Aunt Barbara loved art of all types, and she was a decent painter. My aunt also knew she wasn’t the best painter, so she was content to own a gallery and showcase those who were better. I also thought my aunt preferred being out of the limelight. Organization was her thing. Need help getting life in order? Go to her.
She was also probably one of the worst cooks I knew, which didn’t mean we never went to her house for dinner. Every other week, my family congregated at Aunt Barbara’s to pretend we liked her meals. It was a tradition. The other weeks, we ate at my parents’ house, where my mom cooked. Mom excelled in the kitchen, but none of us ever gave her too much praise. It was an unspoken rule out of kindness to Aunt Barbara.
I wasn’t sure why my aunt was such a horrible cook. Her husband, Roger, had upgraded her kitchen so many times that she had gadgets and appliances that made most chefs drool. But the upgrades did nothing to improve the final product. There was not enough salt and pepper to help her bland and boring dishes. But I loved her for trying.
Aunt Barbara sounded normal, right? Here was the hitch. My aunt and uncle were happy, and they got along great and were best friends. However, they slept in separate bedrooms. Roger always had another woman on the side. Somehow, my aunt either lied to herself completely, or just didn’t care about her husband’s affairs. None of us ever talked about it. Never.
I couldn’t live that way, but who was I to judge others? If they were happy, more power to them. It took a lot of restraint for my mother not to say anything in front of Roger. The youngest child, my mother idolized her sister from the beginning, and Roger’s infidelities cut her to the bone. Only Mom’s respect for her sister kept her mute. The revelation that my father might be having an affair was the closest Mom had ever came to criticizing Roger. But Mom was so self-involved she probably couldn’t see it that way.
My mom, Nell Tisdale, was the opposite of Barbara. Her clothes were flashy, but not over-the-top. Some women in their fifties didn’t understand they couldn’t dress like teenagers. My mom got that, but she was not ready to be an old woman either. She always looked put-together with flawless makeup and a toned body that she worked hard for by running every day and working out three times a week. Some might consider my aunt frumpy, although no one would think that about my mom. When I was in high school, I had to endure listening to all my guy friends talk about how much they wanted to fuck my mother. And mom knew it. She flaunted it. If I had to choose one word to describe my mom, I would cheat and say “attention-seeking.”
I didn’t think Mom had low self-esteem, but maybe she did in a way. It seemed more like my mother just craved attention. After all, she had always been used to getting it. Right from the start, she was a beauty.
While Barbara was an average painter, my mother was a brilliant writer. She had awards coming out the ying-yang. Mom published her first book at the age of twenty-one and received instant success and fame. None of her novels have flopped—not one. She’s never failed. And even though Mom drove me completely batty, I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. Oh, we didn’t always get along. We loved to bicker. But my mom would kill any son of a bitch who hurt me. Think a mother bear was protective of her cub? Just wait until meeting my mom.
So what was unusual about my mom? She was sex-crazed. My mom wasn’t like Roger. She didn’t have affairs. But she talked about sex. All. The. Time. It made me uncomfortable—really who wanted to hear about their parents fucking? Not me.
Mom knew I hated hearing it, and to be honest, I thought she talked about it just to get under my skin. It was another of her attention-seeking ways. Unfortunately, I let her get to me, which only added fuel to the fire. Those were the women who raised me. Now for the men.
My father, Warren Tisdale, went by the name “Dale.” He was taciturn, but not in a hurtful way. Dad didn’t have the best childhood. He never mentioned it, and I didn’t think he had figured out how to talk about feelings, but that didn’t mean he was off-limits for me when I needed him. I could go to my father and chat with him, and he’d listen. Not once did Dad offer me advice, but he was always willing to listen, night or day. And he gave the best hugs—ones that let me know he loved me. My father may not have said it, but he showed it. It was probably a good thing he didn’t talk much because Mom never shut up. It was a relief to have one parent who would listen and not try to outdo me when it came to speaking about things that were troubling to me.
My mother thought he was the most handsome fellow ever. I didn’t see that, but I’m glad she did. I couldn’t handle another cheater in this family. My mom also thought he was a sex machine; I always shoved my fingers in my ears when she said this.
Dad was just shy of six feet, like me. He had salt-and-pepper hair, kind brown eyes, and his stomach was starting to jut out over his belt. He had zero fashion sense, and super-skinny legs. None of that mattered. He was my father, and I loved him. He was pretty much a typical father of his generation: quiet, a good provider, and a person who stayed out of the limelight.
My uncle was also extremely involved in raising me. This shocked the few people who knew about his infidelities. Roger was handsome for his age. He reminded me of Sean Connery but without the Scottish accent. Silver hair added to his appeal and rugged good looks. If anyone needed backup in a bar fight, he was the man. In his younger days, he boxed, and his nose hadn’t been straight since.
I never defended his infidelities. I didn’t get it and I never will. However, over the years I learned to love the man, despite this flaw. I would feel like a shit for not recognizing all that he has done for me. He’s been there for me since I was born. Roger was the one who got me interested in basketball. Neither of my parents were sporty. Yes, my mom worked out, but she had no ability at any sport, unless poker counted. I wouldn’t suggest playing cards with her—she cheated, I was sure of it, but I haven’t figured out a way of proving it.
Roger was an athlete, and he saw potential in me. We started with shooting hoops in the backyard. Then he signed me up for teams and clinics. One summer, he paid for me to attend an elite basketball camp. Mom wasn’t happy about that since I was away for weeks. She liked having me close to home, and I liked being close to home, but I still had a blast at the camp. When Harvard asked me to play on their team, my mother was thrilled, even though they wouldn’t offer me a scholarship since Ivy League schools don’t allow scholarships. I didn’t play for Harvard in the hope of winning an NCAA championship. (Let’s face it, Harvard was never a contender.) My family had attended Harvard for more than a hundred years—actually closer to two hundred years, but I was the first Tisdale to play any sport at the institution. I took great pride in that.
Some people were surprised when they met me, since many associated my name with basketball. I was not Shaquille O’Neal tall, although I towered over my mother. My hair was thin, mousy brown, and never held a curl. Every stylist who ever tried curling my hair quit after the first hour. My eyes were deep blue but always looked bloodshot, probably since I was always sleep-deprived. I had pale skin: fish-belly white in winter and more of a pink shade in summer. My teeth were straight, except for one at the bottom front, which jutted out because I refused to wear my retainer once my braces were removed. Being stubborn could be a total bitch. Thankfully, my teeth were as white as can be, thanks to my dentist and my obsession with brushing them. Doesn’t everyone brush their teeth five times a day or more?
A few years ago, I was riding high. I was in a master’s program at Harvard and had several short stories published. It’ll sound smug, but my stories were brilliant. I was the new “It” girl. The daughter of famous Nell Tisdale, I was making my own splash in the literary pond. An agent approached me. Publishers wanted me to write a book. My agent brokered a deal. I had it made, absolutely made.
My book deal was an impressive arrangement for a newbie. Not J. K. Rowling or Stephen King big, but it was pretty fucking good. I even went on some local morning talk shows with my mot
her.
Kat loved all the attention I was getting. People started to recognize me when I was out and about. Foolishly, I proclaimed to my spendthrift girlfriend, “All of our money worries are over. From now on, you can spend, spend, spend.”
At the time, I knew Kat loved to shop. I gave her a blank check, and now I could no longer cover it. God that made me feel like a failure.
I’ve had my life planned out since birth. Mom and Aunt Barbara used to joke that I’d grabbed the bull by the horns as soon as I popped out. Nothing stopped me.
I skipped crawling completely and started walking well before my first birthday.
Potty training—a breeze.
Sports, dancing, and school came easily to me.
I never struggled with a thing.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t work hard; I did. I knew how good I had it, and I didn’t want to take anything for granted. It was not in our blood—being lazy. My family, from the moment we stepped off the ship and onto American soil, excelled. Ever hear of the Puritan work ethic? That fit us to the core. Toil, toil, and more toil. And when tired, we worked some more. None of us knew how to slow down. My grandfather was ninety-three when he died. He married late in life and didn’t start a family until his forties. When he died, he was sitting at his desk working on his last book. He quit teaching years earlier but never “officially” retired from academia. Grandfather cranked out article after article and then decided to write a book on the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
Just like everyone in my family, I knew what I was doing and where I wanted my life to go; that is, until I sat down to actually write my novel.
At first, everything went according to plan. Within a few months I had it half finished. But as I continued, I realized I didn’t have an ending. How can someone write a novel, or two-thirds of a novel, and not have a clue where it’s fucking going?
My agent would like to know the answer to that as well. So would the publisher who had already advanced a substantial amount of money based on my short stories, my mom’s name, and the “It” girl label.
I was teetering on the precipice of complete and total failure, and I was scared shitless. Never before had I experienced failure. Never before had I wanted something so much. No one in my family had ever failed—that was not a tradition I wanted to start.
I had been trying to put my finger on the issue for months. Everything in my life was going well. I had a beautiful, supportive girlfriend. My family, while crazy, would do absolutely anything for me. I was highly educated, motivated, in good health, and happy. I wished I could use the excuse that I was battling depression, or I was an alcoholic, or that I was a drug addict. But I was not any of those things.
I was just failing.
Maybe if I had failed earlier in life, I would know what to do, but it was too fucking late for that now! This was not the time to learn a life lesson. My reputation, my career, and my future were on the line—not to mention my mom’s reputation.
Mom went to all my interviews. She sat with me on the couch, spouting off about how proud she was of me and how I would be an even better writer than her. Not once had she thrown that in my face, not even when it became apparent that something had gone horribly wrong with my novel. Mom gave me shit about my writing, or lack thereof, but she never made me feel bad about damaging her good name. If my grandfather were alive, he wouldn’t be as kind. He might have disowned me.
Let’s just say, I felt like crap about everything that happened over the last sixteen months. Crap really wasn’t the right word, but I couldn’t think of a better one at the moment. And when I walked into Beantown Café to ask for my job back, I wanted to jump off the Tobin Bridge instead. Not that I would actually do that. Suicide was not an option. Not in our family. Putting our noses to the grindstone was all that we understood. So I was donning my Beantown Café apron once again and chipping away at my debt, one fucking penny at a time. What asshole said, “A penny saved is a penny earned”? I wish I could throw him off the Tobin Bridge. I couldn’t save any pennies. Everything went to American Express. Fucking bastards.
Chapter Three
After my shift at Beantown, I headed to my mother’s house. Mom sent me a text every ten minutes after I hung up on her, informing me that if I didn’t stop by I wouldn’t be her daughter anymore. My mother was more dramatic than a squad of high school cheerleaders on prom night. Ignoring Mom wasn’t an option, unless I wanted to suffer for the rest of my life.
As soon as I entered my childhood home, she started in.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.” Mom waved her arms in the air and looked as if she were having trouble breathing.
“What’s wrong?” I rushed to her, thinking she was having a heart attack or something. Her breathing was erratic, her face scarlet, and she was pacing in the front room.
“Your father and that woman!” Mom sat down heavily on the couch. “What will everyone say?”
“Mother, for the last time. Dad is not having an affair.”
“Yes he is!” Her eyes bored into mine.
“All right, what proof do you have?” I crossed my arms, disregarding her distress now that I knew it was for show.
“A wife knows, Cori. A wife knows,” she cried.
I studied my mother. Her usually perfect hair was a mess, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Was this part of her act? It was hard to know with Mom.
Her beady eyes demanded a response.
“Like the time you thought he bought a sports car without telling you?”
“I admit I was wrong then, but how was I supposed to know he rented the car to surprise me for our anniversary? I always wanted a Jag. But I’m not wrong this time.” Her tone told me she wouldn’t budge on this.
I tried steering the subject away from my father’s imaginary affair. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge. Help yourself.” She waved her hand in the air like a beauty queen in a parade.
I returned with a slice of cheese pizza.
“You know, Barbara’s husband has cheated on her from the beginning. It was only a matter of time before your father did.” Mom exhaled sharply, clutching her throat like it was on fire.
“That’s why you’re stuck on this. You’re always competing with Aunt Barbara, but this is really low, even for you.” I ripped off another piece of pizza, mumbling between mouthfuls, “Dad is nothing like Roger. You can’t compete when it comes to this, so don’t even try.” I waggled the half-eaten slice at her.
Mom shook my words away with a toss of her head. “I know it’s true, Cori. I wish you would believe me. Kat does,” she murmured.
“What?” I pulled the pizza away from my mouth. “When did you and Kat talk about this?”
“This morning. When you hung up on me!” she shrieked.
“I was at work!”
Again my mother dismissed me, this time by swiping strands of hair out of her face. “She’s always there for me, unlike someone else I know.”
I let out a long, slow breath. “Well, then, what does my girlfriend have to say on the subject?”
“She agrees with me completely. Do you know the last time your father and I had sex? He hasn’t even asked for a BJ.”
I nearly fell out of my chair. “Mother! I do not want to hear about this.” I jumped up, uncomfortable. God she was sex-crazed—always talking about it.
“Why? Kat listens to me.”
“You’ve talked to my girlfriend about that?”
“Of course, dear. Women talk about this stuff. Don’t be a prude.”
Her steady voice unnerved me.
“Women talk about this ‘stuff’ with their friends. Not with their daughter’s girlfriend. I forbid you to talk to her.” I planted my feet firmly on the ground.
“Forbid me? Who do you think you are?” Mom crossed her arms defensively, her foot tapping out a rhythm on the floor.
“Seriously, you need to think about the stuff you blurt out of your mouth. You can’t go around talking to Kat about sex, especially when it involves you and my father.” I shook my head, trying to permanently dislodge the images from my brain.
“At least Kat talks to me. All you do is hang up on me.” She pouted, running her hands up and down her arms to comfort herself.
“Look at me! I’m here right now, talking to you. I should be working on my lecture for this evening, but no, I came to see how you’re doing?”
Mom’s expression perked up. “That reminds me. The three of us are meeting at Pablo’s Café after your class.” Her face clouded over as she gazed out the front window and her voice dripped with scorn as she added, “I’m sure your father will be with his hussy this evening.”
I considered responding, but opted to stay quiet.
“Don’t worry, I know money is tight right now, so I’ll pay for dinner,” she said. “And that’s another thing I want to talk to you about. You need to stop making Kat feel guilty about not being able to find a job.”
“What? Make her feel guilty? I never mention it. Not one bit.” I really didn’t. Not once had I said or suggested that she should get a job. She should, but I knew the likelihood of that happening was pretty much nil. Kat knew how to spend money, not how to make it.
“She says she can see it in your eyes. I know Kat likes to shop, but you can’t lay all the blame on her. Blame the Republicans.” Mom punctuated her statement with a quick nod.
Yes, it’s all George Bush’s fault, even though he’s been out of office for years now. I was not a Republican, but unlike Mom, I couldn’t continue to blame them for everything. They didn’t tell her to go shopping every day. That was, unless Kat was still following George’s advice after 9/11. I still couldn’t believe that idiot, after the country was attacked, and how he said everything would be all right and that Americans should go shopping. Don’t worry about a thing, just go shopping.
Confessions From A Coffee Shop Page 2
