Crying Laughing

by Lance Rubin

  “Hey,” we hear from behind us as Cory and Ed walk out of the coffeehouse, the open door letting out cheers and hooting and applause, which makes Dad cringe. Guess Liddy Ramani’s set is done. The door mercifully closes.

  “I’m sorry that went the way it did,” Cory says, instantly reading the situation and matching his energy to my dad’s.

  “Yeah,” Dad says. “Well.”

  “I didn’t know you started smoking again,” Ed says.

  Cory shoots him a look, very easily interpreted as Shut it, sweetie. “There was some really funny stuff in your set,” he says, not giving Dad a chance to respond to Ed. “It was great to see you up there again.”

  “Glad you were here for it,” Dad says, “because it was my grand finale. I was just telling them: I’m done.”

  “Oh.” Cory is genuinely bummed. “That’s a shame.”

  Dad flicks what’s left of his cigarette onto the street, which is a disappointment. A smoker and a litterer. “I know,” he says, “you guys are saying I’ll get better and better, but life is too short, you know?” The question hangs there as we all think about his probably abbreviated life span. “Especially mine,” Dad adds, with perfect comedic timing. I can’t laugh because it’s too sad, but that’s the funny father I know. I wish he could have brought that to his performance.

  “I hear you, man,” Cory says.

  “I’m in enough pain as it is,” Dad says. “I don’t need to spend whatever time I have left making it worse.”

  Well, when he puts it like that.

  “Of course,” Mom says. I can tell she feels bad that we dragged him into this, but there’s something else in her face I don’t recognize. Sadness, maybe. Or defeat.

  I peek through the front window back into Ted’s, where a woman is playing a violin like her life depends on it. You can’t really hear the music out here, and it’s hard to tell from this angle whether or not there’s anyone else onstage. Her hair bounces as she ferociously moves the bow back and forth.

  Ed notices my staring and joins me, followed by Cory, then Mom, and finally Dad, all of us captivated by this mad violinist.

  Cory walks over to the door and cracks it open. Much to our surprise, the sound of a full bluegrass band blasts out at us, not just the violin but also drums, guitar, and upright bass, with a man’s lively tenor bouncing over all of it.

  “Huh,” Dad says.

  We stand and listen until the song ends.

  26

  “Awesome, thanks,” Dad says to our server, a bright-eyed twenty-something named Shauna (according to her name tag, anyway), as she places waters in front of each of us.

  Mom keeps her eyes on her menu the whole time. She can be very rude at restaurants sometimes, and it’s always a little embarrassing.

  This is supposed to be “a fun Sunday night family dinner” at Chili’s, one of our favorite spots, but for some reason, everything is incredibly tense. It’s been sort of a strange weekend. By Saturday morning, Dad had already miraculously bounced back from the profound disappointment of Ted’s the night before, greeting Mom and me in the kitchen with chocolate chip pancakes and jokes about the bags under our eyes.

  I was beyond relieved, as I’d been irrationally worried all night that he might veer into being suicidal. I expected Mom to feel a similar lightness, but no. Instead, she returned to a more heightened version of the tired and high-strung human she’s been in recent weeks. Sometimes I just want to shake her and be like “Dad’s body is failing! Don’t be mean to him on top of that!”

  “So, how’s school going?” Dad asks now, powering through the thick tension with his good mood. The dinner table is where he seems most comfortable these days. I think it’s because it’s one of the few places where he can pretend his life is what it always was. Table as time machine.

  “Okay,” I say, though, three days out from getting dumped by Evan and then having a horrendous fight with Leili, terrible would be a more apt response. “Getting nervous for the improv show.”

  “When is that again?” Mom says, closing her menu with so much force it makes a loud smack on the table.

  “Not this Friday, but the next one.”

  “Oh shoot, that’s right.” Mom’s eyes go into faraway planning mode.

  “You can’t come?”

  “No, it’s okay. It’ll be fine. Yeah, I can come, I just have— I’ll have to switch around this client dinner, but it’s—”

  “It’s fine if you can’t make it,” I say, trying to give her an out. “There will be more—”

  “I’ll be there, Win,” Mom says, her voice raised, surprising her as much as it does me.

  “Calm down, Dane,” Dad says, and I immediately know that’s not gonna go over well.

  Mom smiles an unhappy smile, rolling her eyes up toward the TV behind Dad, on which a large-bellied man in a uniform is getting ready to swing a bat at a ball. “Please don’t say that to me,” she says quietly.

  “Sorry,” Dad says. “But you’re practically shouting at Win.”

  Mom turns to me. “I’m sorry, Winnie. I didn’t mean to shout.” On the apology scale, it falls somewhere near Four-Year-Old Forced to Apologize After Stealing Friend’s Toy. “And, Russ, I’m sorry I’m not living up to your standards of behavior.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s not—”

  “Are we all set to order here?”

  Shauna’s back. Bouncier than ever.

  “Ooh,” Dad says, looking down at his menu. “Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh, I think…” He flings his head back up. “Yes! I do believe we’re all set.”

  His antics elicit some gentle laughter from Shauna. “Excellent,” she says.

  I, of course, have no idea what I want. I surrender and get what I always get, a cup of soup and a Quesadilla Explosion Salad.

  Dad orders a Guacamole Burger.

  Mom orders a California Turkey Club Sandwich.

  We’re all very predictable.

  “Any appetizers?” Shauna asks as she collects our menus. “Boneless Wings? Crispy Cheddar Bites?”

  “Crispy cheddar?” Dad says. “That sounds hazardous.”

  Shauna guffaws as if this is the most hilarious thing anyone has ever said about the Chili’s menu. “They’re actually really good,” she says.

  Dad looks to us. “Should we…?” I shake my head. Mom is tuned out, watching the baseball game (even though I know for a fact it’s the sport she cares about the least). “Nah, we’ll pass, but thanks.”

  “No prob!” Shauna says.

  I’m excited for her to walk away, as I don’t think their exchange is going to be particularly helpful for the family dynamic, and she’s about to when Dad says, “Has it been busy tonight?”

  He does this sometimes, randomly engages strangers in conversation, like he’s incredibly fascinated by their lives. Or, in this case, by the traffic patterns of this Chili’s location.

  “Not really,” Shauna says, suddenly looking a little nervous, like maybe we’re secret shoppers or restaurant critics or something. “I mean, it was a little busier earlier, but it’s quieter now. I’m sure it’ll pick up, though.”

  “Gotcha,” Dad says, as if he’s going to log that in his ledger later. “Guess we’ll have to get a bit rowdy to make up for it.”

  Rowdy? What is happening?

  “Ha, right,” Shauna says, not laughing nearly as much as she did a moment ago. Now she just looks concerned she might be fired. “Okay, I’ll go get this order in for you guys.”

  “Superduper,” Dad says. “You do that.”

  “Thanks,” I say, less to Shauna and more to the universe for finally ending that excruciating chapter of my life. I don’t blame Dad for wanting to make conversation—he doesn’t get out these days as much as he used to—but I also don’t understand why it was necessary to do so right at tha
t particular juncture, with Mom already fuming across the table. Like, pick up the cues, Daddy-o.

  “Superduper, huh?” Mom says, her gaze still on the television.

  “I can’t say superduper?” Dad asks.

  My shoulders tense, my stomach wobbles. I want this to end as quickly as possible.

  “No, say whatever you want. I know you will either way.” Now Mom’s looking straight at Dad. “I mean, you just said more to Shauna than you have to me all week, but who’s counting?”

  “That’s— It’s called being nice to your server. You should try it sometime.”

  “Screw you, Russ. Seriously.”

  Oh god, I hate this so much. I don’t know where to aim my eyes, so I take out my phone under the table. Even though Leili still isn’t talking to me, I desperately want to text her and Azadeh. So I do.

  My parents are having a fight at Chili’s. So fun.

  I stare into my lap and send them a deadpan selfie.

  “May I remind you I’m the one with ALS?” Dad whisper-shouts. “I’m the one walking with a goddamn cane!”

  “I’m well aware of that, Russ,” Mom says. “I think you’re the one who needs reminding. I have no clue what you’re thinking about any of this. You don’t tell me anything!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Okay!” Shauna says, appearing at our table like a hologram flipping on. “I have the broccoli-cheese soup.” As I shove my phone back in my bag, Shauna places the soup in front of me with great precision and care, nimbly dropping two bags of crackers next to it. She definitely thinks we’re secret shoppers.

  “Thanks,” Dad says without looking, underplaying it this time. Thank god.

  “Of course,” Shauna says, in total professional mode, before walking away.

  “Aw,” Mom says. “Are you sad you didn’t get to chat more with your close friend Shauna?” She’s not usually this sarcastic. If I didn’t feel so anxious, I would find it really funny.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Dad says.

  I want to chime in, I want to help the situation, but I have no idea how, so I stay mute.

  “Am I?” Mom asks, and I can tell everything that’s already gone down at this table has been but mere prologue to what’s about to unspool. “Look, I understand how intense this is, how horrible this diagnosis is, so I’ve been trying to support you in every way I can, giving you the space to handle it however you need to.”

  People around us are starting to stare. There’s a couple of women Grandma’s age that keep glancing over. Mind your own beeswax, Grandmas! There’s also a family behind Dad, two moms with their two elementary schoolers. “Are they in a fight?” I hear the son ask.

  Oh, how I wish I were anywhere but here.

  Dad’s obviously thinking the same thing because he says, “Let’s not do this here, Dana.”

  “Where should we do it?” Mom asks. “Home? ’Cause that never happens!”

  “Yes, but maybe our daughter—not to mention every single Chili’s patron—doesn’t need to hear us work out all our shit.”

  “At some point we have to talk about this, Russ! You’re always dodge, dodge, joke, joke, but if I don’t know what you’re thinking, I can’t help you! So I look up information about an ALS support group, thinking maybe that will be a better, you know, way for you to open up. Do you follow up on it? Of course not! I don’t know what else to do. But I do know eventually I won’t want to help anymore because this is so…fucking…lonely. You can be all la-di-da with ol’ Shauna over there, but when it comes to your own wife, you’ve got nothing.”

  I’m taking all of this in, even though I wish I weren’t, and matching it against my own experience with Dad. I mean, he definitely talks. Maybe not always about serious stuff, but he’s dealing with his situation by, like, making jokes and stuff, which I think is pretty heroic.

  Right?

  Dad is chuckling in this nervous way like he’s stalling because he doesn’t know what to say. “That seems a little hyperbolic, but okay,” he says finally.

  I remember that my soup has arrived and decide to start eating it, even though I have zero appetite. I crumble the crackers in the package before dumping them in. Dad’s method.

  “Russ,” Mom says, taking her voice down several notches, her eyes wet with tears. “At some point, we need to talk about the future. Whether we’re going to need in-home assistance or whether I should take a leave from my job—”

  “You won’t have to take a leave from your job,” Dad says.

  “I might! I feel like I’m the only one taking this seriously!”

  I wonder if Mom thinks I’m not taking it seriously. I think I am.

  Though the idea of in-home assistance for Dad had never even occurred to me. So maybe I’m not.

  “Of course I’m taking it seriously!” Dad nearly shouts. The eyes of the girl elementary schooler behind him are open really wide. “Look how serious I am.” He furrows his brow and makes a solemn face, and even I know it’s a bad move.

  “Stop,” Mom says. “It’s not funny!”

  “I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I’m sorry. Everything you’re mentioning, we’ll have time to talk about all that.”

  “Oh good, great. Let’s just put it off until you’re in really bad shape, good thinking.”

  I think Mom’s overreacting, but I also see the merit to some of her arguments.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Dad says. “I’m just…getting used to my situation.”

  Mom snorts and looks away, shaking her head.

  “What?” Dad asks.

  “That’s exactly what you used to say when we first moved out here, in the first couple years after Winnie was born. And we all know how well that went.”

  Wait, what? Not all of us know. What is she talking about?

  Dad’s whole body goes rigid. “All right, let’s not— We don’t have to go there.”

  “No, no, you’re right,” Mom says, eyes back on the TV, which is showing a gross beer commercial with women in tight white T-shirts. “Let’s not talk about anything, just like we did back then, and you can go cheat on me again to get your confidence back. Great plan.”

  The color drains from Dad’s face.

  Did she just say go cheat on me again?

  Again?

  “Are you out of your mind, Dana? Why are you—”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Nothing, Win,” Dad says.

  “You cheated on Mom?”

  He pauses a moment, puts both hands on the table, as if he’s trying to ground himself so he doesn’t fly away. Mom isn’t saying anything, watching to see how he responds. “No, of course not,” he says.

  “Okay, forget it,” Mom says, standing up from the table and grabbing her jacket.

  I gasp. It’s not like Mom is some dramatic person who walks out of restaurants all the time. I’ve never seen her do that.

  “What are you— Where are you going?” Dad asks.

  “I can’t be here right now. You know, you and Winnie have your whole little comedy thing anyway—why do you even need me?”

  “Of course we need you,” Dad says.

  “Nah. You’ll be fine. Why don’t you go ask Shauna to be your caregiver?” And Mom walks out the door of the restaurant.

  “Dana!” Dad says in his husky way, reaching his maximum volume these days, which is nowhere close to the booming voice he used to be able to summon. He starts to get up to follow her, but it’s a slow process, and I know he can feel people watching him, and it’s clear he’d never be able to catch up to her anyway, so he gives up and sits back down.

  There are too many devastating things happening at once, and my brain shuts down. I think I’m in shock.

  “Is she taking the car?” I ask. It’s a pret
ty stupid response to what’s gone down, but it’s all I can manage.

  “No,” Dad says, patting his pocket. “I have the keys.”

  I think he’s in shock too.

  “So she’s just gonna walk?”

  “I don’t know, Win.”

  “Or maybe she’ll call for a cab? Maybe I should run out and see if she’s still outside?”

  “I think…I think maybe Mom needs some time alone.” Dad awkwardly shifts his body to take his phone out of his back pocket. “I’ll text her.”

  Dad looks down at his phone and slowly moves his thumbs.

  I sit there for a moment before shooting out of my seat so I can check if Mom is waiting in front. I don’t care what Dad says, someone has to run after her.

  “BRB,” I say, not giving him a chance to respond.

  But out front there’s just a guy in a white button-down shirt smoking a gross cigarette and talking on the phone. I check both sides of the building.

  She’s gone.

  When I arrive back at the table, Shauna is dropping off our food. Dad just nods as his burger is set down in front of him.

  “Need anything else?” Shauna is asking Dad as I sit down.

  “We’re good,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Dad is staring ahead of him. He’s not crying, but he looks like he could.

  “Did Mom text back?”

  “Not yet,” he says.

  I want to ask again about the cheating, but I just can’t.

  I never would have thought Dad cheating on Mom was a possibility in a million years.

  I mean, he said it wasn’t true, but why would Mom make that up?

  Which would mean it is true.

  Which would mean maybe my dad, who I think I’m so close to, is actually someone I don’t know at all.

  Dad takes a bite of his Guacamole Burger.

  I peer down at my exploded quesadilla situation. It looks like vomit.

  I still haven’t touched my soup. Fragments of cracker float in the coagulated yellow, green broccoli dots shimmering around them.

  I know nothing about anything.