“How’s Andrew these days?” my father asks.
“He’s fine. He’s been pretty busy at work.” So we Haxbys just continue to lie to each other. That’s how we do business here.
“Good,” he says, and rubs his hands together. “Let’s order.” Since there is a fixed menu this afternoon, what my father actually means is Let’s get this thing started, so we can be done sooner. We are uncomfortable sitting at this large table full of small untruths; we have left ourselves little room for conversation.
After we place our order, the meal comes out quickly. The staff makes a big show of presentation with our food, placing it in front of us with much fanfare and the elaborate lifting of clattering lids. One of the busboys even says “Voilà” when he opens mine.
Before we dig in, my dad says grace, which is something he does only when we are out in public. Hands steepled in prayer, eyes shut, more-salt less-pepper hair left a little long in the front tucked behind his ears. He looks earnest—schoolboyish, younger than his fifty-eight years—when he gives thanks for the food and that we can share this wonderful meal together, amen.
Our plates are filled with the quintessential Thanksgiving elements, turkey and mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, except the food is brought out in individual portions. I find this depressing, my single-serve meal, compartmentalized neatly into carefully scooped circles.
“Would you like some of my cranberry sauce?” I ask.
“I have the same thing, Emily,” my dad says. “Why would I want some of yours when I have my own?”
I guess it doesn’t matter that we don’t have much to say to each other over lunch, because we are interrupted constantly. I’m sure this is why my dad wanted to come here to begin with; it is a prime opportunity to mix business with obligation. Serious-looking men and women come over to shake my father’s hand and pat him heartily on the back. We keep friendly smiles plastered onto our faces, our job as heads of the networking brigade. A few families approach also, people from the neighborhood whom I have known for years but think of rarely. Their names come up now only when my dad has some piece of gossip to report, mostly births and deaths.
A few divorcées stop by, one at a time, on their way to the “powder room.” They brush my father’s cheek with kisses, showering him in cleavage and perfume and hints like “We should grab that drink.” He accepts their offerings graciously, as if surprised by the attention, as if he doesn’t notice their hunger, though since my mother died, my father has been the most eligible bachelor in Greenwich. He is attractive, successful, and widowed—which means he lacks both a pesky ex-wife and the baggage of the perennial bachelor. To his credit, he has never been particularly interested in exploiting these opportunities, friendly to these women partially to preserve their dignity, partially to preserve their vote.
I think the old family friends are the ones who remind me most why I never liked it here. The self-promotion is shameless. We hear about daughters marrying into “families in hedge funds,” eight-thousand-square-foot vacation homes, and graduation from various Ivies. I compliment one woman’s bag, and she says, “Oh, this little thing?” and then quietly, “Marc Jacobs, Barneys,” as if she is embarrassed that it is so readily available to the masses. We hear in exaggerated, gleeful whispers about other people’s misfortunes—bankruptcies, cancer, divorce.
It is not the wealth, per se, that I find uncomfortable. After all, I used to work at APT, where the partners make millions each year. It is the culture of competition stirred with schadenfreude that I find disheartening. Afterward, I feel like I spent the last hour getting one-upped by Carisse. Like I am getting my ass kicked in a game I am not even playing.
I somehow avoid the subject of work until we are eating our pumpkin pie. We are not given slices of pie, mind you, but individual mini-pies with a round mini-crust. I think they are supposed to be cute, these midget pies.
“So, how’s work?” my dad asks, reverting to what used to be our safe topic. I knew this was coming, of course, but I hadn’t yet decided how I was going to answer. If I tell the truth, the worst thing that can happen is that my dad will get upset with me. If I lie, nothing will happen.
I lie.
“Good,” I say. “Busy.”
“And the Synergon case? How’s that going?”
“Fine. Can’t really talk about it, though. Attorney-client privilege.”
“Oh.” My dad’s face falls. I’m not sure if this is because I don’t let him go down the one avenue in which we connect or if it bothers him that I am part of a club in which he can’t be a member. His look makes me feel guilty, though, and I second-guess myself. Maybe I should come clean? But this seems impossible now that I have lied straight to his face. I decide to throw him a different bone and change the subject to politics, his other favorite topic.
“And how’s work for you? Any big news in the governor’s office?”
“I’m glad you asked. I am proud to say we added fifteen thousand new jobs this year alone.” My question is all it takes. We spend the rest of the meal and the entire car ride to Riverdale discussing Connecticut politics, a subject I have learned through osmosis. Since we are card-carrying members of different parties, though, we have become adept at sidestepping all discussion of ideology.
“So, say you are on Fox News and you have to fend off Bill O’Reilly. What would you do?” he asks.
“Vomit on his shoes.”
“Be serious, Emily. If you have strong opinions you need to learn how to sell them. It is no longer just about the idea anymore. It’s the packaging. It’s the ability to communicate the idea.”
“I know how to argue,” I say. “I went to law school.”
“You are missing the point. It is not about arguing. It’s about P.R. It’s about the spin. For example, you should start your sentences with things like I am sure you would agree that, blah, blah, blah,” he says. “It makes the other side have to articulate an opposition to something that it’s impossible to be against.”
“So what you are telling me is that it is all about oppositional force,” I say. “It’s much harder to argue against nothing than against something. There is no give and take without the give.”
“Exactly. I am saying it’s all about talking without talking. That’s the skill.”
“Talking without talking?”
“Yup, talking without talking.”
“I can do that.”
“What took you guys so darn long?” Grandpa Jack asks when we walk into his room on the constant-care floor. He is sitting on a chair, flipping through an old National Geographic magazine filled with bare-breasted tribal women. There are few nurses around because of the holiday, and the place is desolate. Everyone here has given up, packed it in, and gone to either home or heaven. My grandfather’s abrupt welcome doesn’t portend well for the visit. Maybe it was overly optimistic of me to hope for a good day.
“Hey, Grandpa Jack,” I say, and give him a kiss. The aide I hired to keep my grandfather company jumps to her feet, looks at her watch, and then at me. I nod back that she can leave, but I am too distracted to remember to thank her until she is already out the door.
“Hi, Dad,” my father says, and shakes Grandpa Jack’s hand.
“Where the hell have you guys been?” my grandfather asks, waving away our greetings. “Our reservation was for five-thirty.”
My father takes a step back and turns his head away, unable to look me or my grandfather in the eye. It is immediately apparent that he has not been here to visit in a long, long time. This Grandpa Jack is new to him, the one with skin too taut over his mouth and paper-thin over his cheekbones, the one where he is reduced to delusion by the snap, crackle, and pop of a synapse, by a neuron misfire. Grandpa Jack now has mottled flesh, and swollen eyelids, and the haunted face of someone who has lived too long.
“Sorry. We got tied up. It’s okay, though. We can have Thanksgiving here,” I say. My tone is overly bright, and my fake enthusiasm only seems to he
ighten the tension in the room.
“What about the show, Martha?” Grandpa Jack says. My dad’s head falls into his hands at the mention of his mother, who has been dead since I was in diapers. Her reappearance makes me question reality for a split second; could we all be laboring under a gross misunderstanding? But, of course, this is nothing but my own chemical spill of hope.
“We’re not going to the show, Grandpa. But we’re going to eat turkey. It’s all laid out downstairs.” My father catches my eye and signals toward the door.
“We’ll be right back, Grandpa.” This is so he doesn’t get scared that we have left him behind. It doesn’t matter who he thinks we are; I don’t want him to think he’s alone.
My father and I step outside into what looks like the hallway of a hospital. It is white, and smells of antiseptic, and electronic gadgets are strewn about. Disembodied sounds echo against the walls, the groans of old people shifting positions in their beds. A woman in blue scrubs sits alone behind a Formica arc at the nurses’ station, rifling through a greasy paper bag from McDonald’s. I make a mental note to invite her to the feast we have set up downstairs. I plan on doing this, not for her benefit, but for ours.
My dad leads me by the elbow farther down the hall and steers me into a little nook with two chairs and a vending machine. It is the sort of nook where people deliver bad news.
“What’s up?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” my dad asks, and points his long fingers in my face to show his distress. He bites his cuticles too, I think absently. I’ve never noticed that he does that too.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he screams, this time his tone unmistakably violent. I am too shocked to answer. I have never heard my dad use the word “fuck.” Not once in my entire life. My father has also never yelled at me, despite my having tried to provoke him for the entirety of my adolescence. The experience is so foreign, I’m not sure if it’s unpleasant. It’s definitely confusing, though, and I can tell that he, too, is surprised by his harsh words. Have we all lost our minds? Has there been some sort of Haxby collective short circuit?
“What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be like this? Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten this bad?” My dad bangs his fist against the white wall, and his bare knuckles scrape against the plaster.
“I did tell you.” A wave of exhaustion rushes over me, competing with the anger gearing up just below.
“I did tell you,” I say again, but this time it comes out like a whisper.
“No you didn’t. You didn’t tell me he was like this.” His tone is now that of a petulant child. He’s no longer the powerful guy I had lunch with, the one who was glad-handing every person at the country club. Right now he looks haunted and lost, like a kid who wants his mommy to tell him everything is going to be all right. Funny that I feel exactly the same way.
“What the fuck do you think Alzheimer’s looks like, Dad? You could have seen for yourself the day Grandpa went missing. If you had bothered to call me back. Or maybe you could have come to the neurologist and talked to the doctor yourself. Oh, I know, you could have taken time from your busy fucking schedule running fucking Connecticut to visit some other time.” I stop to catch my breath.
“Or maybe, maybe you were just too busy fucking Anne.” I scream at him with such force that my father takes a step back, absorbing my words like a physical blow. But I am not done. Not yet. My fury comes spilling out, brutally throwing up words, like I have some bizarre strain of the stomach flu.
“And why is this my fucking fault? Why is this my fucking responsibility? He is your father. He is your family too. You think this is easy for me?” I yell as loud as my voice will go, until it feels harsh in my throat. Until it hurts.
“Well, it’s not. It’s not easy. How dare you?” I demand, because I can’t think of anything else to throw at him. I am shocked by the power of my outburst, and just as quickly as it comes over me, it dissipates. It leaves no residual anger behind, only overwhelming tiredness. I slide down the wall until I am sitting in an upward fetal position. I cradle my knees and rest my head against them. I hear weeping sounds and don’t immediately realize that they are coming from me. This sort of encounter, the tears and the yelling, is unprecedented, and it feels bizarre for my dad and me to be so off script. Neither of us says anything for a little while, letting the break take some of the heat out of the moment.
My dad eventually sits next to me on the floor, both of us mopping up dust with our black suits and neither of us caring. He folds into exactly the same position I am in and then takes his arm and puts it around my shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I notice his face is wet too. “I’m so, so sorry.” My dad grabs me into a hug, and my running nose leaves a mark on his sleeve.
“I wasn’t expecting this, for him to be like this,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“I just sort of freaked out,” he says.
“I know,” I say again. Although my dad may be my parent, I know he is still Grandpa Jack’s child.
My father and I walk slowly back to the room, each step taken deliberately, like we are the ones in need of “constant care.” When we pass the nurses’ station, I notice that the woman is no longer sitting behind the counter, and I am relieved. I don’t want to invite her to our Thanksgiving after all. I want it to be just the three of us.
For the second time today, I stuff myself with turkey and potatoes and cranberry sauce, somehow making extra room in my stomach for another round. My grandfather, my dad, and I sit around a small oak table in one of the private rooms downstairs. The food is set out family style, and since the caterers forgot to leave serving spoons, we dig our own utensils into the aluminum pans. Our forks leave track marks in the mountainous glob of mashed potatoes.
My father, though subdued, takes a second helping of food and offers to refill each of our plates. He keeps staring at Grandpa Jack, as if he is trying to visually pinpoint where everything went so wrong. Or maybe he is just looking for evidence that the person in front of him is still his father.
“Your son came to visit the other day,” Grandpa Jack says to my dad when he gets up to dish out another serving of apple pie. Until now the delusions have taken the form of a sort of time travel; if Grandpa Jack is not talking to us here and now, he is talking to his wife and kid fifty years ago. I wonder if this is what we all have to look forward to. Complete disassociation with anything concrete or real.
“He is such a fine young man. And a doctor!” My grandfather claps his hands together at this, pure joy about his imagined grandson.
“Dad, I don’t have a son. Just Emily, remember?”
“Don’t be silly, Kirk. He was here just two days ago. He’s gotten so tall, you know? And he let me win at poker.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask Ruth. She was so happy to see him. We both emptied the poor kid’s pockets.”
“Andrew?” I ask. Andrew came to visit Grandpa Jack?
“Andrew!” My grandfather repeats after me, and claps his hand again. “I won four games in a row. Such a nice young man.”
“Why would Andrew visit without telling you?” my dad asks, and I feel my stomach bottom out.
“He did. Tell me, I mean. I just forgot,” I say. My dad looks confused, but lets it go. Did Andrew really come to visit Grandpa Jack? Or is this just another delusion?
“We played a lot of poker,” Grandpa Jack says, and takes a wad of cash out of his pants pocket.
“See, I won thirty bucks.”
After dinner my father drops me in the city on his way back to Connecticut. We don’t say much on the ride, both of us too tired to speak. Despite the fact that my father and I have made what Dr. Lerner would call “progress,” I am relieved that this day is almost over.
“About Christmas,” my dad says, when I start to climb out of the car.
“Yeah?”
“What do you feel li
ke doing this year?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“In light of what’s going on with Jack, what do you say we skip it?”
“Skip it?”
“Yeah, I don’t really feel up to celebrating, and I’m sure you don’t want to either. So why don’t we just, you know, ignore it.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem right to celebrate. Don’t you think?”
“I guess.”
“It would just be wrong.”
“Right,” I say. “So we’ll just skip it. I’ll just pretend—”
“Right. Like it’s not—”
“Like it’s not Christmas.”
Twenty-four
When Kate knocks on my door at two-thirty in the morning the day after Thanksgiving, she interrupts a disturbing dream in which Grandpa Jack and Andrew are playing strip poker. She wakes me, mercifully, just before they are each down to their tighty-whiteys. Kate, on the other hand, is dressed in flannel pajama bottoms, a Columbia sweatshirt, and slipper socks. She doesn’t say anything to me, though I haven’t seen her in weeks. She just stands at my door, with puffy eyes, a leaking nose, and no shoes. But it’s only when I see that her hair is curly that I know this is a real emergency. I immediately move into action, and within thirty seconds she is seated on my couch with a wad of Kleenex in one hand and a Jack and Coke in the other.
“The wedding is off,” she says, staring into her drink as if it contains the tea leaves to her future.
“What?”
“The wedding is off,” she says again. This time her voice cracks, and I can see she is fighting back another round of tears.
“What happened?” I sit across from her on the couch and rub my eyes to wake myself up. I consider pouring myself a stiff drink too. I’m not sure I can handle the disintegration of Kate and Daniel; there’s comfort in knowing that there are people in this world who not only believe in “the One” but actually find them.
The Opposite of Love Page 17
