Family Affair (18 page)

Or how lonely a streetlight is, helplessly resisting the dark?

Or a diner when you’re eating alone?

I think I miss Layla.

Or maybe I don’t.

I don’t know.

It’s becoming clear. Painfully. Brett is fucked in the head.

I visited him at his apartment, which is a fetid swamp far beyond the laziest college freshman’s wildest aspirations, and I swear to God, when I got to the door, he was playing that Spandau Ballet song on the stereo. Loud. And he was
singing along
.

“‘Why do I find it hard to write the next line? Oh, I want the truth to be saaaid.’”

Well, I know
this
much is true: That boy needs to get laid. Too bad I’d have to beat his ass if he ever seriously touched another woman.

Of course it’s frustrating. Much as I love Layla, and much as I consider her a better sister than he is a brother (most of the time), I have to admit to feeling some deep protectiveness about Brett. It hurts me to see him hurting. I think he’s crazy for instigating the whole divorce thing, and stupid for being angry about that thing with Doug so long ago. God, how fragile is the male ego? (I think Shakespeare said that: “Oh, shall I compare the male ego to the shell of an unboiled egg? So fragile, and so easily crushed.”) But Brett’s the only one who can make peace with that.

Thank God I don’t date men. They’re all crazy.

November 3

Dearest Ev
,

Something’s wrong with Brett
.

He never calls, and when he does, I cringe
. Cringe,
Evy—me, his own mother! I feel ashamed to say it, but sometimes when he calls, I see his number come up on the thing that shows the numbers of whoever’s calling and I don’t answer. Don’t ever tell him! We’re doing our best to keep it from Layla, to avoid seeming to meddle too much, but he’s changed from my tough, lovable rascal into I don’t know what. He sounded like that guy on public television who sells the books about discovering The You Inside. I can’t remember, but you know what I’m talking about
.

This afternoon, he dropped by after practice and walked past me into the kitchen without saying hello. He sat down, refused coffee and soda and Lorna Doones, and stared out the window for about six minutes. Maybe it wasn’t six whole minutes, but it seemed like a good long time. Then he said, “Tell me something,” and I said, “Okay,” as if I have anything to tell. “Tell me,” he says, “how you define happiness.”

And then I was in for it. Because I was always so bad with abstract concepts. I can use the word in a sentence, but he wants philosophy, and you know that was never really my thing. But I do what he
really
wants—which is for me to ask him how
he
defines happiness. And then I’m
really
in for it. Twenty or thirty minutes of doom and gloom, all poured out with a rueful smile. “The promise of a dream that’s inevitably crushed,” or some such nonsense. The phone rang, but I couldn’t answer it. He looked at it like it was objecting to his interpretation and he didn’t care for the interruption so it could just shut up. And it did. I hope it wasn’t you
.

I couldn’t even go to the bathroom. I kept looking for an opening, but he seemed so intent, and so out of sorts at the same time. So I listened and listened. I love him with all my soul, and it pains me so to see him like this—but I really had to go!

Of course it’s an awful situation, and I get teary if I even let myself think about it. So I won’t. I truly believe in my heart of hearts that much as I love him, he was at least partly the cause of this mess. But I feel he’ll be okay again someday, someday soon. Of course I hope they’ll stop behaving like stubborn children long enough to see that what they have is worth fixing. I never stop hoping
.

Oh, I’m using this address for you because, when we were kids, I used to hear Dad ask Mom where you had gotten to, and Mom would always say “Heaven knows!” Now Bill has taken it up. I thought you’d get a kick out of that
.

Love you always,
Gin (no tonic!)

Now I understand why kids hate divorce so much: It often replaces the illusion of a cohesive, united pair of superheroes with the reality of two clueless, disoriented anger junkies who are not any more well adjusted than—shudder—the kids themselves are. I’ll never forget the story Jared told me about when he was eight years old and his parents divorced. Apparently, they were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs in the very next room for three hours. The kids heard every heartbreaking syllable. When they finally came out, they sat Jared and his older brother down and calmly told them they were going to be separating. And that it would be “nice,” because now they’d have two houses instead of one. Jared and his brother ran and locked themselves in the bathroom, holding each other and crying for the whole night. The parents couldn’t even get the kids out of the bathroom to go to school the next day. It wasn’t until four p.m. the following afternoon that hunger got the best of them and they were coaxed out by peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches on the other side of the door. That was the last peanut-butter sandwich he ever had. To this day Jared won’t touch anything with peanut butter. A perfectly delicious food. Divorce fucks you up.

My family has taken to answering my calls like this: “Oh, it’s
you
, Brett.” Well, like it or not, they’re going to have to deal with me. At least occasionally. Because a key stipulation of the agreement drafted by Burt—among about five things he worked up to make the whole absurd process and resulting nonbinding agreement seem official—was a continuation of Layla’s “custody” scheme. Each of us gets the family on a designated weekend. I get them; she gets them; I get them; she gets them. This basically will keep Layla and me from running into each other accidentally, but it also has the effect of laying out ground rules for what was already becoming a grueling competition for the family’s affections.

I take this very seriously, wanting to plan a get-together or special event. But I’m kind of stuck. Layla was always better at this sort of thing. I’m racking my brain, trying to dream up something that won’t immediately be eclipsed, so I call my dad to see if I can trick him into coming up with a brilliant suggestion.

“No ideas?” he says, busting me about three minutes into the call. “Well, it’s a tough situation, I know.”

Then he says something that hits me like a fire hydrant in the crotch. I know he’s joking—I
think
he’s joking—but it still makes my blood boil.

“Maybe you should call Layla.”

“What does that mean?” I snort.

“Nothing, nothing. We’re just … The family has something special in our near future. When we go to the Sunday—”

“You made plans for this weekend,” I challenge, “knowing that it’s my turn?”

“For Pete’s sake, it’ll be on Layla’s weekend!” he says. “But she’s already arranged a doozy: Sunday at the spa for your mom and your sister, and Scott and I get a round of golf at LACC.”

“Good for her,” I say.

“Well, I’m just saying. If you two really are planning on buying
our affections, you’re falling behind good,” he remarks with a laugh.

“LACC is private,” I mutter, hardly hearing him. “How the hell did she swing that?”

“Some couple with a membership came in for photos, and apparently they loved the way Layla caught the moment where their dog’s little tongue was just showing a bit—”

“That
cheap trick?” I cut my dad off. “She gives them peanut butter, for crying out loud.”

“Brett,” my father says, suddenly serious. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. This all just seems silly, and we don’t expect you to match Layla’s—”

“Fine. I won’t,” I toss out. And I hang up.

Through the grapevine, I hear a rumor that the family is free this Sunday. It’s a Brett weekend, but without actually coming right out and saying it, Scott strongly hinted that the Fosters were being kicked to the curb.

Wasting no time, I hatch a plan to throw together a picnic lunch at the park. Nothing fancy. I’ll prepare a few things, maybe watercress-and-cucumber sandwiches to start, grilled porto-bello mushrooms with roasted-pepper rémoulade, marinated corn salad, Southwestern-style chicken, a homemade forest-berry torte. Maybe there’ll be some badminton or boccie. No big deal. And the whole thing will be a surprise; I’ll tell them I’m picking up a bucket of KFC and a twelve-pack of Coke.

I call Ginny Thursday night and hash out plans. She’s over-the-top agreeable.

“So, one o’clock, then,” I say.

“That’s fine,” she says.

“Or would later be better? Would that give you more time?”

“Whatever you said before is fine.”

“Because you and Bill and the guys don’t have to do
anything,”
I tell her. “I’ll take care of everything.” And then I think, here it
comes: her pointless little insistence on doing something, contributing a dish, bringing a cooler, calling the city for a picnicking license.

“Okay,” she says.

It’s a first! For a moment, I can’t believe my good fortune. There’s no battle over whether I’m doing too much or going out of my way. But almost immediately my feeling changes. It’s not relief but almost,
almost
, resentment. No pledge of Bill to get the grill going? No offer to throw together a dessert? Not even a store-bought Jell-O mold?

Still, I don’t let my obvious hypocrisy get me down. I’ve got a date with the Fosters, and that always makes me feel better. Plus, Brett will be on the sidelines. Winning this round will be sweet.

God, I hate losing.

Saturday evening, after my Condors get clobbered by St. John’s at an away game, I’m talking to Scott in my usual postgame state of nervous exhaustion, too tired to move and feeling very guilty that I’m not doing anything but lazing around playing video games. It’s hell. We’re playing Grand Theft Auto IV: the Lost and Damned because I got sick of Scott clobbering me at the new Madden. (WTF? Has he been practicing? He’s making JaMarcus Russell look like Peyton Manning. Little bastard.) My senses are dulled, yet I’m irritable. Layla used to say I’d get PMS all game day, meaning I was “a little moody.” Behind my back she’d say it, and my family and friends did a terrible job of keeping her secret. Privately, it made me laugh—every day except game day.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Scott’s saying. We’re both doing our best to get past the fights we’ve been having; I came over to check out his newest painting—something mimicking some fantasy painter named Vallejo, and I have to say that I can appreciate the model’s outfit—and he’s talking about sports. “You knew this would be a tough year. You lost your entire front line and your
best pass rushers. Everyone tells you that every week, but you still get down.”

“Well …” I sigh. “Knowing we’ve got some holes and inexperience doesn’t make losing any easier. I just wanted this year to be like the last few. I got used to winning, too,” I say. “Maybe I even started taking it for granted.”

“I know what would help,” Scott says. Then he smirks. “It’s too bad you’re not invited.”

“To what?”

“I shouldn’t say,” he says, practically guaranteeing that I’ll find out, even if I have to beat it out of him.

“Right, you shouldn’t,” I agree. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

He pauses, maybe to give a quick nod to trustworthiness. Then: “Layla’s doing a little picnic for us on Sunday. You bagged out, she stepped in.” He pops Madden back in and gives me an amused, challenging look.

Now, I can’t emphasize enough how dumb it is to put together a plan of action when you’re beside yourself with rage. (I actually think that’s what’s behind a lot of blogging.) But I don’t always listen to myself.

Trying to cover my ass, I say, “I didn’t bag. I just … changed focus.”

“What?”

“I know what I said to Dad on Thursday, but he didn’t have to tell her—I wanted to
surprise
you. I know I come up a little short sometimes—”

“Sometimes?” Scott says.

“So I thought we’d switch it up and do a big breakfast thing.”

“But you sleep until noon on Sundays,” he challenges.

True. Not noon but definitely after breakfast. At least during the season and after game days. This little detail escaped me when I gave birth to this breakfast plan, which is turning out to be a preemie.

“That’s part of the surprise,” I suggest. “Where are we going?” Scott asks.

Good question, and one in need of an answer. But right now I’m exhausted.
“Big
breakfast. Save room,” is all I mutter. “Tell the others.”

As he gives himself the Raiders again, and me the Steelers, I get up, toss down my controller, and head out of his room.

“Well, if nothing else, we’re eating great on Sunday.” Scott laughs.

The phone rings. It’s Bill. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Just wanted to let you know we’ll meet you at the park,” he says.

“Okay, but I could pick you up. It’s no trouble.”

“It’ll be easier. We’ll all be over at our house when Brett drops us off—”

“Brett?” I interject, trying to keep from flipping my lid. “He’s …I thought he wasn’t doing anything with you guys.”

“He’s taking us to breakfast. But don’t worry. We’ll be done and back long before your little picnic.”

Little? Yeah, right. And the Pacific is my little ocean
. But I can’t very well contradict Bill and risk sounding overly competitive. Which I’m not. So I keep my peace. “All right. No worries. See you at our little picnic!”

Little, my ass
.

The problem with making a big deal out of breakfast is that it generally requires a reservation at a decent restaurant. When you oversleep on Sunday morning and wake up twenty minutes before you’re supposed to pick up your dining companions, that’s really a trick. It’s all I can do to shower, shave, and tear out of my place to end up fifteen minutes late at the house. Trish is over, and the family’s waiting.