Look How You Turned Out (24 page)

"I asked. Bedilia, I left because I had this buried feeling…here. You came back because you wanted the very thing I ran from."

"Love," I say simply.

She stares at me so long I think she's had a stroke.

Finally, "It's a little more complicated," she whispers.

"I know what you want to say. You want to say that you hope I'm not giving up a great future to try and come back here and please Dad, make it up to him by marrying a local boy, one made in his image."

"Are you?"

"I realize we're different…two very different people. We share DNA," …but not hearts. "History," …but no present…no future. "We're related," …but we're not family.

Now she's looking at the table, at her hand splayed there. At the dead guy's ring.

Apparently love was bigger than her, and it ambushed her in Tennessee. But he's gone now, and she's come here to give me her perspective, and I'd like to believe she wanted to hear mine.

It wasn't me…it wasn't Artie.

My mother ran from love.

I look across the room to where Marcus has three of them now, one guy seated across from him, two more standing.

But his eyes are on me. He's watching, he's figured it out, he knows what this is, who she is. He's not coming over, but he will. He's waiting.

I smile at him. I smile at love.

"Is that him?" she asks, following the beam. "The son…they're a beautiful pair."

"Yes," I say. "That's my beautiful husband Marcus."

I ran toward them, Mom. Marcus. Juney. That's how we're different.

"Wow," Juney says when I hit the lights. No electrical short. That's good. Yeah, Artie's ancient lights with the big, hard to find, special order bulbs that cook the Christmas tree before it's time are pretty awesome I must admit. That slow cooked pine is the most delicious smell of all.

Well, there are other more delicious smells like my husband's neck just under his ear. He tells me I'm crazy, but when I breathe there, I'm entranced. I'm home. They need a Yankee candle of this, I tell him. I'd have one in every room of the house.

He thinks I'm pretty funny.

Anyway, Artie's house is rockin' when he finally gets to come home on his walker. He drops into his recliner, well eases into it, me and Juney telling him over and over, "Butt first," like the therapist said. So he eases into it with a sigh, eyes closed as he's sitting there like a rumpled suit and he smiles so big.

"You're home Dad," I say.

I'm on the right, Juney on the left. "Grampa?" he says when Artie doesn't open his eyes.

Then slowly he does, staring at Juney. "It's alright if you don't get me a present," Juney says gravely. Marcus doesn't hear. He's carried in Artie's stuff and then gone out back to put wood in the stove.

Artie smiles even bigger. "You think Santa can't hear a man in the hospital son?"

Juney looks at me. He's decided, last year, that Santa is a bust. Well, he knows it now, can't believe everyone worked so hard to lie to him and keep up the ruse. When Marcus admitted Santa was every kid's mom and dad, Juney swore he was never going to believe anything else Marcus told him.

Of course, when Artie found out he gave Mr. Juney a talking to. “
There are
some things you don't question,” Artie told him. “In life, there are some watering holes you don't dig twice.

“One of them is Jesus and the other is Santa. Now as a boy grows into a man, his definition of both will change, broaden some, and narrow some. He may even find he has to be one or the other many times in his life. But in the end, he'll see there are things bigger and stronger than his mere mortal self, things that man doesn't mess with cause he just might find himself someday standing before the judge naked as a jay-bird with no defense but his big ideas and that, boy, is a place you never want to be. You got that?” Artie said.

Juney answered, “Yes, Sir.”

So now, when Artie says Santa, Juney puts up with it. When he says, Jesus,…well that argument will probably come later but for now, Jesus isn’t up for debate.

I have told Artie his theology scares me. “You can't put Santa on the cross, and you can't put Jesus in a sleigh.”

He says he wouldn't think of doing either one. But if the sleigh and notions like it, notions based on magic and generosity can teach a boy there's bigger things, unseen things, then that sleigh can open that boy's mind.

I don't know how many times he held me on his lap, summer and winter, and maybe I was crying over something, sure it was the end of the world, and he'd always end with this, "Just remember kiddo, there's more out there than what you can see. This world ain't driving itself. Absolutely everything works out…eventually."

"I'm glad you're home Dad," I tell him now, my hand on his arm.

"Me too sweetheart," he says, finally opening his eyes.

I credit Teresa for making Artie's annual Christmas Eve party the best ever. I think it is. Maybe it's because of the company I'm keeping, and maybe it's because Dad has been so long gone. But everyone is in the right places, finally.

So I'm dancing in the living room with Marcus. Well, some of the guys are dancing with their wives or girlfriends, and Marcus and I are off to the side, and we're dancing, my arms around his neck, his slung around my hips. Oh and I'm wrapped in garland. He did it.

"I like you," I say. I'm a little tipsy.

He laughs.

"You're too pretty," I say.

He laughs some more but the way he holds me, just enough to not be dirty in front of co-workers and Artie, but his fingers are doing the walking whenever they can, and he's gotten me a couple of  times in the pantry, and I got him upstairs when he came out of the bathroom, I goosed him good, and I ran away. So it's been this little contest going on.

But now we're dancing.

David is dancing next to us, and he says, “Get a room,” and we both groan. I hate, hate, hate that cliché. I stick my tongue out at him for his lack of imagination.

Dad is holding court from his recliner.

Wasn't it just last year this was the big people room, and I was on the outside looking in, trying to trap Marcus somewhere near the taco chips and hope he'd notice me as someone more than Artie's little Pollyanna?

But the kids are downstairs in the unfinished basement playing ping-pong and pool and going crazy.

I've seen Juney a few times, sweaty and flushed in his face, his eyes so bright with Christmas frenzy. He's confident and definitely, the leader of this shindig when it comes to the juveniles.

So it's good, it's great, and we don't even need a designated driver. But since Marcus has to work at six freaking a. m. on Christmas, he's only had a couple of beers. Well, me too, but it doesn't take much for me.

Teresa is sitting on the arm of Dad's chair. Dad is wearing red shorts and his elastic socks from the hospital. He has on a red flannel shirt Teresa bought for him, and a Santa hat. He's animated and happy. He's…heck…Dad's in love?

"I've…I've never seen Artie…in love before," I say to Marcus.

"Yes you have," he says. "He's been in love with your mom for years."

He has a point. Artie loves and loves and loves. He doesn't know how to stop. And unrequited love can be lethal. But this with Teresa is different.

I look at Teresa. She's an attractive woman, an active woman, a workhorse of a woman. She has an amazing attitude. Not overly deep, but not shallow. A little shallow, but upbeat. Perfect for my Mark Twain of a dad.

Teresa's head is thrown back, laughing at something Artie just said. She grips his arm, he takes her hand. She’s in love!

"What?" Marcus says. The music has sped up, but we're still slow dancing.

"My Dad and Teresa. Even seeing Mom…maybe it was closure for him."

It was. I think her visit might have been good for him. He's…he's free. Free to love Teresa.

I almost want to thank my mother….

"Are you crying?" Marcus says.

"Yes," I answer, sniffling.

His arms move higher, closer to my shoulders. "Happy tears?" he says.

"Mostly."

"Okay," he says gathering me close again. "Okay, my Bedilia."

Artie retires before the last of his guests leave. He's had a good day, a fabulous evening. I am helping Teresa bag food, and Marcus has taken Juney home to put him to bed.

I unplug Dad's tree and give a last look around. Teresa is spending the night on the couch, to be close at hand in case Artie needs anything. Therapists will come for a few weeks to make sure Artie keeps progressing. Teresa says she'll clean in the morning. The diner is closed on Christmas Day. I am glad Dad won't wake up to an empty house on Christmas morning.

So it's goodnight and a hop, skip and a jump.

Outside it's cold and clear and the stars are brightly shining. There is a foot of snow on the ground, but the street and the sidewalks are clear as the snow there has been shoveled or salted.

It feels good to fill my lungs with the sweet frigid air that's tinged with the scent of wood being piped from our chimneys.

So I breathe like this for a while as I hang onto Artie's door knob. It's Christmas Eve, and it always melts away…well, it has. It's midnight.

By 3he time I hit the curb Marcus has the door open, a patch of light behind him. He takes a couple of steps, and I see he's holding the same strand of garland we are going to wear tonight while we make love. I have to laugh cause he didn't put it so nicely when he wrapped that stuff around me at Artie's. He plans to tie me up, tie us together or something. So I walk toward him, I'm sauntering now, holding what's left of my Cowboy Caviar in a red Christmas bowl. And I'm smiling.

Here's what I didn't tell you, it was two days ago now, I'm in the vegetable aisle at the grocery, and I've just bagged my cilantro, and there's a tap on my shoulder, and there she is…Jessica.

I jump so it's embarrassing, but I'm keyed up with the thought of something like this happening…and now it is happening.

So she holds up her hands, great manicure if you can get past worrying about whether or not it doubles as a weapon.

But she seemingly comes in peace. She is, at this moment, contrite.

"Please don't…be worried. I just want to thank you for returning my mixer. They told me at the station it was because of you. Thank you," she says.

I nod.

"I was…wrong to do…what I did. I was way over the line. I…hope in time you can learn to not be afraid of me," she puts her hand over her heart, "in case we run into each other. That mixer means the world to me. My mom and a couple of friends are cancer survivors. So yeah…the pink you know."

I didn't know. All the more reason not to throw it through someone's window, but hey, it's an old topic and I'm not here to beat a horse, even a dead one.

"I," she's digging in her big pink purse, "wanted…," she pulls a small clipped stack of white cards free and is going to great lengths to rip a couple of these from the stack. Then she fishes for a pen and hurriedly writes upon these tickets.

She is telling me they are coupons…for haircuts or services at her salon and she wants to give them to me. A bikini wax is mentioned. Someone else will do the work. I can even come in on Monday, her day off if that will make me feel better.

She hands these to me, and this is where it gets even more dicey. I wear two rings now, as yes, they've come in, our wedding rings, so two rings on that finger and she stares there. She has no cool or game either, she just stares.

I toss the cilantro into my cart. I'm saying thanks as I push the cart away from her…she's still staring.

I leave produce, fully expecting a watermelon to hit my back or at least a tomato. I move the crumpled coupons from hand to pocket to be dealt with when I'm safely in my truck headed toward home. I don't like to litter, but I make an exception for the two tickets I toss from my window.

Marcus has to go back to the grocery later to pick up all the things I missed.

Christmas morning finds Marcus and me, wrapped together under the covers, the garland still vining around us, and we're probably snoring wickedly or something. Juney's shouting wakes us. It's five a.m.

"Oh for real?" are the first words out of my mouth.

I move, and I'm kind of stuck to Marcus, and I itch a little from where the garland is imprinted. I need a shower and a glass of water for starters. I think of drinking the unfiltered shower water, yeah not doing that.

Mr. Beautiful raises his head and calls to his son, "Juney…calm down. We're coming."

"Bedilia, Bedilia you've got to come on. Come on!" Juney shouts through the door. He is hysterical.

"The puppy?" I call.

But he's obviously running back and forth down the hall as his voice grows loud then more distant, over and over again.

"Is Artie alright?" I nearly scream ripping the garland off my body and stepping free. Is my dad out in the snow or something? No, Teresa is with him. But...is there an ambulance out there?

Marcus is pulling on some sweat pants. He foregoes a shirt, tiny flecks of gold stuck here and there from our Christmas merriment. Me, I'm searching madly for something to wear. I settle on Marcus's long shirt from the party and some sleep shorts because those are the things I find first.

Marcus is out the door already. He's in the living room, lets out a long, low whistle, then tells Juney to calm down. I enter then. I'm also wearing my Uggs.

"Look, look," Juney's insisting, pulling me to the window.

There, in the driveway, barely lit by a distant streetlight and the moon, sits a new red Jeep wearing a big red bow.

I look at Marcus.

"I didn't do it," he laughs.

"Santa Claus," Juney says dancing around. "Come on…let's go see it." His boots are in his hand.

So the two of them take a minute to get their boots on, and Marcus is pulling his coat over his skin, and I grab the nearest jacket, Juney's Redskins, and I'm out. More snow has fallen, falls lightly now. It accumulates on the edges of the bow, on the grill, against the wipers. I pull the door, and there's a card laying on the driver's side leather seat.

It says Bedilia on the envelope. Okay. I open the thick envelope, and inside the card is paperwork for the title. I see the signature. Writing on one side of the card. My legs are bare. I'm freezing.

Marcus and Juney are out. "Are there keys?" Juney is saying while Marcus tells me to go back inside and get pants on.

When I don't answer I soon realize he's wrapping an afghan around my waist, but I'm standing there reading the card in the light provided from holding the vehicle's door open.

"Who is it?" he asks.

"Dad, can I get in the back?" Juney is saying, but Marcus makes him wait until I answer.

"It's um…it's Ranita. An um…a wedding present."

That quiets everyone…for a minute.

"Can we keep it?" Juney asks.

I look at him, so eager, at Marcus, truly waiting on me to decide.

"Um…the keys are...," I flip the visor, and they fall on the seat.

"Whoo-hoo," Juney is saying. "Can we go for a ride?"

"Just…let me get used to it for a minute, okay?"

"C'mon," Marcus is saying, pulling me along to go back inside.

Once we're in there, we make coffee, and I drink mine as I stare out the window at the lightening sky. Juney is negotiating to open the presents, and Marcus is in the family room building a fire. The card said it wasn't for Christmas. Ranita knew to leave that alone. She hadn't been here for nineteen of them. That's how it was. But she asked if she could do this one thing to bless my wedding. She said that her husband had been well insured, and she had means now, but she wanted to do things with this money that were special. She wanted to do something to show me how proud she was. Proud of me.

She wasn't trying to buy anything but the privilege of saying, "Congratulations." There was the mention of my beautiful men.

I am touched by the gesture, but it's not a pure feeling, not by any stretch. As generous as her message sounds, I know this is very much about her too.

I imagine her need to feel this connection to a daughter she sacrificed to a husband she didn't love. Wow. That's it. That's the stark version of our truth.

If I take the gift, do I condone it? Her? I need to speak with Dad before I do anything. He must have given his consent to this. But right now, I'll let it sit there because what can I do?

So we allow Juney to open one gift. It's from me to him and Marcus. Xbox One.

Marcus gets Juney Beats. I open my mixer, and the glass bowl.

Juney gives us matching coffee cups. Marcus's says, "Greatest Dad."

Mine says, "Greatest Mom."

"Thank you," I tell Juney.

He shrugs. I get a hug for the X-Box. From each, and I'm a little worried about Marcus because he doesn't like Juney to have too much screen-time. But it must be okay because Marcus's hug includes a secret squeeze. I tell them Artie went in on it. Juney wants to know how it splits up. Do they own it fifty-fifty or what?

I confirm fifty-fifty.

He wants to know what happens when he goes to college.

I tell him to pick one near home.

He gave me a cup that says, 'Mom.' "About that cup," I say to him…I point to my new title. "So what…it's official?"

He stares at me for a minute. "Depends what you do with the Jeep." Big grin.

Then I chase him into the kitchen and catch him near the fridge and tickle him against the door.

He doesn't use his full strength to get away, and Marcus calls at him not to, of course, so I show mercy.

But standing there watching the two of them hook up the box, without a doubt, that mug is my favorite gift.