by C. T. Musca
And Deb’s kids, who anytime I’ve seen them, seem to be complaining about something the other one has. I don’t remember being like that when I was younger, but I probably was. Maybe I am being too sensitive; they are kids after all.
It starts to snow, making it a little difficult to see the road ahead of me. I want to take my time getting to my dad’s apartment, but I know that he needs me and is probably very lonely.
“Oh Holy Night” is now playing on the radio, and I can’t help but feel a little nostalgic. It was my mom’s favourite Christmas tune. She used to sing it all the time during the season and we used to laugh at her attempts to reach the high notes at the end. I remember Sandy joining her. My thoughts of the past abruptly end when I notice a car in the ditch up ahead on the road. I see brake lights as cars hurriedly come to full stops. I immediately step on the brakes, spilling a bit of my coffee in the process. The car in the ditch looks like it simply lost control on the slippery street and swerved onto the side. No other cars are involved, and I am relieved that no one looks seriously injured. As I pass the accident on my right, I make a point of looking straight ahead; why anyone would want to see an accident is beyond me. I relax my hands which I now realize have been tightly gripping the steering wheel.
When Dad answers the door, he hugs me so tightly I wish I had made plans to spend my Christmas with him instead of waiting for Jack to call me.
“Hey, Dad. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, beautiful.” He now has tears in his eyes. “It’s so great to see you.”
“You too, Dad.”
We talk for a while about nothing important—work, our apartments, the weather. He has taken out some frozen cookies that God-knows-who made for him. He was never much of a cook, let alone a baker. I take one to be polite and instantly regret it. They are dry and tasteless. It feels as though they are sucking all of the saliva out my mouth, and I find it difficult to talk.
“How are you holding up this time of year and everything?” I don’t really want to have an emotional conversation, but I need to be sure Dad’s okay before I leave here.
“You know, it’s hard. Your mom was such a strong woman. It’s tough spending the holidays alone. How you do it, I have no idea.”
“I guess I’m just used to it. I’ve been alone since I moved out,” I explain. “Don’t get me wrong, I think about family all the time; it’s just that I don’t really allow myself to dwell on the past.”
I can see he doesn’t really understand where I am coming from. I suppose I can’t really blame him—he’s my dad and he raised me to have such a sense of family. I think it bothers him that I don’t visit, call, or reminisce about the good times. “Did you want me to take you to the cemetery?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
I wait while he gets ready to go. I notice our family portrait on the wall, the one that was taken while I was in high school. I remember that day, the heat especially. I notice the height of my bangs and think, why didn’t anybody tell me my hair looked so ridiculous? I suppose at the time it didn’t.
I stare at it for a while. I look at my former self and notice how different I am now—how a person can change so drastically. Not only have I aged physically, but my personality has altered too. I think about what was important to me then and how those things seem so trivial now. I look at Sandy and remember how funny she was, and how she made us all laugh. And now she seems so sad. My thoughts are interrupted when Dad announces he is set to go.
We stop by the grocery store to pick up some flowers for Mom’s grave, but soon realize that nothing is open. Eventually we see a man selling flowers on the street corner. He’s got about five buckets full of different bouquets, all of which look past their prime. We end up picking out some carnations which seem to be the best of the bunch. Dad spends such time perusing the flowers, picking off dead ends. I can’t help but think, does it really even matter? I suppose to him it does. When we get to the cemetery, there are not many other cars there, which is surprising to me. I’d assume this would be one of their busiest days. My dad fiddles around with the flowers, trying to make them presentable, cutting off enough stems and leaves to make them fit in the standard vase at the front of the gravestone. Dad moves close to the stone and places his hand on it. He is quiet, and so am I; there’s no need to make conversation while we’re here.
I stare at the gravestone and try to think pleasant thoughts about my mom. It’s not that I don’t have any, it’s just that it feels so obligatory standing here and gazing down at her grave. I could reflect about the times she used to take all of us to the park on PD days, or when she’d do my hair exactly as I wanted her to, or how I’d go into her bedroom at night when she was reading and sit on Dad’s side of the bed and just talk to her about life. Those are just some of the good memories I have of her, but if I focus on any of them, I will start to cry, and I won’t allow that loss of control.
I notice how old Dad looks as he glares down at the grave. He has been grey for years, but his skin has gotten wrinkled and spotted. He walks much slower than he used to, and at times he limps when his hip bothers him. He turned seventy-five last year but he actually looks older than that. It’s the sadness that seems to have aged him too; his eyes appear constantly glassy.
I wish I could make him feel better, but it’s not in me. Although he’s my father, there is something awkward between us that stems from years of limited contact. I think of placing my hand on his back, but the motion feels so forced and foreign that I forget about it immediately.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks me. He must sense that I am not really doing anything here.
“Whenever you are, Dad.”
“Do you think we can make another stop?”
This is not going to be easy.
Winter 1989
Iam so excited—Jeremy is finally coming home today. Christmas is just four days away. I am so happy that he’ll be here with us. Sarah, his girlfriend, is coming too, but leaving on Christmas Eve to be with her family. I am anxious to meet this girl we’ve heard so much about. My sister and parents are just as thrilled as I. You can see it by the way Mom gets the house ready, by the way Dad whistles Christmas tunes, and by the way Sandy can’t stop talking. I wish I could invite Shane to have dinner with us, but I know Mom would never go for it.
Tonight we are using the gift certificate Jack gave us at the cottage, the one to the Italian restaurant. Dad wants to treat Sarah and Jeremy to a fancy dinner, even though Mom thinks it isn’t very hospitable to welcome company to a restaurant.
“Why on earth would we take her to a restaurant on the first night we meet her? She is going to think that we don’t want her here if we don’t put in the effort.” It seems Mom believes that the time you put into making a meal directly corresponds to how important the person is.
“C’mon, Sharon, it’ll be a nice gesture to greet her this way. Besides, you won’t have to make an elaborate meal and stress over what to serve. I am sure you’ll have lots of opportunities to be the devoted hostess over the next few days,” Dad reassures her.
“All right. But, for the record, I was ready to make my eggplant parm.” Mom is thrilled accommodate Sarah’s vegetarianism.
“You can make it tomorrow night. Let’s just relax tonight and have a good time.” Dad is always so calm and composed. I hope that when I grow up, my husband possesses the ability to keep me relaxed like Dad does to Mom. “I’ll call Jack. Hopefully he and Linda can make it too. It would be good for everyone to meet her.” I am a little annoyed to hear that Jack could be joining us. I mistakenly thought that having a new girlfriend might limit his presence in our family functions.
We meet at the restaurant around six. My brother is a little late because he came directly from Ottawa after his last exam. We are overjoyed to see him and meet Sarah, who is not at all how I pictured her. Because of the way Jeremy talked about her—that she is so concerned about the environment—I kinda pictured her as a hippie t
ype. I’m surprised when I see her. She’s very pretty and well put together. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but enough to be noticeable. She has her hair done up with a few strands hanging down on the side of her face, which give the look of being both natural and controlled. I had pictured her wearing some flowing dress thing, but she is in a pair of tight jeans and a cool black and white wrap-around sweater.
“Everyone, this is Sarah. She’s is in her third year at Carleton for her bachelor’s in social work.” We all knew this about her already, but I guess Jeremy doesn’t really know how else to introduce her to us. We greet her with open arms.
Next Jack introduces Linda, who has arrived wearing a very formal green dress, much too formal for the occasion. She is a little overweight, and her dress seems to accentuate that. She’s got auburn hair tightly tied in a bun, and I am quite certain it’s not her natural colour. She seems okay but is a little distant. When people at the table make jokes or tell stories, she doesn’t really even look as if she’s listening. Uncle Jack is doing everything to make her feel included and comfortable. He doesn’t appear to be the same person; he is not as lively or laughing as much. Normally he’d be the one making all of the jokes, but now he is quiet and reserved. They look over the menu together, as though it needs to be a unanimous decision. Dad gets a bottle of wine for the table, but Sandy and I just order Pepsi. It’s funny, I probably drink more than my parents do, but I have to pretend that I don’t.
My sister starts one of her silly little topics of conversation, which are actually pretty funny. It’s usually “what would you do if…” or “would you rather this or that,” but tonight it’s “what would be your worst nightmare job”—based on your fears or pet peeves. She begins by giving an example: she has a fear of heights so being a window cleaner of a high-rise would be her nightmare job.
Next my brother goes. “I hate insects and extreme heat, so being a landscaper would be pretty awful for me.”
Next, Sarah answers, after being prodded by my brother. “That’s really tough. I suppose I would hate to work in a restaurant, or a steak house. I’m a vegetarian and I also dislike cooking, so having to work around food—especially meat—would be very unsettling for me.” She smiles and looks around to see if that’s an acceptable answer. Obviously Sandy deems it okay because then she moves on to the next at the table, Uncle Jack.
“Your turn, Uncle Jack, what’s your nightmare job?” she asks.
“Oh, I suppose I wouldn’t really like to work in a restaurant either. I am not much of a cook.” He smiles and winks at Linda. Uncle Jack is simply not himself tonight, and I surmise his dinner guest is the reason.
Sandy is unimpressed. “No two people can have the same answer.”
“Sandy, leave Jack alone. He gave an honest answer,” Dad supports his friend.
“Fine,” my sister continues. “Linda, what about you?”
“Being an elementary school teacher. I am really not good with kids. I have never had any nor wanted any, so I wouldn’t know the first thing about relating to them.” That shuts my sister up. It is just at this time that the waiter comes to take our orders, so we blame the end of the game on that.
The dinner is fantastic; the food is good and the conversation is a lot of fun. Jack and Linda, being on the end of the table, speak mainly to each other, while the rest of us talk about high school, university, types of teachers, summer jobs, and our summer vacations. We finish up around nine and decide to meet back at our house for coffee and hot chocolate.
My parents have to get gas, so they tell Jeremy and Sarah to go first and open the house. We stay a little bit behind as my dad is taking care of the bill. Uncle Jack tells my parents that he and Linda are not coming back for coffee as Linda has a bit of a headache, which I don’t think he—or anyone else—believes.
On the highway home, I comment that Uncle Jack is different around Linda. My dad says it is because he really likes her and wants things to work out.
“But why does he have to change? It doesn’t seem like a very good relationship if you can’t be yourself,” I say. “Besides, wasn’t that the same problem with Penny? He never stood up to her. I think he should just tell Linda what he is feeling and why. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“When you’re older, you’ll understand better. It’s not that Jack is not being himself; it’s just that he is taking his time showing himself to her. He was really hurt by Penny, and it’s been a while since he’s dated anyone. He really wants it to work out, so he is taking it slow. I know that probably doesn’t make sense to you, but it does to me.” Dad has a way of making things clear.
As we drive, we can see the police cars ahead, with their lights on.
“Bob,” my mom says, “I hope it’s not a ride program. How many glasses of wine did you have?”
“Only two. It’ll be fine.”
My father is the first to notice Jeremy’s blue Honda in the ditch facing the opposite way. He parks on the side of the highway and gets out. The policeman tries to keep him back, but he runs toward the car anyway. Sandy, Mom, and I follow him. All I can hear my mom saying is ‘my baby, my baby, my baby.’ The ambulance has already come and gone and my father asks for some answers. We overhear one of the policemen say to another, “They were young, twenties maybe. I don’t want to make that call home, one week before Christmas.”
I don’t really remember what happens next. Somehow we get home. Somehow we find out that Jeremy and Sarah were hit by a drunk driver. Somehow we make funeral arrangements.
Somehow we keep living, while they don’t.
Winter 1990
The days and weeks following the accident were a blur. Everyone was trying to cope in his or her own way. It felt like we were all trying to go through the motions but without a key person in our lives. It was like trying to walk again after a major accident and not being able to use our legs. Mom got very quiet. She kept up her routine, making sure everything was done as it always was; our house had never been so clean. My sister hung around me a lot, almost like she thought she’d lose me too. Dad was the only one who seemed normal. He tried to remain chipper and jovial, even though we all knew it was an act. We were devastated. Even Uncle Jack wasn’t the same. I think he somewhat blamed himself because he was the one who bought the gift certificate to the restaurant in the first place. My parents were worried about Sandy and me and they proposed that we talk to someone. Sandy went to our family doctor a few times, but I refused absolutely. I didn’t want to share how I felt about the drunk driver who had escaped the accident without a scratch. I didn’t want to open up and cry all over someone’s office. I wanted to be left alone to deal with my grief in my own way.
School was the least of my concerns. I am not really sure what I did in those weeks following the accident, but it definitely wasn’t schoolwork. Kaitlyn and Amanda were really helpful, finishing some of my assignments and giving me the answers to the homework. My teachers didn’t say anything, although I was certain they were aware that I wasn’t completing the work on my own. I don’t think anyone knew what to say to me, so they just let me be. Shane tried to be supportive, but I think he found it difficult trying to comfort me. I ended up breaking it off with him, telling him that I just wanted to be alone. I told him not to worry about me. I think that probably came as a relief.
Now it’s March break, and my friends are trying to keep me occupied while I have all this time on my hands. There is a get-together at Greg’s place and Kaitlyn and Amanda are strongly encouraging me to go. They tell me that Alex is going to pick me up. I am not sure I want to do anything, but I don’t really have the energy to argue.
I do attend and simply go through the motions. I laugh when they laugh, I drink when they drink, and I try to keep my mind on other things besides my brother. I drink a little too much, because I’m actually able to forget about Jer for a little while. I have a conversation with Greg about one of our teachers, who has somehow managed to ignore the existence of deodorant.
His classroom is foul every morning when we walk in. How no one has told him is unfathomable. Greg and I have the same schedule this semester so he makes me laugh about all of our teachers. If this were a year or two ago, I would have been in heaven being alone with Greg at a party and laughing about whatever. It is amazing how one’s life can change within years, months or even days.
After being dropped off at home, I crash in my bed, feeling the room spin around me. It doesn’t take long before I am in a deep, alcohol-induced sleep. I start dreaming of Trout Lake. I assume it is last summer because Jeremy is there, although this never actually happened. We are all sitting around the campfire and my brother begins jumping up and down, trying to touch the trees. One of the trees is half alive and half dead, giving me an eerie feeling. Jeremy keeps getting higher and higher with each jump and he’s actually able to touch the branches. My mom tells him to be careful and then, at one jump he’s gone. I wake up full of sweat and realize that I am in my room and Jeremy is no longer alive. I start crying hysterically; I can’t seem to control my emotions. I feel sick at the same time. The combination of whatever I drank is now making its reappearance and I am forced into the bathroom. I try to be as quiet as I can, but unfortunately I have awakened my sister.
“Ton, you okay?”
“Yeah. Go back to bed, Sandy.” That is all I am able to say before more of the evening’s drinks come up.
“Why are you sick? Should I get Mom?” she says, worried.
“I drank too much. Definitely don’t get Mom. I’ll be fine…just go back to bed.”
