Revenge Of A Band Geek Gone Bad (13 page)

For the next couple of hours, I sat in the kitchen preparing homemade rolls, mashed potatoes,
sweet
potatoes with marshmallows, creamed spinach, green bean casserole and cranberry sauce -- which I made from scratch, thank you very much.  I wanted to do the turkey, too, but my mom insisted on getting that.  Since Josh wasn't going to spend Thanksgiving with his mom, I wanted this to be the
perfect
holiday meal for him.  As I worked, I found myself enjoying the process.  In many ways, cooking is a lot like painting; it’s the type of task that you can throw yourself into and forget about the world for a while.  Plus, I liked the way everything sounded; there was something comforting about the
chop-chop-chop
of the vegetables against the cutting board, the scrape of the spoon against the bowl and the bubbling noise that the potatoes made as they boiled.  I thought back to our night at the Dew Drop Inn and made up some improvised melodies to the kitchen rhythms.

My parents returned around five.  I'd told Josh to come by at six, so we still had an hour before he arrived.

"Hey," I called out to my mom and dad as they shuffled through the front door.  I could see from their wet coats that it had been raining.  "How's everything going?"

"Not good," my mom muttered, as she hung up her damp parka.  She grabbed a cup of coffee —- I'd made sure to put some up for her before she came home —- and sank into a chair.  "The lunch at the home was more chaotic than I ever imagined.  I didn't think it would be so hard to serve people in well, wheelchairs, but the
staff were
so unorganized."  She shook her head and took a long sip of coffee.

My dad then entered the kitchen and his eyes brightened.  "Something smells good in here," he announced, leaning in to sniff at the garlic mashed potatoes that
were now cooling.  He smiled at me.  "You've been cooking all day, huh?"

"Yep," I said, proudly.  I listed the other items I'd prepared.  With each mention of food, my dad became more and more relaxed, but my mother's mouth set into a tight, white line.

"You know, you ought to let her take over Thanksgiving from now on, Lydia," my dad joked.  He grinned at her.  "I think she's better at it than you are."

"Come on, Dad," I said, letting out a nervous giggle.  By the way my mother glared at me, I could tell that something was bothering her.

Dad didn't seem to notice.  "Seriously, you're good at this, kid," he said, sampling a spoonful of my potatoes. 
"
Mmm
!
  These are great!"

My mom peered into them.  "These don't look soft enough," she announced.  "When you make mashed potatoes, they should be perfectly creamy and smooth."

"I like them chunky," my dad cut in.

Mom took a taste.  "And my God, Melinda, how much cream did you use in these?  They're extremely rich."

"I did exactly what the recipe said," I explained.  "I used the same amount of cream and butter that it said to use."

My mom exploded.  "You used cream
and
butter?  Do you know how fattening those are?"

I shrugged.  "It's not like I ate the butter straight or drank down the cream or anything."

"Yes, but I'm assuming that you tasted these before you dished them out, right?"

"Yeah, a little bit..."

"Well that adds up!" 
she
shouted, raising her hands.  "You take a little bit of this, a little bit of that while you’re cooking and before you know it, you've eaten an entire day's meal just from sampling the food!"

I closed my eyes.  "Mom..."  I began.

"Don't 'Mom' me," she interrupted.  "There was no reason to make all of this food.  We're having four people.  The last thing you need is to be chowing down on leftovers."

My dad cleared his throat.  "Lydia, don't you think you're being just a little bit ridiculous?"

"No, I am not being ridiculous," she shot back.  "I know you're hardly ever home anymore, but in case you haven't noticed, our daughter has gotten
fat
over the past year.  I'm trying to help her lose the weight and gorging on a feast isn't the way to do it."

"But I've lost weight," I argued, turning so she could see.  I squeezed my side.  "See?  There's much less there."

My dad nodded.  "Melinda isn't fat, Lydia.  She's just a little big for her age.  And
it's
Thanksgiving," he added.  "It's nice that we're having a home-cooked meal."

Mom sat down at the table and put her head in her hands.  "All I want is what's best for everybody.  I try to help my father, I can't do anything.  I try to help my daughter stay healthy so she doesn't go through what my father is going through; I'm wrong.  And
it's
no thanks to you," she said, pointing an accusing finger at my father.  "You're never here, Hank.  And I'm sick and tired of you disagreeing with me on everything!"

"What do you want me to do, quit the hospital?" he replied.  He frowned.  "I don't think I can do that."

"It's not just that," she sniffled.  "You come home and you plop yourself down in front of the TV or computer and you just ... you just disappear!"

"Well, I work hard.  When I come home I want to relax."  He turned to leave the room, but my mom exploded.

"You think I don't want to relax, too?  Maybe being a musician isn't as important as being a doctor" —- her voice caught on the word —- "but between my job and taking care of my father, I have no time.  And everyone expects me to get everything done around here."  Her eyes filled with tears.

"Mom," I said, reaching out for her and praying that I could stop what was happening.  The last thing we needed was to have a family fight, right before Josh came over, no less.

"Look, I'll clean everything up tonight," I promised.  "You won't ever know that I was in the kitchen."

Mom stared at me.  "And that's supposed to make everything better?  You're the one who demanded this meal —- at the last minute!"  She
grit
her teeth.  "Do you know that I stayed up until two in the morning cleaning our shower?  Do you know how many hours I spent on that thing?"

"You didn't have to do that," I whispered.

"What?" 
she
shouted.

"It's not like Josh is going to use our shower," I explained.  "It's not like he's going to care."

"Well, I care!" 
she
screamed.  "I want our house to look good!  I'm willing to put in the work all the time.  Meanwhile, you spend most of your time sitting on your lazy ass..."

"Most of the time I'm studying!"

"Most of the time I see you painting and listening to music ... or sleeping!  No wonder you've gained so much weight.  You don't care about anything!  You don't think!"

"Lydia, come on," Dad said quietly, coming toward her.  She just shoved him away.

"I'm tired of handling everything in this family.  But you know what?" she said.  She threw up her hands.  "This is it.  I'm done."

"No, I'm done!"  I said.  I could feel the heat reaching my cheeks.  How
dare
she
!  How dare she say I don't do anything when I spent the entire
freakin
' day making food!  "I'm tired of you ragging on me about everything and making me feel terrible about myself," I seethed.  "You never have anything nice to say to me, Mom.  All you do is
make
me feel like
shit
."

My mom gasped.  "What did you just say?"

I put my hands on my hips and smirked.  "You heard me."  As the words came out, I couldn't believe that they'd left my lips.  It was like a release.  I felt that same rush I'd gotten when Josh and I had gotten away with crafting Kathy's letter.

My dad came right up to me, his eyes narrowed.  "I won't have you talking that way to your mother, Melinda.  Apologize!"

I locked eyes with his.  "No."

"Fine, then your friend can't come tonight," my mother said in a flat tone.  "Pack up all this food.  We'll take it to a shelter so you don't binge on it."

That did it.  My vision blurred as the tears stung my eyes and my mouth curled into a snarl.  I couldn't even come up with any words to say what would effectively convey what I was thinking.  Before I knew it, I'd grabbed one of the china plates that were in our cupboard.  Lifting it high above my head, I let it fall to
the floor with a smash!  Watching the perfect, round plate blast into shards was strangely cathartic.

"Melinda!" 
my
mom cried, racing over to the shards. "No!" She held up a piece, staring at it as if she couldn't believe it were real.  My hands became bloodied when a few pieces hit me, but they didn't hurt. 
That just made me feel
more alive.

Without a word, I picked up another plate and smashed it against the table.  I then grabbed another and bashed it against the fridge.  Each time a plate would shatter, I felt more and more of my anger melting away.

"Mel!" 
my
dad shouted, grabbing my bloodied hands so he could stop me.  "What the hell is wrong with you?"  I struggled against him.  "What's gotten into you?  Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm sick of you!"  I announced, freeing myself from his grip.  "I'm sick of being judged and feeling like I have to watch everything I do.  I'm especially sick of
you
!"  I told my mom.  She didn't answer; instead, she just stared at me with her mouth open.  Before they had a chance to stop me, I stormed outside, slamming the front door.

###

Though it had stopped raining, the air was still damp and the porch was dotted with puddles.  I didn't care and took a seat on the driest portion.  In my anger, I'd also forgotten to take my jacket, but I wasn't planning to go back inside and face
them
.  I pulled my sweater up over my hands and crossed my arms over my chest to stay warm.

For the next half hour, I sat outside, quietly crying to myself.  I was sure that someone would come for me soon enough, but no one did.  I could hear my parents talking in the kitchen, in low, tense voices.  I was positive that they were discussing me.  They were probably deciding whether to send me to military school or lock me in an insane asylum.

A while later, a station wagon pulled into our driveway, making me jump.
  Josh.  Damn it, with everything that had happened
,
I'd forgotten about him.  I made a futile attempt to wipe my eyes as he got out of his car, but my face was stained with tears.  Blood still streaked my palms.

"Hey, Mel," he called, strolling up to me.  He was holding a bouquet of carnations.  "Do you think your mom will like these...
"
   He stopped as soon as he saw my face and my hands. 
"Oh my God, Melinda, what's wrong?
  What
happened
to you?"

"Nothing," I muttered, but he didn't listen.  He joined me on the porch, taking a seat next to me.

"Come on, Mel," he said in a soothing tone.  He picked up one of my hands and examined it.  "You can tell me anything, you know."

That did it.  I suddenly burst into sobs as I told him everything, and I mean
everything
.  I told him about my family's fight, how my dad was never home, how my mother always criticized me, how my grandfather was sick ... how I often didn't even like myself.  The whole time I was babbling, Josh didn't say a word or even make a sound.  He simply put his arms around my shoulders, pulling me toward him

When I was finally done with my rant, which seemed to go on for hours, Josh gulped and let out a loud rush of air.  "I'm sorry," he said, letting go of my shoulders.  "I'm sorry you've been going through all that."

"Thanks," I whispered.  He stood up and I was sure he was going to leave —- really, who'd want to stick around after all that? —- but to my surprise, he nodded at our front door.

"Let's go in," he said, moving toward it.  "Thanksgiving isn't quite over yet.  We can still make it."

"Really?"
  I asked, hanging back.  I wasn't even sure if I wanted to go back inside.

"It's cold," he argued, "and you promised me there'd be pie.  Besides," he added, "You need to put a bandage or something on your hands."

I stared down at them.  The blood had caked into little rivers along my palms.  They didn't hurt too badly, but they looked pretty frightening.

Josh motioned for me to follow.  "Please, Mel?"

"Okay," I replied, reluctantly leading him inside.

###

I guess my dad had gone upstairs because he was nowhere to be found.  My mom was on her hands and knees in the kitchen, picking up all the shards from the broken plates.  Her eyes were red and puffy and her cheeks were blotchy.  She'd obviously been crying for as long as I had.  Part of me wanted to go to her and fling my arms around her and apologize, but I couldn't make myself do it.  Instead, I grabbed some peroxide and Band-Aids so I could tend to my hands.