Relatively normal, p.19
Relatively Normal, page 19
She illustrates by going to the silverware drawer and revving her little machine before inserting in into the drawer. So, I guess, “You’re vacuuming the silverware?”
She yells over the noise she’s creating. “NO. I’M CLEANING OUT ALL THE CRUMBS FROM THE DRAWERS AND CABINETS.”
I signal for her to turn the vacuum off. “Why are you doing that?
“So, if any party guests think to sneak off and peek in my drawers to see if I’m a bad housekeeper, they’ll learn I’m not. I’ll show them.”
Wow, the insanity in this woman runs deep. “You’re inviting friends to a Christmas party to celebrate and share in some holiday spirit. Am I correct?”
She nods her head. I continue, “Don’t you think everyone will be too busy having fun and enjoying the celebration to care what your drawers look like?”
“No, I do not. Parties are the perfect opportunity to sneak around and get a true picture of who people really are.”
“But you aren’t really a person who keeps her drawers and cabinets crumb-free.” In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this lunacy performed in our house before.
“I don’t want them to know that. As far as everyone in town is concerned, I want them to think I’m a pristine housekeeper, a veritable Martha Stewart.”
“You’re not inviting everyone in town, and your friends already know who you are,” I point out.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” she demands.
“Mags, I didn’t realize there were sides. I’m simply trying to point out that this might not be the most urgent item on our preparation list.”
She points a finger at me. “You’re wrong! Did you know that Stella James has a bag of mismatched socks in her laundry room cabinet so big she can barely shut the door?” She adds, “AND she has some ointment cream in her medicine cabinet to kill scabies? Scabies!” she spits out the last word like poor Stella has herpes or something.
I look side-to-side, searching for a hidden camera. This has got to be some kind of joke. “I did not know that,” I finally manage.
She enumerates, “Debbie Swan keeps things in her night drawer that would make you blush, and Lisa Martin has a gun under her bed, out in the open, not even in a safe.”
“Mom, how do you know these things?”
She looks at me like I’ve taken a nosedive off the clue bus. “Because I looked!”
“Ah, so what you’re telling me is you’re trying to protect your reputation from busybodies like yourself.”
She doesn’t even take offense, she merely exclaims, “Exactly!
So, while my mom is busy obliterating all traces of reality, by sucking out ten-year-old crumbs from the kitchen drawers, I’ll be doing the real work like making sure we have something to eat and drink. Also, someone has to be in charge of finishing decorations. For all intents and purposes, I appear to be throwing this shindig on my own.
Strip Poker and Bingo
If there are no unforeseen setbacks, Nan should be home in three days. Over breakfast, Mom announces, “We should get the Christmas tree up and decorated before she gets sprung.”
“Don’t you think she’d like to be part of the process?” I inquire.
My mom puts her fork down in the middle of her scrambled eggs. “I don’t care if she wants to be part of it. We’ve got too much going on this year, and Nan always micromanages everything I do to the tree. Not to be rude, but this is my party, and even though my mother could have died, it’s still my house and I should be able to decorate my tree however I want.” I’m starting to regret suggesting this gathering.
When I finally get out of the house, an event I’ve been anticipating since becoming aware of my mom’s full crazy, I go straight to the nursing home. Sam is sitting with Nan, playing a card game in the recreation room. I wonder if he’s moonlighting as her caregiver. He’s always here.
I can’t help but smile when I see them together. They’re laughing about something, when I hear Nan yell out, “STRIP!”
I hurry over to find Sam sitting next to her without his socks, shoes, belt, and sweater on. “What’s going on here?” I inquire.
Nan gives me a little wave. “Strip poker.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say strip poker?”
My grandmother’s face lightens up with an expression akin to lechery. “I did! Sam here told me if I got a good report from my physical therapist, he’d play any game with me that I wanted.”
Sam looks up clearly uncomfortable and shrugs his shoulders. “How was I to know she’d want to play strip poker?”
“Nan,” I suggest, “I don’t think this is an appropriate environment for such a game, do you?”
A lady sitting at the next table shouts out, “Shut up, girl, she’s winning! We’re all waiting to see this stud muffin without his pants on.”
That’s all it takes for Sam to stand up and start looping his belt back into place. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Johnson, but the game’s over.”
Nan glares at me. “You see what you’ve done?”
“Nan, I don’t think Sam was ever going to play long enough to take his pants off.”
Mrs. Johnson yells out, “We’ll never know now, will we? Party pooper!”
I offer to play Scrabble or good old-fashioned five card draw, but Nan exclaims, “Forget it. I’m tired, anyway. I guess I’ll just go take a nap.”
“Can I walk you to your room?” Sam offers.
“Don’t bother. I’m supposed to do it myself. My therapist keeps telling me I need to walk more.” She shuffles off, leaving a definite irritated vibe in her wake. I turn to Sam. “Nan seems a little bit grumpy today. What’s up?”
“She’s getting stir-crazy and wants to go home,” he answers.
I can only imagine. Nan is not a person who identifies with other old people. She says they’re boring, crotchety, and always complaining about their ailments. She claims to have better things to do than listen to that nonsense.
As soon as he’s fully dressed, Sam and I walk out of the care facility together. I explain, “My mom’s gone mental cleaning the house. What was I thinking suggesting a party right after Nan comes home?”
He smiles. “I think you were trying to do something nice but may have forgotten just how interesting your family really is.”
“That’s the truth. Mags is on a tear to get the tree decorated so Nan can’t offer an opinion. I’m starting to feel stressed.” Sam looks amused, so I add, “I’ve worked for a lot of high-maintenance hostesses, but my mom takes the cake.”
“It’s your lucky day,” he declares. “I’m off today, so why don’t we go get a tree and set it up? That’ll give your mom a couple of days to finish it before Nan comes home.”
“Do you ever work?” I demand. “How is it that you have all this free time to take me Christmas shopping and now tree shopping?”
He looks moderately offended. “I worked all day yesterday before we went to the mall and today truly is one of my days off.” He adds, “Plus, I only work four days a week. Our little town didn’t have need for another full-time doctor when I moved home. But once Doc Fischer retires, I’m next in line.”
“So, what do you do when you’re not working?” I inquire.
“I come over here to the nursing home and chat with people who don’t have anyone. I somehow got coerced into being on the school board, and I call bingo at the Catholic church when I’m not scheduled at the hospital.”
“You’re a regular Boy Scout, aren’t you?” I joke.
He shrugs. “I have a pretty charmed life. I just like giving back.”
The more I learn about grown-up Sam, the more I like him. I might be starting to see the possibility of a future with him. It’s still early days though, and I’m committed to taking things slowly, especially after talking to Ethan.
Worst Chaperone Ever
I call my mom to let her know Sam and I are on the hunt for the perfect Christmas tree and will bring it back later this afternoon. She’s thrilled we’re getting it because she’s busy cleaning the grout in all the bathrooms.
“Why don’t you drop your car at home, and I’ll pick you up?” Sam suggests.
I thought he’d follow me, but it takes him twenty minutes longer than expected. When he pulls into my parents’ driveway, I see why. He’s not driving his SUV, he’s driving Betty, his parents’ old pick-up.
My heart rate increases to an alarming degree when I see it. Betty was with us through our entire high school courtship. Much to our delight, she was the worst chaperone in the history of the world. Things happened in, on, and against Betty that are better left to imagination. Nevertheless, images flash through my mind that leave me gasping for enough oxygen to keep from falling over.
Sam pulls up next to me and flings the door open from the inside. I step in like I’m entering a time machine. Everything looks the same as it did fifteen years ago. The red vinyl seats are slightly more faded, as is the dashboard, but the John Deere floor mats are still on the floor and the keychain is even the same as it once was.
My first boyfriend, stealer of my heart, and destroyer of my adolescent dreams, suggests, “I thought we’d drive to the Christmas tree farm in Decatur.” Small towns usually set up Christmas trees in the parking lot of the local hardware store or have small pop-up stands in the country, without a large selection. Growing up, we always traveled at least a half hour to find a place with a bigger selection.
I merely nod in reply. Sam wonders, “Why so quiet? What’s rattling around in that head of yours now?”
I answer in one word. “Betty.”
His eyes sparkle. “Ah, yes. The old girl is still going strong.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “She sure saw us through a lot, didn’t she?”
I try to swallow down the emotion forming in my throat but can’t force out any sound. So, I simply nod in response. Sam instructs, “Open the glove compartment.”
I don’t follow his instruction immediately. Instead, I stare at the old key lock glove box like it’s harboring poisonous snakes. Finally, I find my courage and flip it open. I reach in and pull out a stack of papers and assorted odds and ends.
It’s full of Sam’s and my history. He informs me, “There are stubs from concert tickets and notes we dropped into each other’s lockers between classes. Be careful you don’t crush my boutonniere from homecoming.” I unearth a CD we burned together, a garter belt I wore to our senior prom, and a tassel from his high school graduation cap. It’s like a time capsule of our best moments together.
I feel like I’m holding religious relics. Every single one is packed with its own special memory. Tears flood my eyes and I don’t even bother trying to brush them away. “Why didn’t your parents throw this stuff out?”
“They haven’t used Betty as their everyday truck in years. Plus, I think they felt it wasn’t their place to get rid of it.”
“So, why didn’t you?”
“I’m sure you know the answer to that question, Cat. These things, this truck, it’s us. It’s all I have left of our story. I kept it out of nostalgia.”
I shake my head. “But you’ve been in other relationships. You were almost engaged to another woman.”
“I suppose if one of those other women ever meant as much to me as you did, I might have seen my way clear to at least moving these things out into a storage box somewhere. But seeing as they never did, I didn’t see the point. I like getting into Betty and remembering us. Sometimes I pretend I’m still sixteen, and I’m on my way to pick you up for something.”
What a gut-wrenching thought. I can’t believe Sam puts himself through that. God knows it would have been too much for me to bear. “Were you really going to interview at Lenox Hill, just so you could see me in New York?”
Sam hits a button on his phone in response. The air around us fills with an authoritative female voice, “Sam, this is Dr. Moskowitz, chief of staff at Lenox Hill. My assistant told me you were no longer planning to move to New York. I’m sorry to hear that and wanted to assure you that if you ever change your mind, we hope you’ll consider us before looking elsewhere. Good luck to you and I hope to talk to you in the near future.”
I have no words. Sam really was going to pursue me again, regardless of Ethan. He’s not fooling around here. It’s a thought that delights and terrifies me at the same time.
Douglas, Noble, and Fraser, Oh My!
At the Christmas tree farm, we buy hot chocolate garnished with whipped cream and chopped-up peppermint candy to fortify our search for the perfect tree. My parents’ living room ceiling is ten feet high and Mom likes to use every inch of the space, so the tree-topper is brushing against it. This narrows our selection, but also increases the difficulty of finding a symmetrical tree.
We relay our specifications to the man working the area of the farm with the biggest trees. “Douglas or Noble?” he asks.
“Noble,” we answer simultaneously. There was that one year when my dad brought home a beautiful ten-foot Douglas fir and you would have thought it was a Charlie Brown Christmas, the one where he brought home a pathetic stick to decorate. Mags moaned and groaned and sighed the entire month of December like she was carrying a cross around on her back.
We have a grand total of three trees to pick from, which is essentially three more than we would have had if we’d stayed in Gelson. We walk around them. We pinch the tips of the branches to make sure they bend but don’t break—Freshness 101. We even smell them to see if one has a stronger fragrance than the others.
Once we narrow it down to two, Sam lays on the ground and looks up at them to check their symmetry from that angle. After several moments, he announces, “Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!” He points to the tree that passes my mom’s twelve-point inspection and while it’s being wrapped up, we look around some more.
“Let’s get Nan her own tree,” Sam suggests. “You know she’s fond of Fraser firs. We can get a small one, a six-footer, maybe.”
What a sweet thought. “Nan would love that, and so would Mom. That way Mags wouldn’t have to argue over every ornament Nan wanted on the tree. Also, each one could use her own family plaid as their garland.”
We pick out the perfect one and have it wrapped up, as well. I ask, “What about your parents? Do they need a tree?”
Sam shakes his head, “Mom’s already got it covered. But I think I just might do a tree of my own this year. If Nan can have her own, why can’t I?”
I laugh. “Do you even have enough decorations for your own tree?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked if he has all of his toes. “Psh, I’m almost thirty-two years old. I’ve collected things.”
I can only imagine. I’m looking forward to seeing what Sam’s tree looks like when it’s all done. I haven’t even seen his house yet. He chooses a six-foot Douglas fir for himself. Once all three trees are secured in the flatbed, he asks, “Do we need to get a stand for Nan’s tree or do you have a spare?”
I have no idea, so we swing by the store to get one just in case.
“If I remember correctly,” Sam declares, “Nan prefers white lights, right?” He grabs several boxes as he asks.
“Yup, and my mom thinks anything but colored is an offense of apocalyptic proportion. Again, good thinking on getting Nan her own tree.” I’m having such a good time with Sam. It feels like we’ve been doing this together for years.
Last year was the first time Ethan and I bought a Christmas tree together. I was shocked to learn he never put one up for his own enjoyment, instead he relied on his parents’ tree to fill that need. When I suggested a live tree, he nearly flipped his lid. The thought of needles falling off that would need to be vacuumed was more than he could tolerate. In light of new information, I realize that was probably true.
We wound up with a very narrow four-and-a-half-foot tree that looked more like an accessory than the real deal. Ethan was so proud of it though, I didn’t have the heart to show any disappointment.
When Sam and I get home, we discover my mom painting the spindles on the railing of the staircase. I ignore her as we carry the tree into the living room and begin to set it up. I know one thing for sure: I will never get married or even have so much as have an engagement party at my parents’ farmhouse. It would be more pressure than old Mags could handle. She’d probably hire bulldozers to raze the place and rebuild it from scratch.
Diagnosing Ducks
Ethan calls at nine o’clock pm his time, eight o’clock mine, to tell me about his doctor’s appointment. After talking to him for an hour, the psychiatrist was astonished he’d never been diagnosed as a child. Upon learning of his parents’ unique traits, it became clear the entire household was a little off, and they just increased their limitations to include their son’s peculiarities.
“I have ASD,” Ethan announces. “That stands for autism spectrum disorder.” This both relieves him (that there’s a name for what he has) and disappoints him (that the diagnosis is autism.)
“I feel like a freak,” he says. “I’ve always known I was different, but now there’s no hiding it. I really am different.”
“Is there some treatment?” I ask.
“Not as such. The doctor said there would have been things they could have done to help if I were a child, but as an adult functioning at a high level in the real world, there are no behavioral treatments other than simply pushing myself to increase my boundaries. He did say they could give me pharmaceuticals to decrease my anxiety, if I wanted.”
“Are you going to try that?”
“If it will help me feel more comfortable in difficult situations.” He adds, “I bought a red blanket on my way home, and I put it on the back of the couch.”
I’m touched that he’s trying so hard to change, but I’m concerned I’m his sole motivation. “Ethan, you have to do this for you. Please don’t do it for me because I can’t give you any promises. A lot has happened between us that I’m just not sure is fixable.”
