Twisted

by Andrew E. Kaufman

  Swinging his arms back and forth, he considers the table for a moment, then with a shrug, says, “Just us.”

  “So . . . it looks like you may have a few too many place settings. There are five here.”

  He proudly appraises his work again. “It was just in case.”

  “Just in case, what?”

  “In case anyone else wants to come.”

  Kid logic. Gotta love it.

  “Okay . . .” I give him an exaggerated, affirming nod. “Fair enough.”

  Jenna walks in, takes one look at the table, and her expression falls into something like exasperation mixed with learned helplessness.

  “We’ve got this, Mom,” I say, offering her a playful grin. “You never know when we might have uninvited company.”

  Devon giggles.

  My wife shakes her head, then goes back into the kitchen.

  “Come on, kiddo,” I say, “let’s show Mom how quickly we can make the table less crowded. First guy to grab two settings wins.”

  Devon is the victor of our race, and the seating plan is amended and reduced.

  “So how was school today, buddy?” I ask, probing to see if he’ll volunteer what my wife didn’t.

  Devon doesn’t answer, likely as a survival strategy, likely also because he’s too busy rearranging the spinach on his plate.

  My son is a fussy eater.

  Probably one of the worst I’ve ever seen. I was, too, as a kid, but compared to him, I was gluttonous. Hard as Jenna tries to spur his appetite, there isn’t much he likes or will eat.

  “Devon,” she says, trying to strike a delicate balance between patience and assertiveness, “moving your food around won’t make it go away. Can you at least give it the old college try?”

  “I am trying,” he protests, then continues spreading the vegetable around on his plate. He takes a stab at—but does not put into his mouth—the spinach, then moves his effort to the penne pasta, mashing it with his fork and separating the mess into two nearly symmetrical mounds.

  “What’s wrong with the pasta?” Jenna says. “I thought you loved it.”

  “Not this.” A nose crinkle. “It’s got white stuff.”

  “That’s cream sauce, and it’s good.”

  Devon gives the pasta a disapproving flick with his fork.

  “You know,” I say, “if you don’t finish dinner, we couldn’t possibly allow the chocolate cake your mother baked to be your only source of nutrition for the night.”

  Devon’s decision is laser-quick. He digs into the demolished pasta.

  Jenna grins. And I’m pretty sure I’ve won some major points by restoring peace and order to our little world.

  Before sleep, I stop by my son’s room to say good night and find him waiting in bed, Jake close at his side.

  “Great job setting the table tonight, kiddo,” I say, taking a seat beside him.

  “It was fun. Mom says I can do it again tomorrow.” He scrunches his nose. “But she told me not to set the table for company.”

  “Probably a good idea, unless we’re expecting some.”

  He shrugs. “But you never know.”

  “True, you never do. Always good to be optimistic.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  His spontaneous and heartfelt sentiment catches me off guard. It fills a void left open from long ago—so many happy endings that never had the chance to happen, so many things left unsaid.

  All of it cut too short, and far too soon.

  I want to give Devon those things I missed, but even more, I don’t want my pain to become his legacy. I know, perhaps better than most, the need to make every second of every day count.

  I kiss his forehead, shut off the light, then leave his room.

  But opening one door feels like stepping suddenly through another, memories of my own father waiting just on the other side. Memories that are good in so many ways.

  But in others, so terribly tragic.

  5

  A LIE CALLED FOREVER

  Summer evenings with Dad were my favorites.

  I’d lean back in bed, immersed in the smell of jasmine as it drifted through my window. Distant crickets chirped as cars rolled by, creating music that moved seamlessly to the beat of a soft, settling night.

  And I remember the comfort and security of my father’s smile.

  “Daddy,” I said, settling beneath the cool sheets, gazing out at the starry night. “What comes after the sky?”

  He looked there, too, and considered my question. “After the sky comes outer space.”

  “What’s after that?”

  “Then it’s the universe.”

  “And after that?”

  He paused for moment, his expression thoughtful. “Well . . . we don’t really know what comes after. Nobody’s ever gone that far.”

  “How come?”

  “Because it just goes on and on. And it’s a long way back.”

  “You mean like, forever?”

  “That’s what some people think, yes.”

  I fell silent and considered the darkened skies, my young mind trying to process the massive complexity of eternity. Turning back to my father, I said, “But nothing lasts forever.”

  “Some things do.”

  “Like what?”

  His warm smile. “Like my love for you. That will never end.” Then he looked more serious. “My love will always be with you, Christopher, and you’ll always know where to find it.”

  “Where will it be?”

  “Deep inside your heart.”

  I had no way of knowing that disaster lurked silently in wait, ready to take a chunk of my heart and eclipse that love. Each day, I struggle to find balance between the before and after, clinging to the good. But while these fond memories of my father are so very precious, they are also far too few.

  The bad ones, painful and far too many.

  6

  As I enter our bedroom, Jenna looks up from her laptop. With a soft, welcoming smile, she pats the spot beside her on the bed and says, “Come here.”

  I gladly accept the invitation.

  She rests her head on my shoulder, and we indulge in the moment. No words necessary, just silent commingling that feels profoundly exhilarating.

  A few minutes later, she exhales softly, and waves of unrest roll across her face.

  “Talk to me,” I say.

  “It’s about your son.”

  “I sort of gathered . . . Wait. My son?”

  “Yes. He’s always yours when he misbehaves. We’ve discussed this.”

  “Got it. So, what has Devon the Mischievous done now?”

  “It would appear that he hasn’t been eating the lunches I’ve been making.”

  “But I thought he liked your lunches. Isn’t that the whole reason you started packing them? Because he hates the cafeteria food?”

  She serves me a deadpan stare.

  “Point taken,” I say. “He’s a fussy eater.”

  “But now with a disturbing new twist. Not only hasn’t he been eating his meals”—she pauses—“he’s been selling them. It seems our young entrepreneur has been holding auctions at the lunch table.”

  “Auctions,” I repeat, trying to get a visual on this.

  “And my lunches have been quite the hit. For everyone except Devon, of course.”

  “How long has this been going on? The lunchtime profiteering?”

  “There’s no telling.”

  I fall back onto the pillow, shake my head. “This food thing . . . It’s like—”

  “Totally out of hand.”

  “I mean, I was bad, but this kid?”

  “He’s got you beat by a country mile, sweetie.”

  “So how do we handle this?”

  She flops back next t
o me. “We already have. Or I did. There was a discussion. Also a lot of defensive posturing and a lot of yelling. Perhaps a protestation or two of basic human rights violations.”

  “Which, judging by his behavior at dinner, didn’t appear to sink in.”

  “Setting the table was actually part of the punishment. Of course, as only our son can do, he turned it into a carnival.”

  I pull Jenna against me, run a hand up and down her back. “I’m afraid punishment doesn’t work so well for him.”

  “Ahh . . . the psychologist speaks,” she says, walking her fingers along my arm. “But unfortunately, there’s more to this sad little tale.”

  I don’t answer. I’m afraid to.

  “According to Dr. Fratiani,” she continues, “the situation went to hell in a hurry today.”

  “Oh, jeez . . .” Fratiani is Devon’s principal. Adding to the problem, this is the woman who replaced Jenna after she resigned, so there’s always been an underlying note of territorial friction on Fratiani’s part.

  My wife goes on. “Apparently, one of the kids got a little too excited over my apple cobbler. He tried to outbid a boy who’d offered up his Xbox.”

  I cover my face with one hand, motion with the other for her to continue.

  “Kid Number Two volunteered his mother’s Maserati, which our son graciously accepted, then demanded payment. That’s when the fight broke out.”

  “Oh, God. There was a fight . . .”

  “There was, indeed.”

  “Anybody get hurt?”

  She shakes her head, expression grateful, bemused even, but nevertheless distraught. “Luckily. But Devon got very upset. He left school and walked home.”

  Tension pinches the back of my neck, and from Jenna’s slightly narrowed eyes, I can tell she knows where this one is going. Where my worries always do.

  “It’s okay,” she rushes to reassure me.

  “It’s really not.” And as my words come out, the Donny Ray case—the children he abducted and murdered—again puts a stranglehold on my mind.

  “Chris, he was fine . . . Everything is okay.”

  “But it might not have been. He left school, and nobody knew where he was. Kids can’t just walk the streets alone in the middle of the afternoon these days.”

  “Sweetie, I know what you’re saying, but the media exaggerates those risks. The chances that anything could have happened are so slim. You’re forgetting that I’ve worked in the school system for years. I know a lot about the dangers kids face.”

  “But I work in a psychiatric hospital. I see the other side. Hell, I work with it every day. I know what kind of evil is out there. The predators and killers.”

  “I get that—I really do—but look, school is just a few minutes away, and the important thing is that he made it home safe.”

  “And the other thing? The part where he might not have?”

  “I had a talk with him about that and explained the importance of safety. He’s promised to never leave school without permission again.”

  I shift my weight, cross my arms.

  “Chris, please stop worrying about him so much,” she says. “Overreacting causes more harm than any potential danger he might face.”

  “I got a new patient today,” I say, trying to explain my reaction.

  “And?”

  “Ten kids are missing. They think this guy killed them. The last one was Devon’s age.”

  Jenna’s lips part with unsettled understanding, and all at once I know she gets the full context of my edginess from earlier this evening. Admittedly, I do worry too much about Devon’s safety but now perhaps reasonably so.

  This conversation has become way too dark, even for me. Leave work at work, I think. Pulling Jenna close, I place an arm around her, and she again rests her head on my shoulder.

  “Well, there is one good thing,” she offers brightly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Kid’s got a good business sense. Could really pay off for us someday.”

  I shift my shoulder, raise Jenna’s head so we’re face-to-face, and inspect her for evidence of sarcasm.

  She manages to hold an impressively solemn expression in place. For a few seconds.

  Then she cracks.

  Now we’re both laughing, and I’m reminded again that life is indeed all about the contrasts and perspectives.

  7

  IT’S JUST A SHADOW, DARLING

  My mother was the classic example of magical thinking in motion. A woman who believed she could manipulate reality simply by ignoring it. A woman who preferred to avoid the complexities of life rather than live in the messy parts.

  Southern raised, born and bred beautiful, Virginia Lucille Chambers was a stunning redhead, the kind most men could only dream of. And while she was indeed a sight to behold, everything on the inside seemed to contradict what the outside was doing. There was something so broken about her, so incomplete. The short version: my mother was like window dressing draped over a cracked cinder block wall.

  From the start—and at their best—my parents never had the high-functioning or strong-loving marriage that I think was my father’s dream. Mom was skilled at projecting a facade of buoyant optimism, which along with her beauty made her an easy sell to men. But beneath the surface, she was a jumble of complexity. Unfortunately, by the time my father figured that out, it was too late.

  Whenever anything went wrong—she forgot to pay the gas bill three months running; she gave away my father’s heirloom casserole dish as a gift for a neighbor—Mom flashed a little charm, poured a nice glass of sweet tea, and pretended whatever it was had never happened. That would be my father’s cue to come swooping in and turn her fantasy into reality. He’d clean up the mess, make it go away, and then, presto change-o, that was that. This crazy, backward dance became our family blueprint, our baseline for normalcy, while our foundation progressively crumbled.

  The evidence of my mother’s pathology was both illustrative and endless. One day, while driving me home from school, she decided that applying lipstick was more important than watching the road. Seconds later, we hopped a curb and hit a trash can, which flew into a speedy roll, dead-ending in a neighbor’s cellar window.

  And she kept driving.

  “Mom! What are you doing?” I said, watching as she made her mistake disappear in our tracks.

  “It was only a trash can, dear,” she replied, then stepped on the gas. “It’s nothing.”

  “But that trash can just broke a window!”

  A mild shrug, an oblivious smile. “I didn’t see that happen.”

  “But I did!”

  “And you didn’t, either.”

  “How can you just—”

  “I said, you didn’t, either.”

  Whether we saw it was academic, because the homeowner most certainly had, and about ten minutes later, he came stomping up our front walkway. When he banged on the door, my mother ignored it, continuing to unload groceries. Dad, by now an expert at sensing this kind of trouble, immediately headed for the front door while keeping a wary eye on my mother.

  Several minutes later, it was all taken care of, my dad apologizing profusely for his wife’s derelict behavior and writing a check to cover the damages, his wife acting as if none of it had happened.

  Problem solved.

  Business as usual.

  But living with such lunacy eventually took its toll, and my father wasn’t the only victim. Struggling to survive inside this thickly encapsulated, reality-skewed world was no way for a kid to grow up. It was shaky footing indeed, one that continued to chip away at my ability to trust the tangible.

  Me at age ten. “Mom! There’s a giant spider on the ceiling!”

  Painting her toenails, refusing to take her eyes off them, “Nonsense. There are no spiders in this house.”
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br />   “But you’re not even looking at it!”

  Finishing one foot, moving onto the next, “It’s just a shadow, darling.”

  “It’s not a shadow. It’s got legs!”

  “Such a willful mind you have,” she replied through a dismissive laugh, wiggling her toes and admiring them. “I swear I don’t know where that comes from.”

  The irony.

  The following afternoon, still bothered by the incident, I asked my dad, “How come Mom pretends?”

  His smile was tolerant and knowing. “Your mother’s a bit, well . . . she’s different.”

  “Different.”

  Sensing my confusion and taking the cue, he said, “Or maybe a better way to say it would be fragile.”

  I still didn’t get it.

  “Think of it this way,” he went on. “What happens when you drop a tomato onto the ground?”

  I shrugged. “It smashes?”

  “And how about an orange?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Because of the outside?”

  “Exactly. Some are tougher than others.”

  “Which one is Mom?”

  He laughed. “Probably somewhere between the two. But that’s just how she is, and we love her anyway because of what’s on the inside.”

  Well-meaning but completely flawed logic that, as the years wore on, would continue to fail the test of time.

  Logic that would eventually backfire in the worst possible way, leaving my dad to pay the biggest price.

  8

  The hospital seems busier than usual—more people, more noise, more chaos. I’ve worked here long enough to gauge the activity without actually seeing it. Built in the 1930s, this building is so frail and rundown that sound travels easily through walls. Besides the structural shortcomings, poor planning has placed my office beneath Acute Care, a sort of psychiatric emergency room. There’s a lot of foot-pounding, cart rolling, and screaming, all of which at times make concentration difficult. Above that are six stories filled with treatment facilities and rooms for our patients, making Loveland often feel like a loose house of cards just waiting to buckle and collapse at any minute.