Relatively normal, p.20
Relatively Normal, page 20
“I know. But I might as well go for the ultimate win here. That would be getting back together and making you happy.”
Ethan and I were mostly content as a couple. Yes, I was disappointed at times, but sharing your life with someone always involves compromise. I liked Ethan’s controlled and regimented life because it fed something in me that yearned for structure.
I hadn’t realized it was too much until I brought him home for Thanksgiving. Seeing my parents through his eyes made me realize my New York life had reached the opposite extreme of what I was running from when I met him. The question is, if he can really change, do I owe it to us to give him the opportunity to prove it?
Ethan tells me about the rest of his day, which encompassed ordering his Thursday lunch instead of his Tuesday lunch, to start pushing open his comfort zone.
“How did that work?” I ask.
“I couldn’t eat it. I kept it on my desk for a full hour and couldn’t bring myself to touch it.” Then he quickly adds, “I shouldn’t be telling you that though, because I want you to believe in me. I want you to believe I can do this.”
“Why did you tell me, then?”
“Catriona, when you left, not only did I lose the woman I love, I lost my best friend. Around you, I never felt like damaged goods.” He confesses, “Sometimes I felt like I was letting you down, but you never made me feel like an oddity.”
I’m glad I didn’t. My heart constricts painfully, as I truly do love Ethan and I’m grateful for our time together. I realize how horrible it must have been for him to grow up never feeling like he fit in anywhere, always aware of his strangeness.
It makes me think of that childhood story, The Ugly Duckling. The poor little duck was always taunted for being different and not like all the other ducklings. He suffered from classic poor self-esteem and worked so hard to fit in. All he wanted was to be like everyone else. Yet, he was bigger, more awkward, and so obviously not the same.
Then came the day when he waddled off to the pond and caught sight of his reflection. He realized he was no longer a duckling. In fact, he’d never been one because his image told a different story. A beautiful, graceful swan stared back at him.
I want that outcome for Ethan so much I can taste it. I want this diagnosis and subsequent therapy to prove to him he isn’t like everyone else, because he’s not a duck. He’s something unique and special in his own right. He deserves a happy ending. I just have to figure out if I’m going to be part of it in the way he wants.
Complementing Crazy
As soon as I wake up, I run downstairs to see how far my mom got on the tree. Before I left her last night, she declared, “I don’t want any help. I want to decorate it myself, like I’ve always dreamed of.”
What I see when in walk into the living room is a horror beyond words. There are piles of tangled Christmas lights everywhere, ornaments strewn on top of every surface, and my mom passed out on the couch buried under a pile of three-inch wide Masterton plaid ribbon.
I’m not sure whether to wake her or just let her be. I opt for the latter and go straight to the kitchen to make an extra strong pot of coffee. I fear I’ll need it. Over my first cup, I realize I haven’t been part of my family’s tree-trimming operation since I graduated from college.
I don’t remember it being a traumatizing experience, but then again, we all had a part in it. My dad set the tree up and strung the lights. I wrapped the plaid garland around it in a whimsical, yet symmetrical, fashion. Travis set out all the ornaments, so Mom could see what she had to work with. Then it was all up to Mags to figure out which ones she was going to use that year and what their optimal placement was.
After two cups of coffee, I feel fortified enough to walk back into the scene of the disaster. My mom hasn’t moved an inch, so I start with the lights. Before even trying to untangle them, I plug them in to see if they’re still working. They aren’t and there are no replacement bulbs.
So, I run upstairs, throw on a pair of yoga pants and tiptoe out the front door. I hit the Home Depot on Highway 47 because they open two hours earlier than anywhere else and grab fourteen boxes of colored lights in the same size as the piles all over our rug.
When I get home, I pick up all the defunct lights and put them in the trunk of my rental car. I’ll throw them out in a city dumpster somewhere. Then I take all the new ones out of their packaging and put them in the same place the others had been. I hide the boxes in my trunk, as well. All the spare bulbs are thrown into the freshly vacuumed junk drawer in the kitchen.
When my mom finally gets up, I ask her how she’s doing. She looks defeated and ready to cry. “I never realized what a big job decorating the tree was.”
“Do you want some help?” I ask.
Her eyes brighten in excitement like I’ve just offered her the winning lottery ticket. “Yes, please! Your father put the lights away in such a tangle last year I could just hit him over the head with one of his spittoons.”
I pull out the step-stool and carry it into the living room with Mags at my heels. When I unwind the first strand, she exclaims, “How did you do that so easily?”
I smile. “You just have to know where to start.” She looks confused but doesn’t ask any further questions. I have all the lights on the tree inside of an hour. Then I do my job and wrap the ribbon around it. Mom excuses herself to get dressed.
While she’s gone I put half of the ornaments back into their boxes and put them into the garage where they’re stored. Mags has a habit of keeping every ornament she’s ever received as a gift, purchased, or found discarded at a white elephant sale. She only likes half of them but is emotionally incapable of getting rid of the others. She doesn’t want to hurt their feelings.
When she comes back down, we get to work. I share that I’ve been talking to Ethan on the phone.
She’s surprised. “Why?”
I explain how he’s just been diagnosed with ASD and that he’s started to work with a psychiatrist to broaden his coping skills.
She doesn’t say anything for several moments. Finally, she says, “Everyone’s crazy in their own way. What makes two people compatible is finding someone whose crazy complements yours and vice versa.”
“Are you saying that if Ethan’s compliments mine, you wouldn’t mind us being together?”
She fingers the lights on the tree absently. “The thing with you, honey, is you’re so busy trying to compensate for everyone else’s crazy, you haven’t even bothered to discover what yours is.” She adds, “I only want what makes you happy, Cat, and at the end of the day if you decide that’s Ethan, then of course I’ll support you.”
It takes another hour with the two of us working together to finish the tree. It’s our most beautiful one yet.
It All Comes Back to the Chuck and Shuck
I come downstairs after showering to find my dad hanging his own decorative touches from the chandelier—his mice. He’s not done this before, so I question him, “Whatcha doing, big guy?” Even though it’s clear what the answer is— hanging dead rodents from the light fixture.
He turns around with delight written all over his face. “Can you believe I’ve never thought to put them here?”
I smile like you would to a mentally disturbed person threatening to jump off a roof. “While it does seem like the ideal location in many ways, might I point out a small potential problem?”
My dad looks like he can’t for the life of him figure out what that could be. “Shoot.”
“Our guests probably aren’t used to fully clothed mice dangling above their heads. I think you might scare the life out of some of them.” Then stating the obvious, I add, “A good Christmas party doesn’t usually end with people running from the house in terror.”
My dad really thinks about what I just said before answering, “I’d agree if they were dressed up in something scary. I’m glad you mentioned it though, I can’t wait until Halloween next year. I’m going to make them some monster costumes, Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy!”
I see we’ve gotten sidetracked and there’s nothing I can do to change his mind. If my parents’ friends ever experimented with drugs in the seventies, maybe they’ll just chalk it up to an acid flashback. So, I smile in return. “I’ve always loved your Valentine’s display, when you dress them up as Cupid and the great lovers of history.” There’s nothing quite like Romeo mouse and Juliet mouse in the throes of the famous balcony scene. It transcends belief.
While my dad is hard at work and mildly distracted, I ask, “What do you think of Ethan, Dad?”
“Ah, your mom told me about what’s going on with him. Are you considering getting back together?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. We were happy for a long time. Part of me feels like I owe it to him to give him another chance, especially now that he really needs me.”
“I can see where you might feel that way. But let me point out that you were part of what enabled Ethan to continue living his life without getting help. And you know how much I dislike those psycho-babble words like enable.”
“Yes, but I’m also the reason he’s getting it. He claims winning me back is giving him the strength he needs to change.”
“Cat, you were the catalyst, but only once you left. It would be very easy for you to fall back into old patterns that won’t help Ethan get better. I think he needs to do this on his own and then if you’re meant to be with him, you can start fresh.”
I consider what he’s saying, but ask, “You’re not just saying that because you don’t like him, are you?”
My dad looks startled. “I don’t dislike him. Of course, that doesn’t mean I like him for you.”
“Because of Sam?” I ask.
“I’d like nothing more than to see you and Sam together, but that’s not my decision to make. Sam broke your heart. That’s a hard thing to forget, even if you are capable of forgiving it.”
My dad gets down off his ladder, takes my hand and leads me to the staircase. We sit on the third step. “What you have to remember is that you aren’t seventeen anymore and neither is he. You’ve both grown up and have learned from your mistakes and experiences. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to find out who the grown-up Sam is?”
I nod. “I do, and we’ve been spending time together. I just don’t want to jump into anything because of our past. I have to keep reminding myself we aren’t those kids and that we don’t really know each other.”
“Not true. If you hadn’t seen me for fourteen years, and I just showed up one day, would I be a stranger? It’s the same with Sam. You grew up together, you experienced life together. While the relationship stuff is water under the bridge, the rest is still alive and well. Don’t forget that.”
“And if I wind up with Ethan?”
“Then you’d better teach that boy the shuck and chuck or we’re going to have problems.”
I love that my parents are both being so supportive. I know they want me to be with Sam, but I really do believe they’d both have my back if I decided Ethan was my future.
The Family Web
My days have been full since I’ve come home. If I’m not at the nursing home with Nan, I’m working on the party at home or spending time with Sam. I haven’t had any time for myself, so I set aside the rest of the day to think about my life.
My first stop is the barn. I bundle up, grab a blanket and tiptoe out the back door. I sneak so my mom doesn’t know where I’m going. If her focus increases enough to include the barn, she might decide it needs painting, too. If that happens, we’re sunk. Better she concentrates on the minutiae in the house.
I have a thing for barns and always have. They’re as much a part of the landscape of my childhood as the cornfields. In the midst of all the sameness are barns. They’re all different to suit the individual farm’s needs. There are new barns and old. Some for animals only and others to house tractors and farm equipment. I don’t care what kind they are, they speak to me.
Our barn dates back to the forties when our farmhouse was built. It’s a huge white structure that could hold a couple hundred animals, if necessary. Now, it only houses six chickens, a donkey, whatever farm cats have moved in, and my dad’s taxidermied friends.
It’s sad to see it so empty and my brain starts to ponder the possible uses for such a structure. It’s in great shape considering its age. It just needs some basic TLC.
I climb the stairs to the loft, which is about half the size of the ground floor. When I was a little girl, this space was everything from my princess castle to the tallest peak of Mt. Everest. My imagination took flight up here. It’s where I dreamed my best dreams.
Luckily all the hay has been swept out, so it isn’t one great big rodent’s nest. Although that would be a great source of material if my dad ever decides to expand his collection. The space is only used for storage now. There’s an old spinning wheel from the time my mom was convinced she was going to add homespun wool to our farm’s résumé. That pipe dream lasted approximately one summer. The magnitude of the job proved too much for us.
Not only did we shear the sheep and skirt the fleece, we sorted the finer bits from the courser ones and discarded the belly fibers that were too full of manure to use. Then we washed the wool in a detergent strong enough to dissolve any vegetable matter left. Finally came the picking, carding and roving—which readied piles of random fiber for the spinning process. It turns out we were all crap at spinning, and now all we have left of that venture is the wooden wheel.
Nan’s old sewing machine is up here, as well, along with other random bits of furniture like a stream trunk, an oak vanity, and kitchen table and chairs. Over in the corner is the piece of furniture I’m looking for, an old army cot. I open it up, bang some dust out of it and then lie down.
Staring up into the rafters of this barn is where I’ve done my best thinking over the years and it’s why I’m here now. I read the beams like a fortune teller reads tea leaves. Once I’m wrapped up in my blanket I begin the process of divining my future.
I ask, why am I here? My eyes are drawn to a huge cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. There are no spiders in it as I’m sure they’re probably hibernating in one of the boxes. The web is starting to lose its grip on the top beam and is hanging by a thread in a couple of other places. Suddenly, the answer pops into my head.
My family is like that web. It was once strong and secure, able to capture and hold much in its solidity. But now it’s getting older and starting to loosen. I’m home to help rebuild its infrastructure by spinning new connections to the support beam, to ready it for another generation.
It fits when you think of how close we came to losing Nan. Both of my parents are starting to unwind, too. They rent out most of their land and don’t have many animals anymore. They live frugally off the rent they get while they either decide what to do next or until Social Security kicks in. Their connections to this world are definitely gaining slack.
I know this may sound fanciful to some, but I firmly believe God speaks to us in mysterious ways, and if he or she wants to speak to me through the beams in my family barn, who am I to question it?
Now I just need to lie here long enough to figure out if I belong with either Ethan or Sam. Unfortunately, this space is so full of memories of my childhood, which is full of Sam, that I can’t get a clear answer.
Sam and I used to come up here and play house when we were little kids. I was the bossy mom and he pretended to be the dad who sat in a chair and called for a beer. Neither of our parents modeled that behavior, so I can only assume we picked up on those dynamics from television.
When we were in junior high, we came up here to talk things out. We’d chat for hours about kids from school and how we fit into the mix. Sam was a geek during those years and often lamented he didn’t feel like he belonged in any particular group. I was a cheerleader and confessed I felt the same way.
By the time high school rolled around, we came up here and played a different kind of house. We snuggled, kissed, and explored each other for hours. We fantasized about growing up and being together forever. I promised to learn how to cook and Sam declared he’d do all the yard work.
They were such innocent times, unbearably sweet and heartbreakingly naive. When you’re a kid, you know with every fiber of your being that all you have to do is dream something for it to be yours. It isn’t until you grow up and get hit in the face with reality that you begin to question your ability to have a happy ending.
I’m glad I came up here today. Not only did I gain some perspective about my family, I gained some insight about how I need to reprogram my thinking. I’m ready to believe in dreams again. It’s time.
Running Out of Rope
Sam’s mom, Liza, calls me on the phone. “I want to sign up to bring my yule log to the party. I’ll make enough for sixty people.”
I jump at the offer. “That would be perfect!” I explain, “Mom seems to have divorced herself from the idea of food preparation. She’s busy with those all-important tasks like painting the mailbox and cleaning behind the washing machine.”
“Can I help with anything else?” she asks.
“No. I’ve made several hors d’oeuvres and have gotten them into the freezer. I think everything else is under control.” I say this as I pack up piles of my mom’s discarded recipes to return to the attic.
Before I sign off with Liza, I declare I’m off to town to buy wreaths and garlands. I add, “I’m also getting outdoor lights. Sam is coming over after work to help Dad decorate the outside.” My parents stopped doing as much exterior decorating once Travis and I weren’t kids anymore, but Dad’s excited to get back to it.
Before I can walk out the front door, my dad stops me. “What do you think about my moving Nan’s stuff into the basement, so she can have her own little apartment? Now that Travis is gone, I think she might enjoy that.”
