Look How You Turned Out

by Diane Munier

  I go in there, and he's sitting up, and it's little Marcus's profile in the dark. I'm stabbed…with love. I love this little bird.

  "Why do you have to go to Chicago?"

  Not this again. "I…the job."

  "Quit." He's like a prophet sort of.

  "I…," I sit on the floor by the bed. "Juney, I didn't want to leave you."

  "I know. You wanted to put me in your suitcase, but Dad is the police."

  "Exactly. You remember."

  "But Artie misses you. He's got Perkinson's Disease. I Googled it. It's why he shakes."

  "What?" Can this be true? "Who told you this?"

  "Dad said it. On the phone. I heard him."

  I go for my laptop and fire it up and Google Web MD. For the next fifteen minutes, I get a crash course in Parkinson's.

  Everything I share with Juney he already knows.

  I close my computer and lay back on the floor, hands on my stomach. It doesn't surprise me a bit that he didn't tell me.

  Early retirement. Buying Billy's with Marcus. He's working on his bucket list.

  I feel tears leaking into my hair.

  "Don't cry Bedilia," Juney whispers his feet softly thudding against the floor. Soon he's sitting beside me. He takes my hand. "Dad won't let anything bad happen to Artie."

  I squeeze Juney's hand and smile at him as I sniff. "I know that," I try to scoff. I don't want to scare Juney, but he's such an old soul.

  "It sucks when you just have one, huh?" he says meaning one parent.

  "Juney," I whisper, "you have more than one, you know." I mean us. Me and Dad.

  "I have," he takes back his hand and silently counts up, "four plus Dad," he announces. He's added his grandparents.

  "And you have," he's doing the math again, "two plus Artie."

  "Two?"

  "Me and Dad."

  "Aren't you a little young?"

  "Eat," he says very close to my face with Cheeto breath, "your," he says moving in again, "spinach."

  He falls beside me, and we laugh a little.

  I make him go to the bathroom and brush his teeth. I start to get up, but he calls, "Don't leave."

  So I settle back again. Parkinson's.

  He quickly climbs into bed. "Dad says you're the prettiest girl in Washington."

  I don't say anything for a minute while he settles. I know I just found out my dad might have Parkinson's, but I still feel the ridiculous, self-centered need to track down this statement. "When…did he say that?"

  "The day you went to Chicago," he says. "We were watching you drive away, and he just said it—There goes the prettiest girl in Washington."

  Okay, this is low, but I ask, "What else?"

  He sighs. "I'm not supposed to tell home-stuff."

  I thump my fingers against my stomach. "You started it," I say, kidding sort of.

  "She's not your mother." He says this in a deeper voice I assume is supposed to be Marcus's.

  "What?" I get up on my elbow.

  "She's got a right to live her life," he's still mimicking. "We need to be happy for her." He's rolling around. "I hate that most of all. I told him I wasn't happy. He wasn't happy either."

  I sit up, and he's rolled, facing away from me. "He wasn't happy?" I diabolically continue.

  "No," Juney says simply. Then I hear him yawn.

  "Well,…he's happy now…right? Jessica?"

  He rolls back and stares at me. "I can't stand her," he whispers.

  A little thrill goes through me. But I'm wrong. "Why…why not?"

  He rolls away. "He wouldn't want me to say it. She's got this really high laugh. Just like a witch."

  I'm happy…and so disappointed. "She can't help it," I say with fake magnanimity.

  He rolls back. "She's so annoying. She makes homemade mac and cheese instead of the kind I like in the blue box."

  No. This is what he has on her? "Not…so bad," I whisper.

  "And this one time…she said You know what I want for Christmas Marcus. And later when he's putting me to bed he sits there…," now it's Marcus's voice, "hey, bud…we've been on our own a long time. What would you think if I found you a mom?"

  My bottom lip is pumping, the way my vagina used to before I heard this story.

  "And?" I push because there's no way he's not finishing this.

  "And I said, I'd think…well, who? Not Jessica."

  "And?" I say louder.

  "And he said, Well I'll do what's best for this family. And that was the end."

  I get on my feet.

  "Hey, wait until I'm asleep."

  "No. Close your eyes I'm right across the hall."

  I hurry back to the crow's nest and go to the window. I'm looking over there. Of course, he wouldn't be the type to drag it out. He's not a dater. He's a martyr, not light about stuff. He'd want to 'get 'er done,' and put a ring on it. A ring. He's going to give her a ring for the holidays. You just watch. He's got it now. It's probably in his sock drawer right this minute.

  Then the door opens. It's him. He's in those running shorts and glorious in the light from the streetlamp. Two runs today? One at the crack of dawn, and one now?

  And then he looks up, right at me, and waves.

  Chapter 13

  I already wear knit pants and a t-shirt, so I grab my black sweatshirt with the hood and stick my feet in my tennis shoes.

  "Where are you going," Juney says sitting up.

  "I'll be right back. Lay down. Artie's right downstairs."

  "Can I lay with him if I get scared?" Juney says.

  He knows he can. He's done it many a time after Artie falls asleep. Artie always laughs when he finds Juney curled up like a cat in his bed in the morning.

  "I'll be right back," I say.

  So I hurry downstairs and go right to the garage cause like I thought, Marcus is already running down the street. I go in the side door and nearly kill myself tripping over some stacked flower pots because Artie never cleans this place, so I see the bike, Artie's old police bike, and I get ahold of it and drag and force it out the door. I am running when I hop on and start to pedal, hitting the street and the downward slope of it. I see Marcus ahead, and I make for him faster than a speeding bullet able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, I'm a bird, I'm a plane.

  He must hear my approach. He stops and turns. "Bedilia?"

  I reach him and slam the brakes, and the tires screech some, but my foot is down. "Parkinsons," I say.

  "Who…Artie?"

  "Juney. Juney told me. Not my dad and not you today at the river. You told me to act enthused…about Billy's. But you neglected to mention…a disease."

  "He said…where's Juney?"

  "He went to the bar. Where do you think?"

  "It's Artie's to tell. Juney's just a little boy who talks too much."

  "Was Dad going to tell me?"

  "If he wanted to wait…he didn't ask my opinion."

  "You would have let me go back not knowing?"

  "I wouldn't have known one way or the other unless you told me."

  "What else are you keeping from me?" Sock drawer. Sock drawer.

  "You've come home with this attitude…."

  "Don't turn this on me. I just found out my dad is sick."

  "Doesn't help to blame everyone, especially the people who care the most. About Artie."

  "You're going to lecture me on how to stomach this news? Maybe I'm sick of never being told anything."

  "Never and anything are very conclusive words, Bedilia."

  "Then get this, you never do anything wrong, Mr. Know-it-all. Correcting me…how many times now since I've been home? Today at the river, here in the street. This morning, matter of fact on that other run you took.

  Obsessive much? How you like that word for 'conclusive,' Dad?"

  I have my foot on the pedal to take off, but where will that get me?

  He puts his hand on the handlebars. His hand, his arm, his shoulder….his neck…jaw, lips, eyes. "Get off," he
says.

  "What?"

  "Just listen, for once."

  I am straddling the bike, looking at him. I don't want to do a thing he tells me. I don't want to do anything else.

  He wiggles the bike some and the muscles in his arm. I get off. A dog howls…somewhere. It's creepy out here…but I'm not scared, not with him.

  I'm standing there, and he is graceful, maneuvering himself onto the bike, and I think he's going to make me look like a fool if he takes off leaving me on this haunted road all by my bigshot self, but he straddles the bike now and says, "Get on."

  He eyes the handlebars between his strong hands. "Don't argue," he says.

  I feel so awkward. "I don't know how."

  "Turn around."

  I do.

  "Jump up and sit between my hands."

  I put my hands outside of his, and I sit between and just a little bit on his hands.

  "Don't…." I swallow it. I know he won't let me fall. He never has, not for anything.

  But I squeal a little as he pushes off, and he's right there, and I'm right there on his hands, and we go forward into the

  dark night with the well-spaced patches of yellow staining the dark two-lane we live on, and I don't have anything else to say, just his breath on my neck sometimes, his voice whispering in my ear, "How's it feel to trust someone Bedilia?"

  I don't answer. You can't ride like this and not smile. I hear him breathe, and my hair must be whipping against the side of his face, but he doesn't complain.

  Jesus won't be no Ma to you when your mother's dead, I hear Bob Dylan sing in my head. I don't know why. It sucks to have one parent, Juney says. Parkinson's.

  I lean back just a little and feel it then, how he looks over my shoulder, and we're moving a little faster now. He moves his face, probably to fight my hair, and I let go and take hold of it on the side where his face isn't and I hold it then. And we ride like that tires smoothing over the grit on the road.

  "Better?" he says softly.

  I don't answer. It is better. It's one of the best moments…for a long time…first on the floor with Juney…even with knowing about Dad, Juney's comfort…now this…like I've been bookended between them…big and little. But this one…big…I'm not alone. And if I turned my head, just a little…like so, my forehead against his temple…and he slows down…stops holds the frame solid, and I sit here, my face against the side of his, the feel of his damp skin, his rough beard pushing through. My eyes are closed. "Marcus," I whisper.

  "It'll be alright," he says low, one hand moving from beneath me to come on my shoulder. "It'll be okay."

  Chapter 14

  I don't know how long we were out there. When I get back inside, I look in Artie's room, and Juney lies across the foot of Artie's bed wrapped in my blanket. And I'm glad they have each other the big burrito and the little one.

  I can't see more than the shape of Dad's head on that pillow. Juney's soft, thick hair shows at the top of his blanket.

  I'm crushed with love. For them both. Juney hurt when I left, unable to tell me hello at first.

  And Dad…he's my dad.

  He's always been there for me. All my life, when Mom left, I didn't have to worry. I never did. Artie was there getting me ready for where I had to go, what I had to do, making sure I brushed my teeth, trying to braid my hair and he got really good at it eventually, cleaning the strawberries off my shirt when I threw up on the way to the fishing hole cause the roads were so windy and up and down. Artie putting ointment on my scraped knees. Artie talking to me about Jesus, coming out to Bible camp to see me get dunked. Getting Connie from the station to tell me about the birds and the bees and help me with my first period. Artie at concerts and plays, snapping pictures, making movies, waiting outside the dressing room while I tried on dresses, or had my feet measured for new shoes, Artie at all my games…and graduations, middle school, high school, college…then Chicago, his face so proud, the sacrificial relief that he'd sent me out…and I wasn't stuck in Lowland.

  Dad. How could I live if….

  I am standing there too long, tears building and sinuses blocked, but I don't make a sound. Finally, I pick my way quietly up the stairs, walking in all the solid spots just like in high school. I enter the front bedroom and take a glance out the window, see the dim light on in the back of Marcus's house.

  I can't keep staring at them…the men in my life…or running from them either while I cry these deep quiet sobs.

  I kick off my shoes and fall on that bed once more, a wrung out rag. Holy stars above. The night, the wind, the sky, and him…right there. I touch my neck, my ear, my hair. I cross my arms over my chest and hold onto my shoulders, the edges of myself. My eyes are closed, and the feeling is there, so powerful, him near and moving us with his strength.

  He said it would be okay. I know he'll be there for Artie. He's leaving the station ahead of Dad. He's making a place for Artie to go. It will be okay because he'll make it okay. I think he cares for Artie almost as much as I do…if it were possible.

  Something has opened between us…mutual love…for Dad. We've had it for Juney…though not as strong from me. I've run from that too mostly. I knew what Marcus wanted…my help. But I'm nobody's mother…a kid myself. That's what I used to think.

  But I'm not a kid now.

  Marcus and I, same boat, his hands on the oars. He's rowing. He's never stopped. Like I said, moving us with his strength.

  I've only been home one whole day. The truth is I came home in shame…but I couldn't get here fast enough…soon enough.

  I thought I had to make it in Chicago. He wanted me to go out and make it big…Artie did. He always told me I had to get out in the big world and see what it held. It's what Mom wanted…why she left, he said. She got trapped here beneath the wet blanket of Lowland.

  He'd been telling me this since I started school. And I excelled at school. He said that was a sign, I was meant for more than Lowland, Pennsylvania. I had that something…like her.

  Well I tried, Dad. I tried. And I left Lowland with my heart in my throat, and I came back the same way. I'm not so worldly Dad.

  Not like you think. I prefer it small, one on one conversations over crowds. Time to stay quiet and think. Knowing the people I live around, knowing them…and their sons and daughters, even their pets. I like small grocery stores and second-hand shops where we recycle one another's lives and traditions and saying hi to my waitress and leaving her a fiver because we went to school together and I know she's got that kid…by that no-good guy just like you had me with Mom…and Marcus…and Juney.

  Dear Dad…maybe I'm more like you.

  Chapter 15

  "This hair has such a mind of its own. It must grow right out of your brain," I say to Juney as I attempt to comb his random style.

  "Dad says all I can do is keep it short," Juney says. Cute as his hair is, it's the back of his neck that gets me, the skin so soft…something vulnerable and sweet.

  I remember when he was a baby, that soft little neck, kissing him there and he'd laugh.

  Juney is looking at me in the mirror. I smile at him, and he's staring at me. "You're too pretty for words," I tell him.

  "Pretty?" he says a little too loudly, and he storms out.

  "Yeah pretty. Deal with it," I call.

  I look myself over, jeans and my black hoodie again cause it's kind of lucky. My heavier jacket is hanging by the door.

  Marcus. What does he see…in me?

  I feel a little shy seeing Marcus after last night. We're going food shopping, Marcus, Juney and me. Marcus is using up some accumulated vacation days. And Juney's done with school until after the holiday. So we're traveling all the way to the city so we can do some serious shopping. I hope he knows I'm driving. I can't stand his old truck and the way he grinds through the gears like a grampa.

  I have typed a list into my phone. It's substantial. Artie left me two hundred and fifty, and I'll probably spend all of it because he doesn't have much of the
good stuff on hand with me being gone half the year.

  "You're handsome enough," I tell Juney as I meet him downstairs. He looks so cute in his little baggy jeans and his button up shirt, and his Eagles jacket over that. Elaine. She makes sure he's styling. It doesn't matter a crumb to Marcus.

  Outside we have a moment of sun, and it hits Juney's hair. He's more red than brown, but Marcus says he was too.

  Currently, Marcus's mane is longer than ever, longer than Artie would normally allow one of his guys. But then, what's he going to do, fire Marcus?

  Juney has already texted, and Marcus is standing by his truck, keys in his hand. Awkward is covered by me saying, "Oh no. I'm driving."

  He's shaking his head. "Like hell." He opens the door and gets behind the wheel, and I see him scrambling to move his paraphernalia off the seat. It's an old argument.

  "Just let him," Juney tells me. "He likes to be in control."

  "Where'd you get that?" I say, amazed that Juney's like Dr. Phil.

  "Jessica," he says, running ahead.

  Oh yeah. I sigh and follow after, about to prove that bitch's point I guess. But he's with me now.

  Chapter 16

  We won't be buying a frozen turkey, that is for sure. Artie orders domestically raised turkeys from a local poultry farmer that frequents Billy's. He does this every year. And every year it goes like this, one in the oven one on the pit cause he invites the force and a few cronies from Billy's who don't have other plans. That's how we picked up newly divorced Marcus and his sidekick. Marcus had bought the house across the street to be near his single parent role model Artie. So yeah, we need a couple of turkeys the size of Big Bird.

  That first year Angela split, Artie told me they were coming over, Marcus and the kindergarten baby and I declared, "I ain't babysitting."

  Hey, only child here. Unlike so many girls my age I never took to kids. Not the mothering type. Those were my excuses anyway. I considered it might garner me another teaspoon full of Marcus's attention, but more likely I'd end up watching Juney while some other drooling female grabbed his attention.

  But at seventeen, I already knew…he was a monk. So life with the adults suited me fine. That's where the good stuff was, the stories, the jokes, football. Marcus the monk. That's where I wanted to be. I didn't mind cooking, I loved that and the immediate gratification it brought, but chase after your own brats people.