Life, Sideways Page 2

  “How much just to sit on him and have you take our picture?”

  “Five dollars,” the man said.

  “Done.”

  Dave heaved me up onto Pedro before climbing on behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. “I love you,” he said into my ear right before the man took the picture.

  We climbed down from Pedro’s back and I scratched behind his ears as Dave dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty, handing it to the man. “Keep the change,” he said, his smile wide.

  I put the picture down, wondering if Dave would leave it out on his nightstand when I was gone. He’d probably leave it there for a while, but eventually, it would get put in the drawer and someday make its way into a box in the garage.

  My chest suddenly felt tight, my breathing becoming short and shallow. I sat down on the bed.

  It had been years since I’d had a panic attack, but the symptoms were as familiar as if I’d just had one yesterday. Time to do some yoga breaths.

  After several minutes of structured breathing, the tightness in my chest subsided: I had avoided a full-blown panic attack.

  Not willing to sit around and wait for another, I grabbed my bags and headed downstairs towards the garage.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I was still sitting in the car, wondering where the hell I was going. My first instinct was to go to a hotel and avoid having to tell anyone what had happened, but that wasn’t viable; there was no telling how long before I could get settled into my own place. Dave and I always did well financially, but now everything was going to change. There was no guarantee that I would even be employed anymore. Being a little prudent with money seemed like a good idea.

  So I thought about my friends. Kendra Silver, a good friend since grade school, was not my best choice to bunk down with. She was a newlywed and she and her new husband Paul were consumed with trying to conceive. Kendra’s biological clock and kicked into high gear the second she said “I do,” and the subsequent seven months without a plus sign on the pregnancy test stick were starting to cause some stress in the Silver household. I didn’t need to add my own fuel to that fire.

  Then there was Zoë, but she had a house already busting at the seams with her husband Alf, two kids, a dog and at least two cats. No chance I was knocking on that door.

  That left party girl Jen. She lived alone but in a small one-bedroom apartment. This would have been fine, as I’d never been above couch surfing, but Jen was almost never alone in the evenings between her on again off again boyfriend Seth and the men that filled the gaps when Seth was off again.

  I agonized, trying to decide upon the lesser of many evils.

  Instead, I ended up on the only doorstep where I was guaranteed comfort, solace and no risk of stepping on a used condom on the way to the bathroom in the morning.

  I needed the kind of comforting that only parents could dish out. A meal of consolation as effective as a huge casserole of mac and cheese with an ice cream sundae chaser. The kind of meal I was looking for would have a first course of hugs and kisses, an entrée filled with tsk tsks and a side of ‘oh you poor thing’s. Dessert would be assurances that I could do much better and that I would come out of this ordeal a stronger person. Add to that an actual real home-cooked meal courtesy of my Jewish mother whose entire life revolved around her kitchen and I would be well on my way to healing my broken heart.

  Of course, my parents weren’t home, both having already left for their respective jobs. Dad was a math teacher at the local high school and Mom worked at a local craft store where she was able to spend most of her days gossiping with her contemporaries while knitting afghan after afghan. I had been the recipient of countless beautiful afghans and had cheerily passed all but a few of them along to Goodwill where they would be put to much better use than attracting moths in my closet.

  I was happy they weren’t home: a few hours to myself to decompress was just what the shrink would order.

  Letting myself in with the key I had never returned upon moving out, I put my bags down in the tiled front hall. I filled my lungs with the sweet, heady air of my former home. Every time I returned, it still smelled good: a mixture of home cooking and lavender that was better than any aromatherapy concoction available on the market. Now if I could just bottle the fragrance, I’d never have to turn to Oreos for comfort again.

  I slipped out of my shoes and nudged them until they were neatly on the mat against the wall. Forget the Ten Commandments: disorganization and mess were at the top of the list of sins in my parents’ house.

  Retrieving my bags, I stepped deeper into the house, making a beeline for my old room which now doubled as my dad’s office. I passed by my sister Ruby’s old room and didn’t spare it a glance, knowing what would be inside: bolts of quilting fabric, skeins of yarn and assorted toolboxes and Rubbermaid containers containing various notions, threads, and knitting needles. Ruby hadn’t been married a week before my mother converted her room into craft supply central. My brother Steve’s room hadn’t suffered the same fate and stood untouched since the day he announced he was accepted to law school and was moving out. It was eerie how his room was fit to welcome Steve back at any time, with ever-fresh sheets and recently-dusted golf trophies even though the room hadn’t been utilized in almost a decade, other than to accept the odd visiting relative. And it didn’t matter that he was a successful lawyer who made decent money; until the day Steve walked down the aisle, Mom didn’t believe he wouldn’t be coming back home and so left his room ready for him.

  My room, however, had almost nothing left of my former life except my old bed dwarfed by the huge computer desk. Thanks to his profession, Dad was plugged into technology and prided himself on his technical aptitude. Not to mention that having a hopped-up computer made him very popular with Ruby’s kids when the family congregated for the holidays.

  I set my bags next to the bed and took a deep breath. I headed down to the basement to the rec room to work in some much needed ‘me time.’ Turning on the TV, I snuggled under one of the obligatory afghans and smiled as I found the Food Channel.

  * * *

  “Vicky? Honey are you here?” Mom’s voice interrupted my nap, reminding me immediately where I was.

  “Yeah, down here,” I hollered as I slid my legs to the floor. I yawned and stretched, the muscles across my shoulders and back protesting my spending the entire day channel-surfing and sleeping on the worn out old couch.

  Mom trudged down the stairs, her knitting bag still in hand. “What are you doing here? Are you feeling okay?” She dropped the bag and came at me, her palm automatically poised to land on my forehead.

  I waved her off. “I’m fine.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.” She sat down on the end of the couch facing me. “Not that I mind. It’s nice to see you, honey,” she added quickly.

  And there it was: I had to explain. There was no way around it. She wasn’t budging until she got an answer out of me. “Dave and I…” the tears came quicker than I expected. “We’re having some problems.” I pulled up my legs and hugged my knees to my chest, fighting the urge to rock back and forth.

  My mother’s hand flew to her mouth, the shock still clearly visible in her wide eyes.

  “Oh, honey…” She leaned in, putting her arms around me.

  That’s precisely the moment when I lost it.

  In my mother’s arms, I wept like I hadn’t since the age of fifteen when my beloved dog, Sandy, didn’t wake up one morning. It was almost the same feeling now: my best friend leaving me, the void left behind painfully palpable.

  When the crying finally subsided to just annoying hiccups, Mom removed her arms and leaned back. She dug into her knitting bag and found a Kleenex, which she pushed into my hand.

  “Honey, I’m sure it will be okay, you and Dave will work everything out.”

  “I don’t think so, Mom.” I wiped at my eyes with the Kleenex before using it to blow my nose.

 
“You want me to call the Rabbi?”

  I blinked at her. “What? Why would I need you to call the Rabbi?”

  She looked at me like I’d asked her who Barbra Streisand was. “The Rabbi. Maybe he could give you and Dave some advice. You know, marriage counseling.”

  The last thing I needed was marriage advice from a ninety-year-old Rabbi, who’d been widowed for three decades. “No thanks, Mom.”

  “Do you want to talk to me about it?” her eyes dropped from mine before she continued in a lower tone. “Is it about what happens in your bedroom?”

  “Ew, Mom, no. And I’m not really in the mood to talk about it right now. Is it okay if I crash here for a while?”

  She almost looked happy. “Of course, you can stay here as long as you like. Come on, you’ll help me with dinner.”

  Glad for something to do, I threw the afghan off and got up, stretching again. “Sure, what are we having?”

  Mom looked apologetic, “Oh nothing fancy. There’s a chicken soup with matzo balls and I’m going to put a brisket with potatoes into the oven now. Oh, and I’ll put a salad together for your father; the doctor said he needed to eat more vegetables. Maybe if I’d known you were coming, I’d have made something special.”

  Sure, nothing fancy at all. Nothing fancy in my house meant a couple of baked potatoes and chili from Wendy’s grabbed on the way home from work. I felt a pang of guilt as I wondered what Dave would be eating for dinner. If he was feeling anything like I was, he would end up at his mother’s house, pilfering a home cooked meal made by his Jewish mother.

  Chapter 3

  Mom and I prepared the meal together. I was well versed in her culinary processes so we worked side by side, getting dinner ready without many words needed between us. It was nice; she caught me up on family gossip while I tried to push my own family crisis out of my mind.

  As I sliced vegetables for the salad, I heard the front door open; and Mom and I looked at each other, frowning. It was too early for Dad to be home.

  “Hello?” My sister Ruby called out.

  “Hello, Bubby?” my nephew Michael echoed.

  My mother’s smile broadened significantly as she heard her grandson’s voice.

  I groaned inwardly.

  “Up here, we’re making dinner. You’re staying, I hope.”

  Seconds later, while I was still elbow-deep in tomatoes, my sister and her two kids were in the kitchen, enduring my mother’s incessant slobbering.

  “Oh Katie, look at that dress that Bubby bought you. It’s just gorgeous. And Michael, I like your new haircut.”

  Michael barely grunted as he went looking for candy in the drawer where my mother always kept a stash of gumdrops and chocolate.

  “Not before dinner, Michael,” Ruby scolded, fully aware of what her son was rooting for; we used to do the same when we were kids.

  “Now Ruby, one candy won’t hurt him,” my mother said, always ready to spoil her grandchildren.

  “Ma!” Ruby put her hands on her hips in an excellent imitation of our mother. She’d have killed me if I’d ever pointed that out.

  I turned and pushed Michael gently out of the way of the candy drawer, but surreptitiously handed him a few gumdrops behind my back. He wisely disappeared with his candy into the living room.

  Mom waved Ruby off. “One candy won’t hurt. Now, I’ve got plenty of food, you’ll stay?” she was hopeful.

  Ruby shook her head. “No, we just came to drop off the fundraising list for Michael’s school. You can fill it out and I’ll come back and pick it up. The cookie dough is really good.” She turned to me, “You should get some, Vic, Dave would really like it.”

  I nodded absently; I was always getting hit up for one fundraiser or another. Apparently it was my duty as cool, childless aunt to support all of the kids’ fundraising endeavors.

  “You and the kids have to eat, Ruby.” Mom was relentless.

  “We’re on our way to meet Sam at Ronald’s.”

  I turned away so as not to laugh in front of my mother. Ronald’s was Ruby’s code word for McDonalds, although she told Mom it was an upscale out-of-town family restaurant that she and Sam frequented with the kids. Mom would have freaked if she knew they took her grandchildren for Happy Meals, so it was just easier this way. God help us all if Mom ever decided she wanted to take a road trip to try out this Ronald’s place that seemed so popular.

  Amazed that Ruby was able to keep such a straight face, I turned back to my tomatoes to hide my smirk.

  My mother, obviously deflated at not getting the chance to eat with her Katie and Michael, snatched the list from Ruby. “Fine then, I guess I’ll have to wait for a simcha before I can have a meal with my grandchildren.”

  Although she was smart enough not to respond, Ruby rolled her eyes at me, well out of mom’s field of view. I smirked; none of us was immune to the guilt. Well maybe Steve was, but that was different: he was a son. Sons seemed to miraculously escape the Jewish mother guilt.

  Once Dad arrived home, well after Ruby and the kids were gone, and he’d kissed me on the cheek saying he was glad to see me, he sat oblivious in the living room, hidden behind his daily newspaper, taking the time before dinner to decompress after a day at school.

  Mom cooking in the kitchen and Dad in the living room waiting to eat: nothing had changed since the day I had moved out to go to university, some fifteen years before.

  * * *

  “I feel very lucky,” Dad announced once the three of us were seated at the table. Mom and I both looked at him, waiting to hear why.

  Dad beamed. “I’m dining with two lovely ladies tonight.”

  What a charmer, my dad.

  Niceties over, he dug into his meal. “Where’s Dave?” he asked, stabbing his fork into the pile of meat on the laden platter, spearing several slices.

  “Sid!” My mother scolded.

  Dad looked at Mom, his eyes wide. “What? What did I say?”

  “I told you not to bring that up.”

  I stared at my mother, incredulous. When? When did my mother have a chance to warn my father that asking Dave’s whereabouts was a taboo topic? When he had kissed her hello at the door had she spilled the beans, revealing all within the eight seconds it took for her to give him a peck on the cheek and take his coat.

  “It’s okay Mom. It’s not a secret.” Not anymore, anyway. This juicy gossip was definitely destined to get out.

  Dad put his cutlery down and looked me in the eyes, giving me his full attention. “What happened honey? He didn’t do anything wrong, did he?”

  I wasn’t sure what dad meant by wrong, but it didn’t matter; Dave hadn’t done anything wrong. It was me who had screwed up.

  I shook my head, “No Dad. We are just looking for different things.”

  Mom passed me the potatoes. “He’s not looking for you to do any strange things in the bedroom, is he? Marilyn’s son is into some pretty strange things, since that 50 Shades book: they go to ‘parties’ with these other people…”

  “Mom,” I cut her off before I totally lost my appetite. Why was she so obsessed with people’s sex lives? “It’s not about that. We’ve just realized…well…I mean, he wants kids right away.”

  “Right away?” my mother actually snorted. “You’ve been married for six years. And you know, Vicky, you are in your thirties…” She gave me the eye.

  Thankfully Dad figured matters of reproduction were not his concern and he went back to his plate full of brisket and potatoes. The salad remained untouched at the far side of the table. So much for him eating more vegetables.

  “Thanks for the reminder, Mom.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t wait too long, Vicky. Look at your friend Kendra. She waited and now she’s having so much trouble. We didn’t wait to have babies and you never saw any of us having trouble.”

  Dad piped up, “Barbara had trouble.”

  Mom swung her head and looked at Dad as though he’d said that Barbara had been trying to conceive Elvi
s’s love child. “That was different. She couldn’t carry, bad uterus,” she whispered the last part, as though uterus was a four letter word. “At least they found out early enough that they could adopt.” She turned back to me, “And anyway, she was still younger than you are now when they adopted.”

  Mom didn’t seem to get it.

  “I guess it’s not that I’m not ready.” I stared down at my plate, pushing the soggy lettuce around. “I’m not sure I want kids. At all.”

  My mother gasped. Dad looked up at her, obviously wondering what he’d missed.

  Mom swallowed and then took a deep breath before she spoke. “Where is this coming from?”

  I shrugged. “I just don’t think I want kids.”

  Mom waved her fork at me. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you want kids.”

  I shifted in my chair. “No, I don’t.”

  “Sid, are you hearing this?” Mom’s old tactic, getting Dad involved when she felt like she was losing.

  Dad looked at me and then back to my mother. “What? If she doesn’t want kids, what’s the problem?”

  “Humph,” Mom turned her attention back to me. “Are you a lesbian? Is this why you don’t want to have babies?”

  Never one to be politically correct or even try to understand things outside the realm of her limited knowledge of social norms, what Mom said shouldn’t have shocked me, but it did.

  I laughed out loud. “No Mom, I’m not a lesbian.”

  “So why wouldn’t you want to have babies?”

  I was unsure of her logic; why she assumed sexual orientation went hand in hand with the desire to parent was beyond me, but I didn’t pursue an explanation. Not only was I worked up, but I was afraid of her answer.

  “I don’t know, my career…” it was a stretch, but I was beginning to get desperate.

  “Your career?” it was her turn to laugh. “You are your husband’s secretary.”