by Theresa Alan
Both times, her parents had canceled on her at the last minute, citing work or sudden illness.
The days preceding graduation weekend had been no different, but this time, instead of asking her parents to visit during a weekend when they had a performance, the Pyrits planned a special performance to coincide with her parents’ visit.
Marin didn’t come out and say that she’d really like for her parents to see what a talented actress she’d become over the past four years. She didn’t say how important it was to her that they get a glimpse of something that was of tremendous importance in her life, nor did she say how much she wanted them to meet her best friends. The five friends had become so close over the years that their mannerisms, sayings, and beliefs had influenced each other so much, they didn’t realize what a huge impact they’d had on each other’s lives until someone outside their group commented on how Ana’s and Marin’s laughs were eerily similar, Scott and Jason made the exact same facial expression when they found something to be odd “You like peanut butter and pickled herring sandwiches? Oooh-kay,” or how Ramiro and Ana made the same gesticulations when they described something they felt passionate about. The five of them were a tiny melting pot of their own, cross-pollinating their opinions and cultural backgrounds.
No, Marin would never admit that having her parents take an interest in her life was of any importance whatsoever. When her parents had promised to visit and then didn’t, she would go on and on about how it was such a relief, she couldn’t stand them, they didn’t get along at all. But her excitement had been obvious by the frantic way she’d run around trying to beautify herself and the house before they were to arrive, and her disappointment when they didn’t were obvious in the quick flashes of sorrow in her eyes that were quickly masked with a too-bright smile.
The graduation ceremony was on a Saturday morning, and Marin’s parents were going to take the other four Iron Pyrits and Ana’s mother out to dinner that night. Marin’s parents’ personal assistant had scoped out a swanky restaurant in Denver and made all the reservations from New York. So the Pyrits planned the show for Sunday night, renting space at Old Main theater on campus. They posted flyers around campus, and emailed friends to encourage them to “have a cheap night of cheap laughs.”
Marin had planned Sunday out to the minute. First a quick walk through Chautauqua park so her parents could see the beauty of the Flatirons and the mountains, then breakfast at a pricey restaurant on the Pearl Street mall, followed by a stroll along the outdoor mall so they could see the cute shops selling jewelry, artwork, and clothes by local and national artists. That night they’d have dinner at the Full Moon Grill, a small restaurant that served delicious food and whose menu changed daily based on what was in season.
That Friday night Ana and Marin had gone to the airport to pick them up. When Ana saw Marin’s mother, Joan, walk off the plane, it was all she could do to keep her chin from dropping to the floor. Marin’s mother was resplendent. Marin’s father was very distinguished, too, and he also had beautifully tailored clothes, a distressingly perfect manicure (Ana spent the evening furtively sneaking peeks at his nails to determine if he was wearing clear polish or if his nails were just buffed to a dazzling shine—buffed, she determined after much internal debate), and the kind of steel gray, expertly cut hair sported by illustrious patriarchs in soap operas, but it was Joan who captivated Ana. She was gorgeous. She looked far too young to have a twenty-two-year-old daughter, let alone a twenty-five-year-old son. She was tall and thin and her clothes were made out of such sumptuous materials, Ana desperately wanted to reach out and stroke Joan’s arm.
For the next twenty-four hours, Ana was painfully jealous of Marin. She wanted a mother who was so classy, so well-dressed, so refined. Joan always said the right thing. When Scott and Ramiro got into an argument about the upcoming presidential election, she managed to somehow agree with both of them, making both of them feel like they were right.
Ana had been so embarrassed by her mother’s cheap, unflattering clothes and haircut that made her look like the women who were dragged kicking and screaming out of their trailers every week on Cops.
Dinner Friday night, graduation, post-graduation brunch, and the celebratory dinner all went well. Fun was had by all, even Ana, even if she did blush just about every time her mother uttered a word.
Then Sunday morning, Marin had showered, blown her hair dry, and gotten dressed. Just as she was furiously brushing her teeth, the phone rang.
“Marin, it’s your mom!” Ana called.
About half a second later, Marin had rinsed her mouth and sprinted to the phone.
“Hello?” she answered, a smile on her face. The smile evaporated instantly. “You’re kidding. Really? I had the whole day planned. I was really looking forward to you seeing us perform. No, of course, I understand. Yeah, it was really nice to see you, too. Thanks for coming out.”
Marin slipped the phone back into its cradle and stared at it.
“What’s up?” Ana asked quietly.
“Dad had to get back to work, something came up at the office, and Mom said she was feeling really tired, she thinks she may have caught a bug on the plane and may be coming down with something.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh no, don’t be. It’s a relief really. We pretend to get along but we really don’t. It’s no big deal.”
Marin didn’t perform with them that night. She said she had a migraine, probably from all the stress of having her parents visit.
That was when Ana finally realized that when fate or God or whatever was assigning parents, Ana had gotten a much, much better deal. Her mother was boisterous, unfashionable, and unschooled—and she loved Ana ferociously. Every success Ana had achieved, Grace bragged about as if it had been her own. Grace had seen every performance of the Iron Pyrits, every football and basketball game Ana had cheered at, every gymnastic meet that Ana had competed in. Ana was extremely, extremely lucky to have the mother that she did.
All the same, Ana desperately wanted a different life than the one her mother had. She didn’t want to be satisfied with living in a too-small condo and working for fifty years at a job she didn’t like, just so she could pay the bills. She wanted her life to have meaning, to be a part of something bigger than herself. She wanted to be part of a community of artists and writers and actors and comedians. She wanted to be part of a group of innovative thinkers like the Impressionists—Van Gogh, Degas, Gauguin, Manet, Lautrec, and Rousseau—hanging out, drinking absinthe and changing the art world forever, painting pictures that would be loved across continents, purchased for extravagant sums, and continued to be reproduced widely as posters, calendars, coasters, and note cards a hundred years later. Ana wanted to be as influential to acting as Stanislavsky, to improv as Viola Spolin, to sketch comedy as the founders of Second City and the original Saturday Night Live players.
Ana didn’t know how she was going to touch the world in her lifetime, but right now, she just needed to survive tonight.
“Need any help, Mom?” she asked.
Her mother gave her a look like a little kid who had broken a vase and knew she had to fess up.
“I thought I had enough blue cheese, but it turns out I hardly have any left at all. Would you be a dear and pick some up? I need four ounces.”
“Sure, of course. No problem. Need anything else?”
“Oh no, that’s it.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back. Scott, you wanna come?”
“Oh no, Scott, stay here with me and keep me company,” Grace said.
“Scott?”
“Sure, I’ll stay here. See you in a few.”
The store was only a couple of minutes away, but Ana hadn’t shopped there in years, so it took several minutes of wandering to find the blue cheese. She’d spent the entire day doing shopping of her own, cleaning the house, and doing laundry, and having to go to the store now, while not that big of a deal, was just one more task that kept her from b
eing able to just slow down and relax already, and she couldn’t help feel a prickle of irritation.
When she got home, her mother and Scott were both sitting on the kitchen floor, searching the bottom cabinets. An array of pots and pans was spread out around them. Her mother looked up at her sheepishly.
“What’s up, Mom?”
“I can’t find the bottom to my springform pan. I know I have it. Look, here’s the top.” She waved a pie-sized metal loop. “We’ve looked everywhere and we just can’t find it.”
Ana was amazed that her mother owned such a device. She’d certainly never used it when Ana lived with her.
“Do you want me to run to the store and get one?”
Grace sighed deeply. “I guess. Do you mind?”
“No. Where should I go?”
“The grocery store has them, that’s the closest place.”
“Okay, and if you had all the pieces, what would it look like?”
“It looks like a pie pan. We’re missing the silver disk that goes on the bottom. The idea is that you can just unclasp the sides like this”—she demonstrated—“so you don’t have to flip the casserole upside down to get it out of the pan.”
“And it’s imperative that we not flip it upside down?”
“It has all these decorative loops in filo dough on top. Look,” her mother stood and pointed to the open cookbook lying on the counter. It pictured a savory looking filo casserole filled with cheese and vegetables. It looked fattening, but, therefore, had the potential to be good. Maybe dinner would turn out to be palatable after all.
“Okay, I’m off. Do you need anything else?”
Grace shook her head.
“You’re sure? Okay, Scott, you okay here?”
He lifted his wine glass. “I am awesome.”
Ana put on a smile, which was replaced by a look of weary annoyance the minute she closed the door behind her.
She got to the grocery store and wandered helplessly up and down several aisles until she finally came to the cooking utensils. After walking up and down the aisle, her eyes shooting up and down the rows of pots, pans, cookie sheets, measuring spoons, and whisks, she finally found a nonstick springform pan. For twelve dollars! Twelve stinking dollars! Free dinner my ass! Why couldn’t we have just gone out to eat? It would have been so much more relaxing and most likely significantly cheaper as well.
She returned home thoroughly grumpy. She and Scott had gotten there half an hour ago, and Ana had spent that entire time driving to the store, wandering through the store lost and confused, and waiting in line.
“Oh god, what is it?” Ana said, as soon as she saw the look on her mother’s face.
“I didn’t realize the recipe called for cream cheese. I thought I wrote every ingredient down. I just . . . I just didn’t see it,” she shrugged helplessly. Yeah right, as if the cookbook were written in ink that becomes invisible every now and then on whimsy, like a book from Hogwarts. “But don’t worry!” she said quickly, seeing the annoyance on Ana’s face, “I’ll just quick dash off to the store and pick some up. You stay here and have some wine and relax.”
Ana sat at the table next to Scott and downed her entire glass of wine in one long chug.
“Impressive,” Scott said.
“I am starving. Do you see why I don’t cook? Because every homemade meal made in this house costs about sixty bucks, takes hours to make because you have to go to the grocery store about forty times because do you think she would ever once actually check to make sure she actually had eggs or enough milk or blue cheese or the right cookware? No. Then it inevitably tastes like burnt snot, then there are always a zillion and a half dishes to do—there’s just no point.”
“Shh, Ana, it’s okay. I’m having fun. Just relax.” He poured her some more wine.
Because her stomach was so empty, the wine took effect almost immediately. It warmed her stomach, giving Ana a temporary feeling of—not fullness, but at least not quite such acutely ravenous hunger.
Which was a good thing because when Grace returned from the store she spent fifteen minutes finishing preparations on the dish then squealed, “Oh dear!”
“This can’t be good,” Ana muttered under her breath.
Grace appeared at the door. “Are you two terribly hungry? I didn’t realize it takes almost an hour to bake.”
Grace saw Ana’s annoyance. Ana quickly replaced that expression with one of sympathy when she saw her mother start to tear up.
“It’s no problem, Mom, don’t worry. Maybe you could put out some cheese and crackers?”
“Yes! That’s a great idea.”
“I’ll help.”
Ana promptly poured herself another glass of wine. If she couldn’t eat, at least she could get tanked.
Her mother did put out some Triscuits and American cheese. As American cheese was not the most savory of appetizers, the three spent far more time drinking wine than snacking on crackers, so by the time dinner was ready, they were all feeling very, very relaxed.
To Ana’s surprise, the dish wasn’t disgusting, it was just very odd, which was a huge improvement over her mother’s usual cuisine. Ana would take a bite, and it would taste incredibly sweet. The next bite would be piercingly bitter. Every mouthful, though, was packed with cheese and pine nuts. More pine nuts than Ana had ever seen in such a small slice of pie. Every bite must have been at least a hundred calories and a couple dozen fat grams.
“So Mom, what are these sweet and bitter tastes I’m tasting?”
“Apples and brussels sprouts.”
“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever had a brussels sprout in my whole life,” Ana said.
“I have. They aren’t bad as long as they’re drenched in butter,” Scott said.
“I just thought it would be a good dish for a vegetarian.”
“But Scott’s not a vegetarian, Jason . . .” Ana stopped herself. There was no point. Her mother was trying so hard.
“This is a great girl you’ve got here,” Grace said, somewhat drunkenly. “I’m always bragging to the girls at the office how proud I am of her. Just the other day I was telling everyone how Ana was thinking about studying for the GED.”
“You mean GRE? You said GRE, right?” Ana said.
“G-E-D.” Grace emphasized each letter, as if she were explaining the correct term to Ana.
Ana said, “No, Mom, I was thinking about taking the GRE, as in the Graduate Record Exam, for grad school. GED stands for General Equivalency Diploma. The only people at my high school to get them were the kids who were addicted to drugs.”
“Ffff,” Grace fluttered her hand as if to say, “Bah, it’s practically the same thing.” Ana crumpled in embarrassment. Her mother was always doing that, trying to brag about Ana but getting all her facts wrong. Usually it wasn’t a big deal—Ana didn’t care if her mother’s friends thought she was a pom pom girl and not a cheerleader, or if they thought she was a stand-up comedian and not an improv-er—but sometimes, her mother’s announcements made Ana want to die of shame.
After another glass of wine, Ana didn’t care if her mother’s friends and coworkers thought she was perhaps the first student from a suburban high school in the history of the universe not to earn her high school diploma by the age of 24. She was feeling good.
40
Thanksgiving
Everyone was going his or her separate way for Thanksgiving. Ramiro was going to go to his family’s, then over to Nick’s for Thanksgiving just with their friends. Jason would be with his family in south Denver, and Marin would hang out in L.A. She had the day off, but only one day, so it didn’t seem like there was any point in flying home. Although if she were honest with herself, the real reason she wasn’t coming home was because of the possibility she might get to spend time with Jay. He had to visit his family in Santa Barbara that day, but he said he hoped he’d get back to celebrate with her that night. She’d vaguely hoped that he’d invite her to dinner with his family, but she knew that was rid
iculous, they’d only been dating two weeks. It was much too early to meet the folks.
Since Rob’s foot was still in a cast, Chelsey promised to drive him home for Thanksgiving. She’d spend the night with him, meet his folks, and then head home to Chicago to visit her family. She’d pick him up on her way back.
She didn’t want to be apart from him for four days. She wasn’t sure how she’d make it without him.
Chelsey took the Wednesday before Thanksgiving off, and they drove straight through to South Dakota. It was dusk when they arrived, and Chelsey had a hard time making out where she was supposed to go once they got off the highway and onto the reservation. The roads were unpaved and had crater-sized potholes.
Rob had told her about the numerous fatalities that occurred between Pine Ridge and the Nebraska border. Alcohol wasn’t sold on the rez, so Indians had to drive to Nebraska to buy alcohol. Some couldn’t wait till they got home; some took off for more after already working on a serious buzz. As a result, the per capita number of drunk-driving fatalities was catastrophic. Crosses marked the sites where individuals and entire families had died, lining the way to the rez like a canopy of oaks might line the streets in wealthier neighborhoods.
Chelsey couldn’t help gaping at the homes she saw as she drove through the reservation to Rob’s family’s house. They were little more than outhouses—cheaply constructed boxes with worn paint.
“That’s mine. The brown one there,” Rob said, pointing to a small house.
“Where am I supposed to park?”
“Next to the Oldsmobile.”
“On the lawn?”
“It’s not really a lawn.”
He was right. It wasn’t. There were little patches of worn grass, but mostly it was just dirt.
Chelsey parked next to the Olds—it looked to be about fifteen years old—and walked up to the door with Rob. Slabs of wood were leaning against the house, garbage littered the area around the place. Rob entered without knocking.
