Home Is Burning (13 page)

Chelsea couldn't keep a friend because she only talked about dance. Plus, she would rip ass and laugh hysterically during a hangout session. Most teenage boys would've found that funny, but girls thought it was gross. She was also incredibly nervous and awkward around strangers. When someone asked her a question, she wouldn't answer them, but would instead look up to us to answer for her. We just thought she was shy, but most of our friends thought that she was mentally challenged.

“So Chelsea's, like, retarded, right?” I remember one of my friends asking.

“Nah, she's just weird,” I'd explain. “She likes fart jokes, though, so that's pretty cool.”

By the time Chelsea reached junior high school, we couldn't blame her eccentric behavior and social issues on being premature or my mom's cancer anymore. My parents started to do some research and sent Chelsea to a psychiatrist, who suggested that Chelsea might have Asperger's. They started to read more about it and realized that Chelsea was nearly a textbook case. My mom and dad were working on getting her some help, but, just as they started looking into counselors for her, the Lou Gehrig's storm hit. They had bigger things to worry about than teaching Chelsea how to use a fork. She was on her own now.

*   *   *

Jessica was a different kind of mess. My parents had adopted her when she was three days old. Since Greg and I were so close, my parents wanted a sister for Tiffany to play with. Plus, my mom was adopted and wanted to pay it forward. We all loved Jessica unconditionally, but as the one adopted child, she always felt like an outsider in our family. She thought she was the one fuck-up who could never do right. I knew this because while on a family vacation, I was hassling her about doing better in school. She finally snapped, pinched my fat face hard, and said, “I'm not perfect like the rest of you.”

She labeled herself as imperfect and struggled through school. By the time I came home to help out, she was in her junior year of high school. My mom and dad had been the ones to help her slide by—meeting with teachers and assisting with homework every night—but now they couldn't provide the supervision she needed to make that final push to graduation.

Socially, she had fallen in with the drinking kids. High schoolers typically don't drink responsibly. Drinking usually means slugging down whatever hard alcohol they can manage to steal from their parents' liquor cabinets. Since she was from a non-Mormon family who enjoyed their alcoholic beverages, Jessica was one of the primary suppliers to her friends. One night, I tried to make a big fat drink and noticed the vodka was mostly water. Jess was attempting to get away with her drinking by using that age-old trick, but hadn't counted on her brother also loving the drink.

She had wrecked her car twice: once when she hit a moose driving down Parley's Canyon from Park City to Salt Lake, and once when some kid took her for a joyride and rolled it into a ravine. She was also caught drinking at Utah's shitty amusement park, Lagoon, over the summer and given a drinking ticket. Her court date was fast approaching.

In addition to the poor performance at school and the drinking, she was also hiding a long-standing relationship with that lacrosse coach she'd been hanging out with—the one we nicknamed Creepy Todd, a thirty-five-year-old Mormon. Creepy Todd's presence in Jessica's life started when she played on one of his teams when she was twelve. He was thirty then. At first it was just lacrosse, but then they started developing a friendship outside of lacrosse. We found out that he was picking her up from school in his truck and would drive her and her friends around to the mall, to the movies, to get Slurpees, etc. He would come to birthday parties. He would call Jessica late at night. They'd chat online, and not about lacrosse. We had no proof that it wasn't all totally innocent, but at the time it still seemed way inappropriate.

One summer night when I was home visiting from Berkeley, Jessica left an MSN Messenger conversation up on the household computer screen. She had fallen asleep on the couch next to the computer. I, being a nosy prick, decided to read it. In the conversation, they said “I love you” to each other, she mentioned that she needed to get her sweater out of his truck, and she asked if she could get a back massage from him. She was fifteen at the time. I didn't want to be a snitch, but I also didn't want my little sister to involve herself in a sketchy situation, so I printed the conversation out and gave it to my parents, figuring it was their job to handle things.

My dad did, sort of. I thought he should have called the cops—even without direct proof of any wrongdoing—pulled Jessica from the lacrosse team, and punched the dude in the nuts, but my dad was too peaceful for nut punches. Instead, he just sat down with Creepy Todd and told him that he wasn't to contact or hang out with Jessica outside of lacrosse. He also had Jessica promise to not see Creepy Todd. I loved my dad and respected the hell out of him, but in this situation I thought he should've done more. It was a rare but giant parenting mistake on his part. But, to our knowledge, they were only seeing each other at lacrosse practice, so I guess it worked. I was still on the lookout for him.

*   *   *

This is all to say that Jessica and Chelsea were already a bit of a mess, even before the whole dying-parents party. And now, my mom was knocked out by chemo, wandering the house eating yogurt and muttering nonsense, and my dad was being rocked by Lou Gehrig's disease. So, in addition to all the Daddy Duties, Greg and I had to manage the little girls and sort of step in as their dysfunctional, fake parents. This meant helping them get out the door to school, picking Chelsea up from school (the Mormons only drove her to school, but not back home), helping with homework, driving Chelsea to dance class, feeding them and keeping Jessica's relationship with Creepy Todd under control. Tiffany refused to help with the little girls, noting that she had been doing this shit for years. It was our turn. Fair enough.

Chelsea, in particular, was a handful. She was used to having my mom and dad run her life. She could still barely get herself ready for school in the morning without my mom's help, and, though she was sixteen, she refused to drive. She was terrified of the roads and wasn't ready to deal with the stress and pressure of operating a car. Greg and I didn't see it like that. We thought if she'd just drive, our lives would be a lot easier; we wouldn't have to run her ass around town.

“You need to stop being such a fucking baby and learn how to drive,” I told her, sounding like a deadbeat dad instead of the kind, loving, supportive, nurturing father that she had come to expect in her real dad.

“I don't want to drive,” she replied.

“Being a baby isn't cute anymore, Baby Moe. You need to grow up.”

“You need to grow up,” she retorted with a smile.

“It's just that everything would be so much easier if you just took care of yourself,” I said.

“Everything would be so much easier if you just took care of yourself,” she mimicked back at me.

“Oh, repeating everything I say. Real mature, Fart Princess,” I said.

“You're the Fart Princess,” she said.

“I really want to fart on your face,” I said.

“I really want to fart on your face,” she said. We both started laughing. A fart joke is stronger than any anger I could build up as her fake parent. I drove her to dance.

Occasionally, I would push Chelsea to be more independent. One afternoon, I was feeling particularly worn down. I had been looking after my dad all day, helping him at his office, feeding him, basically just being the best son in the entire world—a true American hero with a heart the size of Texas. I laid my dad down for a nap on his BiPAP, picked up Chelsea from school, and drove her home. Just as I was about to finally relax a bit, she instantly needed another ride to dance.

“Fucking Christ, you need to learn how to drive. You're sixteen years old, and our home is burning to the ground with tragedy,” I said.

“Sorry … I promise not to fart in the car,” said Chelsea, knowing I'd warm up to a solid fart joke.

“I can't stay mad at you,” I said as I smiled and grabbed the keys.

As we walked out to the car, I decided it was a good idea for Chelsea to practice her driving. She had a learner's permit, so it was legal. She opposed the idea. I said, “Okay, well, then, I don't know how you're getting to dance class, because I'm not driving.” She wanted to go to dance class badly enough to drive, so she reluctantly grabbed the keys and took a deep breath into her tiny, premature lungs.

In the car, I rolled down the window and kicked my feet up. “Shit, it sure is nice to be sitting in the passenger seat.”

“Fuck you, Danny,” she said as she nervously tried to jam the keys into the ignition, missing a couple of times before finally landing.

It was the first time I had actually been a passenger in one of her wild rides. My mom had warned me that she wasn't a good driver, but no warning could've prepared me. The car made that catlike hissing sound when she turned the key after it was already started. She then tried to reverse the car out of the driveway, but it shot forward instead of backward.

“Wrong way, idiot,” I said. “Check your mirrors and put it in reverse.” She clumsily put it in neutral before finally managing to get it into reverse. She darted out of the driveway, almost hitting the mailbox and side fence.

“Oh my God, Fart Princess. No wonder you're scared of driving. You're Mr. Magoo,” I said as she ran through a stop sign.

“Who's Mr. Magoo?” she asked as she put on her left blinker and turned right.

It was when Chelsea almost slammed into another car during a two-lane merger that I realized that she shouldn't be on the road.

“Jesus, you're going to kill us, and I don't think Mom and Dad should have to sit through their children's funerals, especially in their current state,” I said, helping guide the car to the side of the road.

She got out, looking like she was about to pop from stress. I slid over into the driver's seat as cars angrily stormed by. No one honks in Utah, because it's not L.A., but this would've been a prime time to honk.

“So, I guess we're just stuck driving you around. Guess that's just part of the whole dying-parents package. You're the worst driver in the history of driving, by the way.”

Chelsea laughed so hard she accidentally farted, which made us both laugh hysterically. I drove her smelly ass to dance.

Though Chelsea was a handful, she was at least fun to be around. Jessica, on the other hand, was a real pain in the ass. It wasn't like she required much of our attention. Actually, she didn't want any of us to notice her. She'd sneak around the house trying her best to go unnoticed. But getting her up and out of bed for school in the morning was nearly impossible. It was a fight every morning. I'd wake her up at six thirty so she had time to get ready, but she'd just go right back to sleep. She didn't give a fuck about school. School was hell on earth. She felt out of place among all the rich white Mormons.

Sometimes we'd get her there, but most days we'd throw up our arms and say, “Fuck it. It's her life.”

“Yeah, what are we going to do? Make her go to school at gunpoint?” Greg said.

“That's not a bad idea, but I'm scared of guns. Fuck it. Let's let her sleep. At least someone in this house will be well rested.”

More than once, we found her passed out on the kitchen floor or in the basement.

“Damn it, she's taking all the booze,” I'd say.

“Come on, let's get her to bed,” Greg'd say back.

“There's still a little vodka in here,” I'd say as I finished off the bottle she'd been drinking from. Greg and I would pick her up and plop her into bed, so she could rest up for her big day of not going to school. I'd thought drinking too much was going to be my job. Jessica was sort of stealing my thunder.

I knew Jessica was acting like this because she was scared about what was happening with our dad. She loved him more than anything. She was in pain. Some of the drinking was simply an escape. I felt endlessly sorry for her, but I didn't know how I could help. I had talked to Jessica about her drinking before, and school counselors were meeting with her on a weekly basis, but it obviously wasn't working. It was useless bringing it up while she was still drunk, so I tried to get her one morning while she was hungover. She had already decided to not go to school that day and had come downstairs to dig some food out of the fridge.

“You know how your head hurts and you feel like you might die? Well, that's from the alcohol,” I said as she opened the fridge.

“I didn't drink,” she said, having forgotten about the night before.

“Greg and I found you passed out,” I reminded her.

“So?” she said, still giving me attitude.

“So, you know how you can stop feeling like shit every morning? You could stop drinking and start focusing on getting through the eleventh grade,” I said.

“K,” she said as she slammed the fridge.

I instantly felt bad for trying to parent her, so I tried to wrangle her in for a hug, figuring maybe she just needed a little love.

“Come here and give your loser brother a hug. I love you,” I said. But she gave me a dirty look instead and stormed upstairs with a plate of leftover lasagna.

Acting like her dad felt incredibly strange to me. I didn't like it. I wanted to go back to being her cool brother. I didn't want to be barking criticisms at her. But I didn't know what else to do. I was concerned Jessica was going to permanently fuck up her life. I wanted to shake her and demand that she stop screwing up, but I also wanted to console her and tell her that everything was going to get better. The problem was that she wasn't responding to either approach.

The good news was that my coming home appeared to have scared Creepy Todd away. He knew that I wasn't cool with Jessica hanging out with him. It was probably because anytime I'd see the guy, I'd stare him down and raise my middle finger. “Stay away from my family, you creep,” I'd mumble. I was like Robert De Niro in
Meet the Parents
, and he was like Ben Stiller, only I wasn't Jessica's real dad, and he was a creepy lacrosse coach. I had also told Jessica that my tough friends and I would kick his ass if we caught him hanging around. Realistically, I would've done nothing because I'm a pussy. But they didn't know that.