by Andrea Ring
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“How was the dance?”
“Great. It was really great,” I say. “We had a good time.”
“Was this Clark fellow respectful?”
I think about Clark’s hands. “Very.”
“Think you’ll see him again?”
“Definitely.”
“Does he like sports?”
I can’t recall Clark and I ever discussing sports, except for my tennis game.
“Of course.”
“Maybe he can join me for Monday Night Football.”
I picture Clark, spiked, leather-clad, sitting on the couch with my CFO father.
“Maybe.”
Dad wipes a napkin across Bea’s chin. “Ask him.”
“Okay.”
I want to ask why the sudden interest, but I don’t.
“So where’s Mom?”
“Still asleep,” Dad says, avoiding my eyes. “She had a rough night.”
“Did Bea not sleep well?”
“She slept fine. Mom just…she was worried about you.”
“Me?” I gasp. “Why was she worried about me?”
Dad unbuckles Bea and carries her into the living room. I follow them. He sets Bea down, and she runs over to the bookshelf where her toys are stacked.
“Have a seat,” Dad says.
I sit on the floor. Dad takes the couch.
“Sean Rasmussen showed up here about eleven. He was drunk, Leni.”
I gulp.
“He was looking for you and Tiana. And he had some unpleasant things to say.”
I gulp again, and Dad scrubs his hand over his face.
“Look, we trust you. You told us you’d be at Tiana’s house, and I know you wouldn’t lie to us, but I have to ask: is Clark some kind of delinquent?”
“Why would you say that?” I ask, finally finding my voice.
“Sean said he has his nose pierced.”
“And?” I say. “You already knew he has his lip pierced.”
“And?”
I sigh. “Clark is a grad student, Dad. At UCLA. He’s Dr. Jones’s nephew.”
“A grad student? How old is he?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“He’s also related to Dr. Jones, practically her son. She raised him. He’s a great guy.”
“But he’s twenty-two,” Dad reminds me.
“Only four years older than me.”
“You’re not eighteen yet.”
“In two weeks.”
Dad sighs. “Can we meet him, at least?”
“Yeah,” I say, “but why?”
“What about Jay?”
I bristle. “What about him?”
“I saw him drop you off that night a couple months ago.”
“You did? Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugs. “I knew you still cared about him, and with Mom…I didn’t want to hear you lie to me.”
“I wouldn’t have lied.”
“But you didn’t tell us, either,” he points out.
“I tried to broach the subject in Ojai, remember? And besides, I didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t,” he says, then frowns. “That wasn’t what I meant. I mean, I don’t care if you want to be with Jay. He wouldn’t be my first pick for you, but I just want you to be happy.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Thanks, Dad, but I don’t want to be with Jay anymore.”
Bea toddles over to me and hands me a doll. I kiss the doll and hand it back to her.
“I thought maybe I owed Jay something, but it didn’t work out.”
“Relationships aren’t built on obligation, Leni. I should know.” He looks down at his hands and blows out a breath. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “I found Clark.”
“Don’t remind me.”
We laugh, and Bea joins in, just because she likes to laugh.
“Dad, before you meet him, I should probably prepare you.”
“For what?”
“He has more than his nose and his lip pierced.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Instead of our weekly coffee meeting, Clark pulls up to our house in his 1973 black Ford Mustang for Monday Night Football.
Mom is gone. Dad shipped her off to her sister’s house in Pasadena, as he promised he would, and took the week off from work to stay home with Bea until we can find sitting. The tension in the house is almost gone.
Dad is buzzing with energy. He’s made his famous cheese dip, which last made an appearance at a Christmas party we had in 2002.
“I could make a meal of this stuff,” he says, shoving a few cheese-drenched chips in his mouth. I guess there’s no guy etiquette on waiting for your guests to arrive before you start eating.
I dress Bea in a new diaper and pajamas and carry her on my hip to the door when the bell rings.
Clark is carrying a six-pack of Coke and a single red rose. I usher him in and he hands it to me.
“And you said you weren’t romantic,” I say.
“I’m in the mood,” he says, giving me a wink.
“Nothing like meeting the parents to fan the flames,” I say, laughing.
Bea squeals and grabs for the rose. She squishes it in her tiny fist before I can react.
“Oh, no, Bea, no!” I say, trying to get it away from her intact and failing completely. Petals fall to the floor.
Clark laughs. “I brought gifts for the wrong woman. May I?”
He reaches his arms out for Bea.
She goes willingly.
Clark ditched the full version of himself for this evening, but he still looks a little frightening. All his piercings are in place, save for the septum. And his hair is slicked back in a ponytail the way it was Saturday night.
“Hey Bea,” he says, bouncing her on his hip. “You ready for some football?”
Bea reaches for his lip ring, but Clark dodges her gracefully.
“This is dangerous,” I say. “Maybe I should take her.”
“In a minute.”
Clark walks with her into the kitchen, keeping up a running dialogue. Or monologue. They stop near the high chair.
“Is this where you eat? Is this your chair? Mmm, it looks like you had spaghetti for dinner. Do you like spaghetti? I love spaghetti.”
I laugh and Bea laughs, too, clapping her hands.
“Setti,” she says.
They continue their chat, and I can only watch, thoroughly engrossed in the scene. I wish I had a video camera. I close my eyes and memorize it, this, the two people I care about most in the world, laughing about spaghetti.
I open my eyes and see Bea smiling at Clark, her little hands gripping his ponytail for all she’s worth.
I take her back in my arms and fight to loosen her grip on Clark.
She doesn’t want to let him go, either.
***
I’ve prepared Dad for Clark, and loving father that he is, he doesn’t react to Clark’s appearance. But that doesn’t mean he’s letting Clark off the hook. The three of us sit on the couch so we have easy access to the dip, Clark in the middle, at Dad’s insistence.
“So tell me about yourself, Clark,” Dad says.
“I’m a grad student, sir,” he says, “at UCLA. Going for my doctorate in philosophy.”
I imagine Dad snorting in his head.
“So you live up in LA.”
“No, sir. I grew up here. I rent a place here in Old Towne on the university side.”
“That’s quite a commute,” Dad says with his mouth full. “You a democrat?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s good.” Dad settles back on the couch with a handful of chips. “You follow football?”
“When I can. I’ve missed most of the Monday night games this season, though.”
“Oh, why’s that?”
Clark turns toward me, eyebrows raised. I shrug.
“Leni and I meet Monday nights for h
er independent study class.”
Dad looks at me. “I thought you worked Mondays.”
“I had to stop the piano lessons so I could meet with Clark, for school.”
Dad pops another chip in his mouth and has trouble swallowing.
“Does your mother know your schedule?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry, Leni.”
I laugh to cover the threatening tears. “For what?”
Dad squirms in his seat but doesn’t answer the question.
“Leni is…she’s probably going to Stanford. Did she tell you?”
Clark shakes his head. “No, sir.”
Dad frowns at me. “It’s my alma mater. I wanted them…I’ve always wanted her to go.”
Clark sips his Coke. “Leni’s got a lot of choices. I didn’t have as many as her. She’s lucky.”
“Where’d you do your undergrad?” Dad asks him.
“UCLA, too. I was home-schooled since junior high, took a bunch of online classes, and finished in two years. It went fast, but I kind of missed the whole college experience.”
Dad talks about his days at Stanford, and they talk about college football, and I’m not feeling left out, but I suddenly want to let my father in.
And maybe I should do that alone, just Dad and me, but I can’t. I’m just not strong enough. Clark’s presence is what gives me strength, and I know I have to do it now or I never will.
“Dad?”
“Huh?”
I gather the little courage I can muster. “I don’t think I’m going to Stanford.”
“What?”
Clark looks at me and sits back so I have a better view of my father.
“I don’t want to be that far away. I was thinking of maybe Chapman, or Cal State Fullerton.”
“You can’t go to a Cal State,” he sneers.
“Why not?”
“You belong at Stanford.”
“I think I belong here, close to Bea and Mom and you.”
“Leni,” he says angrily. “Does this have to do with the two of you?”
Clark stays wisely silent.
“No, Dad.”
“Because that’s just, it’s just ridiculous. Your mother is fine.”
“No, she’s not.”
The house phone rings, shrill, and we both ignore it.
Clark gets up and slips into the kitchen.
“No, she’s not,” I repeat.
“You’re not giving up your life to stay here,” Dad says.
“I’m not giving up anything. I’m choosing to stay.”
“But that was the whole point—”
“It was not. If that’s what you want to tell yourself so you sleep better, then fine. But that was never the point.”
We glare at each other, and Dad looks away first.
“I think…I think it would be better if you left.”
The statement hangs in the air between us.
“You don’t mean that,” I say, a prayer.
“You’re a constant reminder for her,” Dad whispers. “Mom wants to heal and she can’t.”
“Because of me.”
I shut my eyes tight and clench my fists and will every emotion I have to leave me. The effort leaves me trembling.
“And when Mom doesn’t get better, what then?”
“She will.”
“When she doesn’t, I’m taking Bea.”
Dad hangs his head. “That would kill her, Leni. To lose another child. No.”
“What about you, Dad?” I say. “Do you even care about Bea? Because if you do, I don’t see how you can trust Mom with her.”
“How can you say that to me?” Dad says, exploding. “I lost a child, too. I lost Jeremy, too! My son, one minute I wasn’t watching, one fucking minute! I love Bea like she’s my own daughter!”
“Like?” I whisper.
Dad jumps to his feet. “I’m doing the best I can!” Tears stream down his face.
A sob catches in my throat as I stand to face him. “I know. I know! But you two are adults, and Bea’s just a baby. She’s the one who needs to be protected, not Mom. And besides, Mom’s already talked to me about taking her.”
Dad gapes at me.
“You’re hurting, too,” I say to him. “I get that. I don’t want to hurt you any more. Maybe without any pressure from your kids, you guys can get over this.” My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. “Two more weeks. You’ll have to suffer my presence for two more weeks. Then I’m taking Bea and I’m outta here.”
I turn to leave, to just get in my car and drive away, when my dad says, “Wait, wait. Just a goddamn minute, wait.”
Here it comes. The apology, the breakdown, the pleading to stay and work it out, the bear hug I barely remember ever getting.
But Dad just walks past me and motions for me to follow.
We enter his office and he opens a drawer of files, thumbing through them until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a manila folder and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“A trust account. It’s yours on your eighteenth birthday.”
I open the folder and look at the top sheet. It’s an account statement in my name. The balance? $682,758.32.
“Where is this from?”
“The city. When Jeremy died…there should have been a lifeguard. He wasn’t paying attention. And when he arrived, he didn’t do CPR properly. He broke Jeremy’s ribs and punctured a lung. We argued that Jeremy might have lived otherwise.”
My stomach heaves and I fight not to be sick. “You argued?”
“Our lawyers.”
I never knew any of this. Apparently I wasn’t the only one to suffer my parents’ blame.
“We saved the money for you. It’s grown quite a bit.”
“Why? So you could get me away from you and not feel guilty about it?”
“I didn’t plan this, Leni,” he says.
“I don’t want it,” I say, shoving the folder at his chest.
He shoves it back. “For Bea, then.”
I glare at him. “You’re really doing this. You really want me gone. You don’t give a fuck about me, or Bea.”
The house phone rings again, and Dad snaps it up and clicks it on. “What! Rhonda, no, what? I’ll come. I’ll be there…tonight, yes, I’m leaving now…no, yes, take her if you think…yes, I’ll meet you there.” He hangs up and stares hard at the top of his desk. “Mom’s sick. That was Aunt Rhonda. I’m meeting them at the hospital.” But he doesn’t move.
I don’t want to care about her, but I do.
“Is it serious?”
“She’s vomiting. She…”
“She what?”
“Rhonda has pills missing.”
I draw in a ragged breath and back away until I hit the wall. I lean against it and concentrate on standing upright.
Mom took pills. When I just told her we’d be better off without her.
Tears pool in my eyes, too many to blink away. My chest heaves, and I choke on a sob. I cover my mouth with my hand and turn away from Dad.
He takes a loud, unsteady breath and I look over at him. He turns to me with his eyes averted.
“You’ll watch Bea, won’t you?”
I’m relieved he even thought of Bea. I have to swallow several times before I can speak. “Will you be home tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Make up your mind, Dad. Do you want me here or not?”
“It’s only for tonight—”
“You think this is the last crisis?” I say, voice rising.
He shoves past me through the door.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. After I deal with Mom.”
“Fine.”
Dad walks down the hallway and slams his door shut.
I wander into the kitchen and stare out the window, tears blurring my vision.
I will my father to pack faster, please faster, so I can have my breakdown in private.
Clark’s car comes into focus, out on the street. Shit, he’s still here. I check the living room and bathroom but cannot find him. I head down the hall to the bedrooms, thinking maybe he found my room and is hiding out. But I reach Bea’s room first and the door is open.
Clark has Bea tucked into his shoulder and they’re rocking in the rocking chair.
“I thought you would have left,” I say.
“I think the phone woke her.”
Not the arguing, the phone. Right.
I walk in carefully and sit down next to the rocker. The chair creaks at intervals on the wood floor.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
“After Dad leaves,” I say.
“He’s leaving?”
I nod.
I sit and they rock for another five minutes until we hear the front door click shut and my father’s car start. Headlights shine in Bea’s window briefly, then we’re left in the dark.
Clark sets Bea down gently in her crib and we walk back into the living room. Clark sits on the couch, but I don’t want to sit.
“You can go,” I say.
Clark looks at me. “Do you want me to go?”
“No, but you’ve walked into a Shakespearean tragedy. Maybe you should save yourself.”
Clark is silent.
“So I’m the reason. I’m the reason, Clark, the reason Jeremy died, the reason my mother can’t function, the reason my parents are so fucked up!”
I pick up the tissue box on the end table and throw it at the wall.
“It’s all my fault!” I scream. “Every single fucked up thing that’s ever happened in my fucked up life is my fucking fault!” I grab the basket of chips and chuck it across the room. I pick up two magazines and hurl them at the TV. Then I reach for the bowl of cheese dip, but Clark stands up and beats me to it. He cradles the bowl to his chest.
“The tissues I can lose,” he says, “but I can’t let any harm come to the cheese dip.”
He smiles.
I laugh.
And then I cry. A flood. A tsunami of emotion, breaking over my head and threatening to carry me off and drown me.
Clark sets the bowl down and crosses the space between us. He cradles my face in his hands, my snotty, teary face, and kisses me.
At first I cannot breathe. I give him my neck, and he sucks and licks and makes me shiver. But eventually my nose clears and my tears stop.
I take back his mouth with mine, suck him in, breathe him in. He sweeps my t-shirt over my head, and before I can blink, I’m naked from the waist up.
