Nigel shrugged. This was part of the routine, the talk of the neonish green station wagon, which all of Winnie’s friends detested. Nigel and Winnie had this argument frequently.

  “I happen to like the alien shit color of my car. What I don’t like is defending it to these buffoons every time they come over,” Nigel always said.

  Sam came barreling down the stairs in a flurry of awkward arms and legs, and Nigel veered for the kitchen. Despite his earlier good mood, he didn’t want to be here, and Winnie was starting to realize that she agreed with him. The doorbell rang. She knew it would be either the Parklands or the Fromlics, and when she swung open the door, she was right on both accounts. The four of them, having arrived at the same time, stepped inside, complaining about the weather and lack of parking in tandem: Desiree and Uri, Vicky and Mack—Winnie had been roommates with Desiree as well as Vicky in college, and their husbands were mostly boring additions Winnie chose not to know well.

  She’d confessed that to Nigel once, and he’d patted her on the knee and said, “I’m not sure their wives want to know them, either.”

  Winnie chose that moment to laugh at Nigel’s years-old joke and suddenly felt like she missed her husband, even though he was just in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Nigel?” Desiree shrugged out of her jacket. “Did he make the risotto?”

  “Yeah!” Winnie wiggled her eyebrows up and down, congratulating herself on being the fakest person on the planet.

  “Lemme go grab him,” she said through lips that felt stiff. She accepted the bottle of wine Uri proffered just as Dakota walked in the front door. He looked surprised that everyone was there, and Winnie realized that she’d failed to tell him about Friendsgiving.

  H
e accepted a couple of high fives from her friends and the childish slapping of palms made her flinch as she gripped the chilled bottle, pretending to study the label.

  “This is great,” she lied. Dakota was in a good mood, playing things off like he knew about the party all along. A gust of relief rushed from her lips as she arranged them into a smile. She had the sudden urge to run to the kitchen and lock the door. Nigel, she wanted to be with Nigel, so why were all these people in her house?

  “Be right back.” She beelined for the kitchen, peeking her head in the door.

  “Can you bring the rest of the wine, please? Everyone’s here.” Her voice was light, her tone joyful, but if her husband looked at her, he would see she was wearing her face. Surely he would come rescue her. He didn’t look. Winnie lingered half bent in the doorway, waiting for him to acknowledge her. “Nigel...” she whispered sharply. Then he did look up—his phone was in his hand like he’d been texting.

  “Coming,” he said.

  “The wine,” she reminded him. He nodded toward the bottles on the counter, the last case they had from Marrowstone Vineyards. Hopefully it would be enough—Winnie planned on drinking tonight. To hell with her rule about alcohol, she decided.

  Just then, Subomi’s mom texted to say she was outside to pick Samuel up. Winnie spotted her son talking to Malay and made her way over.

  “Samuel, grab your things. Subomi’s mom is here.”

  “Aww no, leaving us?” Malay teased. It was a rule not to have any of the kids at Friendsgiving, the reason being everyone wanted to get drunk. After a quick goodbye to Malay, Samuel dashed away to get his duffel. Winnie had just turned back to say something to her friend when she heard Dakota curse loudly from behind her.

  “Fuck, kid! Be careful.”

  She turned to see her brother looming over her son, beer dripping down his arm and onto the floor. Sam looked genuinely frightened, all previous excitement drained from his face.

  “Dakota...” Winnie was temporarily stunned.

  “Don’t fucking talk to my son like that.”

  Nigel stood just outside the kitchen, a bottle of wine in each hand. He looked...over it. He was calm, but Winnie could tell he was livid. She had a brief vision of her husband leaping over the couch and smashing the bottles on Dakota’s head. She’d never seen her husband look that angry. She was oddly turned on.

  “’Kota,” Winnie said urgently, trying to draw his attention. Red-faced and already drunk, her brother turned toward Nigel.

  “He ran into me, man. Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to run in the house?” Dakota directed this question at Samuel. Winnie didn’t have time to process what happened next: she saw Nigel set the wine bottles down on the hutch, and then he had Dakota by the shirt, shoving him against the wall. Nigel was going to take care of things, just like he had that night. “It’s done. No one will ever know,” he’d said.

  Her husband had the body of a gymnast—tight and hard—and he used surprise to pin Dakota for a good five seconds before the bigger man shoved Nigel backward with a great whoosh of his arms.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Uri called out, moving forward to step between them. “You’re a guest in this house,” Uri said. He bent his head solemnly to look Dakota in the eyes. Her brother jerked back, his face obstinate.

  Winnie knew what was coming, and her insides shriveled up like little raisins. Dakota was looking at her—he wanted confirmation that he was more than a guest, he was her precious twin brother. But it didn’t work like that anymore.

  “You should leave,” Winnie told him. His eyes held on to hers for a painful second before he looked away. Winnie knew ’Kota; he’d see this as a betrayal: blood was thicker than water. But Winnie had other blood to consider.

  “Samuel, come here,” she said. Samuel didn’t hesitate. He didn’t seem thirteen at this moment; he was a little boy again, and he was hers to protect. “Go, Subomi’s mom is waiting. Everything will be fine.” She kissed his forehead, and for once he didn’t look embarrassed.

  “Okay.” He said it so only she could hear. Winnie licked her lips and gave him her best smile. Samuel looked unsure for a moment, and then he skirted off to the front door where Winnie had set his duffel.

  There was an electric current in the room. Winnie could see the excitement in her friends’ eyes. She blinked around the room, disbelieving. They were hoping, she realized, that her brother would disobey. This would give them something to talk about for weeks. They were poised all over the living room, on her chaise and couches, her glasses held in their hands. It hurt her stomach to think about them talking about her family, sending their group texts back and forth. She hated them in that moment, every single one of them. She wished she could tell them all to get out of her house.

  Then Nigel sniggered from where he stood, shaking his head, and Winnie saw Dakota’s whole body go tense. Any regret etched on his face was suddenly gone, and then her hotheaded brother was straightening his spine and spreading his feet wider apart. Her brother reminded her of a young lion, and her husband reminded her of an old one looking for a fight. She groaned deep inside herself, but not on the outside—on the outside Winnie kept her composure. No one was going to gossip; she was going to shut this down right now.

  “Dakota—GO!”

  “Yeah?” He looked right at her, and Winnie’s heart cleaved in two. Things would never be the same with them.

  “Fuck you, Nigel,” Dakota said, shoving past him and out of the room.

  Relief eased the beat of her racing heart, but the worst was not over; she had to get Dakota out of the house in one piece, and, oh, God—was she really going to have to continue with this stupid dinner?

  “You okay, Win?” Vicky put a hand on her shoulder.

  Dakota came back a minute later, a duffel slung over his shoulder. He had his phone out and was concentrating hard on the screen as he headed for the front door.

  “Dakota!” she called after him. He didn’t turn; he lifted one hand over his head to signal goodbye, and he was gone. Winnie heard the traffic outside, a buzz that suddenly got louder and then abruptly stopped when the door slammed closed.

  “Maybe you should go after him,” Malay said. “What if he does something stupid? You don’t want to be blamed—”

  Winnie didn’t need to ask Malay what she meant; Malay’s cousin Alfie killed himself when they were all in college—ate the barrel of his father’s gun. They had all known Alfie and were sad when he died, but Malay treated his death like a crutch for everything she did now.

  “Shut up, just shut up,” she hissed at her. She was spitting mad at all of them, but Malay had opened her damn mouth first. Now she was going to hear it.

  “He’s not Alfie, and Nigel had every right to be angry.”

  Their shock pleased her. Winnie had never so much as raised her voice at one of them. As the people pleaser of the group, she fought to stay in everyone’s good graces; her favorite place to be was the favorite.

  “You’ve all been under a lot of stress, you’re right. We shouldn’t be commenting.” Don nudged his wife, who looked like she’d sucked a lime without the tequila.

  “Let’s have risotto!” Vicky pumped her fist into the air.

  She was still holding her wineglass, Winnie noted—her true best friend. Where had that come from? Winnie rubbed her temples, chiding herself. Vicky wasn’t the enemy, no one was. This was just a sticky situation. She felt so, so tired.

  * * *

  Despite Winnie sticking up for her husband at the dinner party, they were currently not speaking. The minute their last guest left and the door closed behind them, he’d turned and given her a look. Winnie had felt battered by that look, betrayed. For once, she’d stopped caring what people thought of her and had been rude to her friends. She could barely wrap her mind around how he could be displeased with her; she’d done exactly what he always aske
d her to do, which was to be on his side.

  “What was that for?” But he was already en route to the kitchen, so she’d posed her question to his back.

  “I’m going to bed, Winnie.” He’d said it with so much finality she’d stopped dead in her tracks. She’d felt very small and stupid in that moment. She’d meant to say something to call him back, but she was in shock. And then he’d left her downstairs with the dishes and a million questions. That, she thought, is not my husband. The thought had scared her so much she’d marched upstairs after him if only to reassure herself. How much had he had to drink? She’d been too preoccupied with keeping face to count his drinks. Dinner parties were the one night she never got on him about drinking, though she liked to keep tabs.

  She felt smashed and crashed. Her brother was never going to talk to her again. He was still holding a grudge against their sister Candace, and they’d fought years ago—Winnie couldn’t even remember about what. Not to mention the residual fallout with the rest of the family after he spun his own version of the story to the rest of the siblings. What had she been thinking anyway? Inviting all those people over when the emotional temperature in the house had a broken gauge. Hadn’t her husband always accused her of making rash decisions? She always did the wrong thing, made the wrong choice.

  Nigel was coming out of the bathroom when she walked in, and for a moment she didn’t know what to do. She was nervous, she realized. Her toes curled and uncurled on the hardwood as Winnie stood a few feet inside their bedroom, watching as Nigel pulled off his T-shirt in the way that always made her stomach do a little flip—by grabbing it from behind his neck and pulling it over his head. She watched for the peacock, as she called it, the cowlick that always shot up when given the chance. When he was shirtless and walking toward her, Winnie forgot that she was supposed to be angry with him. For a moment she thought he was coming toward her to kiss her, like one of those romance novels she sometimes read, but at the last minute he breezed right past where she stood and out of the bedroom.