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UNTITLED III
(fuck home)

I still talk to my brother on what most people would consider a regular basis. He’s the only family member I want to stay in regular contact with. The occasional card with an aunt or cousin or whatever is fine. Sometimes my father gives me a call. Not so fine. Sometimes he’s even sober. It’s always a toss up if that is good or not. Given my druthers I’d avoid all except for my brother. No one seems to understand

Coworkers and friends give me weird looks when I tell them I won’t be seeing my family for Thanksgiving or July Fourth. Or Flag Day. What?! You’re not sending flowers to your mother on Mother’s Day. A new tie to your old man for Father’s Day. [Shock and outrage] Nope, I reply. Dead people don’t care about flowers and there’s no dress code for an unemployed drunk. Of course I never say that. I respond politely because I try to avoid explaining my family history.

People don’t care anyway.

Seems like everyone my age flocks home to see their parents. And it seems like everyone my parent’s age expects their kids to come back and pretend they’re ten.

But I know the secret. No one is happy. Especially all the “kids”. They’re never happy the day after – I see their faces. That’s why they ask me about how Memorial Day with the folks was – to see if I was as miserable as they were. Misery loves company, I suppose. I had enough misery by sixteen that I don’t feel as obligated as my peers.

Still, my friends give me their report on the screwed up Thanksgiving dinner. Who got drunk and who’s pregnant by who. “Did you have a good time?” I ask, and they respond, “well, no”. The Christmas gathering also a miserable event. Someone didn’t appreciate their gift, or someone else got them cheap gift. Or socks, or who really cares. I don’t. Alcohol commonly gets them through the event. “Why go then, if you need alcohol just to make it tolerable?” “It’s family”. “Oh.” Sounds like my father’s logic – he’s a drunk. Have I mentioned that?

I think you should look at your family like a job. Families and jobs have a lot of similarities. You stay when things are good, move on when they’re not. “Thanks for hiring me, but I need to be paid every week, so I’m out of here.” Makes sense. “Thanks for giving birth to me, but I’m tired of being beaten and being called lazy, so I’m hitting the road.” Has always sounded right to me. But maybe you’d have to beaten for it to make sense to you.

My family blows. If you could ever get the lot of them together it would be obvious. But you don’t need to buy six cases of Pabst. Just take a sample you’ll find every variety of crazy. Legitimate should be locked up with pills crazy along with those who could participate in society given the right prescription.

The real gems are the ones that pills won’t help. I’ve got a cousin who’s been lazy for decades. It’s rotted his brain. You can talk to him about three things only. Racing stripes, fireworks, and fishing. Bring up any other subject and he’ll just start talking about fishing.

Most families joke about having a crazy uncle. All I have are crazy uncles. Two are bipolar or schizophrenic. Most of the time they take medication, but every so often they don’t and try to stab somebody. Another uncle lives in a shack with an outhouse and a generator for electricity. When I was a kid, from time to time, he would be over to take a shower. Said that the water company had it out for him and kept turning off his water. I believed him until I was eight. I heard he eventually dug a well.

A long time ago I moved away. Now I live near the ocean. My family still lives in the same life sucking hell I grew up in. The only exception is my brother. He’s close to them, but has a major body of water and a state border as separation. He’s made a good start.

But crazy isn’t afraid of water or federal law enforcement. I’ve told him he needs to move further away. I try to bring up the subject every third or fourth time we talk. I mention how fun the east coast is. About the old buildings, forts, and lighthouses. I think one day I could win him over with the forts. Maybe. It would be good for him – a nice change of pace. Plus I’m a little selfish. I’d like to have him closer. He’s the only family I have.

But he always comes back with something about school districts and property taxes. I don’t really follow – it’s all kids and marriage talk to me. I have neither, but I feel the pull.

I have a serious enough girlfriend and I’m taking her to see my brother and his family for Christmas. I’ll let her decide if she wants to commit to the madhouse that is my family and me. She’s more than happy to go along (plus is gives her a great excuse to avoid her family). Her family isn’t crazy in the traditional sense – just heavily overbearing. She’ll take any excuse to avoid them. Ah, Christmas time.

“Why just your brother?” My girlfriend and pretty much fiancée asks somewhere in Pennsylvania (and some homemade pumpkin pie). She snaps me out of another speech rehearsal. I hope that I heard the entire question. She’s getting tired of me saying “huh”. The further inland we go, the more distracted I become.

I assume that I did, and even if I didn’t, she’s just trying a new angle to pry more out of me. I haven’t been so forthcoming with the details of my youth. “He was there with me. Like old vets. The two of us in a super exclusive VDW or something.” I had done my best to dance around the subject for the past eight months. I was open about everything else with Cassandra (yes she’s rich and no, I call her Cassie). She doesn’t care for her full name – that’s what her mother and father, auntie and the lot call her. To her it’s another method of keeping her down. I didn’t want to keep her out, but there’s a whole lot of shit to be let in on.

Cassie, of course, sighs. She’s tired of me deflecting. For that matter, I was tired of deflecting. Sucks to be both of us. I know better than to sigh. You sigh at home. If it leads to a fight each party can retreat to other rooms. That way you can fix the lawnmower, do dishes, or pretend to read a book. No rooms in a car though. No place to hide. Ugh. I hate car fights.

She knows some of the story. My dad’s a drunk, my mom dead. I had told her that, but left out the details. Every few weeks after we moved in together she would probe me for more information. Kind of like me prodding my brother into moving near me.

I don’t care if she knows. I want to tell her. I’m just worried about the reaction.

“Ok.” I let out a deep breath and pulled off the highway. Sommerset, PA. I followed the always-helpful food directional signs to a Wendys. Since we had both come to regard McDonald’s as the evil empire we had taken up Wendys as our go to traveling pit stop. They have salads that might be close to healthy. Hard to find healthy food on the road.

“What’s going on?” With a note of concern in her voice.

“Pit stop celebration.”

“Oh.” And very quietly followed with a meek, “no.” There was a pause there. Just a note of betrayal between oh and no. No, in this case, being woman for “You’re not going to ask me to marry you’. No was also woman for ‘Oh my God! Of course I’ll say yes’. No, for a woman, is like Aloha meaning so many things. Women are tricky like that. “Celebrate what?” She asked coyly. She was nervous, and suddenly, nauseous.

“Halfway there frosties.” I said.

“Phaw.” A deep exhale and flabbergasted inhale. It was not of relief.

“What did you think it was?” But she wouldn’t say anything. Not interested in that game. I couldn’t blame her. We clicked – right from the start. Despite her parent’s misgivings she moved in with the poor slackjaw from the Midwest three months after we met. I suppose they thought I was out for her money (she’s private school rich, not private yacht rich – in case you’re nosy). They’re wrong though. I just like her. Love her.

I was a school of hard knocks kind of kid. I went to college on a few scholarships and lots of hard work. I wrapped up in two and a half years. I had good grades and a tenacious attitude and landed a decent job. Couldn’t drink legally but I was a college grad with a coat and tie career. An even better job came up a year later and I was on the road heading east. That’s where I am now.

I went to a couple parties in college. Never drank though. A few years after I graduated I was able to reconcile with my past enough to have my first beer. I still had a stigma about drinking (if you were my father’s son you would too) when I met Cassie. It was at some cocktail presentation gallery thing. I had a glass of wine in my hand when I saw her and quickly tried to hide it as she came near me. Then I saw she had a glass of wine too. Maybe you could drink responsibly. Maybe you could drink without embarrassing everyone around you. I began to stop worrying so much (another tie cut). I told her about my internal dialogue months later. She gave me a hug and a kiss. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you’.

I told her that I liked her necklace. Tiny blue stones on the rope part of the necklace with a turquoise and copper plate thing at the bottom. She looked down at the necklace then smiled at me. I fell in love with her right away. We talked for two hours that night. We cold talk about anything, and talk forever. We spent the entire next day together. It was amazing – the perfect day. The sort of thing you only see in movies. If I had asked her to marry me then she would have said yes.

She wasn’t flighty or superficial. Pinched her pennies almost as much as I did. To her mother’s dismay she dressed in worn out clothes, some of which had been purchased second hand. My girlfriend is an art school chic. Much of the appeal to her, I think, is how much it annoys her mother. Paint on her hands, in her hair, her clothes. Very cute, especially when she smiles.

Eventually her parents warmed up to me. They saw that I was hardworking and caring. The biggest coup was when I fixed their broken water heater on Memorial Day. I personally saved the big party. Maybe I was a potential handy son-in-law after all. Most of all they saw how much she loved me, and knew they better get used to me.

I ordered the frosties and pulled into a parking space. It was too cold to even think about turning the car off, so I left it running and turned up the heat. I put the frosties in the cup holder, placing the plastic wrapped spoons on top. She gave me a look. I got out and walked around to her side of the car.

I opened the door and our eyes met. She gave me a ‘what are you up to’ smile. As I bent down her hands went to her mouth. She knew. 100%.

“Cassie, will you marry me?”

The small smile broke into a large smile. The tears poured down. She made a half hearted attempt to wipe her face, but the tears kept coming. She looked at me for a moment then, unable to speak, nodded her answer. I let out a half laugh, broke into a huge smile and hugger her.

We kissed. Not a young lustful kiss, but an adult, we’re getting married, tender kiss. Commitment. We both knew what it meant. We didn’t know the specifics of what lay ahead, but we knew the effort needed. We had seen first hand what a half-hearted effort produced.

I’ll hold your leg when the baby comes, if you give me all the morphine pills when they say there’s nothing else to do.

I’ll tell you our daughter’s wrong when she says you’re a horrible mother, if you tell me I’m still worth something when they lay me off at fifty-three.

I’ll love you forever for nothing. I know you’ll do the same.

I touched her cheeks, felt the tears, felt joy knowing it would be us forever. There would be no boyfriend after me. I needed no other girlfriend. I kissed her again, closed the door and walked back around to my seat. It was still cold and I wasn’t wearing a coat.

I shivered for a few beats and turned up the heat some more. Cassie wiped tears from her face and hugged me again. “Hunh.” She let out an exacerbated sigh of relief.

The whole time we were there, in that little town, she never called anyone. I didn’t have any doubts about asking, but if I had, that would have cleared it all up. The only person she wanted to tell was me, and I saw it all firsthand. It was just us. In it together.

“Eat up.” I handed her a frosty and spoon. I took my spoon and yanked off the wrapper. The plastic wrapper would be one more piece of road trip garbage that I would have to clean up next week. “Ok, you’re committed. I’m pretty sure in this county that once you say yes, even nod –” She laughed at that and started to eat her frosty. It’s what she did – always seeing the humor in me. “That means you’re committed. So.” Here we go

“My dad was a drunk. Not a beat me drunk. Just a real – Well he wasn’t around. Worked out of town. Well, he was out of town, so I can’t vouch for him actually working. So my brother and I were home with my crazy mom. I think she was bi-polar or manic uh [or some other stupid worthless shit she was too lazy and selfish to do anything about]. Something with nasty mood changes. Pills and uh [screaming matches and crazy conversations] lots of shit, uh [suicide attempts]. Doped up or just nuts. Never uh [looking or caring or even able to hold a conversation].

“Since I was eleven I had been her talk down from the edge confidant. When I was sixteen I had enough. Told her she should kill herself. I was through with it. Five stupid years of that. I was done. And a few weeks later, she did.

“Shotgun. She must have been waiting for me. I heard the shot from the yard. Coming home from school. All of her was dripping down the wall when I came in.” I made the motion with my hands. Her dripping down that wall was something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. “She wrote a note.

“Fuck you.

“That was it. Who writes that?” I asked myself again. I have asked myself that one question more than any other. Somewhere during the conversation I turned from Cassie and stared out the front window. It was hard to look at someone when giving them the details. And I hadn’t had much practice with the telling. Cassie was only the second person I had told. My brother was the only other person I had told the whole story too. I told the cops the basics. When people pried I told them my mother was dead. When they pried more I told them I didn’t want to talk about it and gave them a ‘It’s none of your business’ look.

I’m not that guy that brags about the tough parts of his life. My life has been a real piece of work, but fuck you if you think I’m letting you in on it. Why should the average person get to know? So they can go tell their friends they know someone who’s mother killed herself? No thanks. Find a hobby if you need to brag about something.

At some point it was clear I wasn’t going to say anymore and before that Cassie had stopped eating, the empty spoon still in her hand. She didn’t know what to say. Truthfully no one knows what to say. So she said what she felt. “I’m sorry.” She meant it. Sorry that I had to see that. Sorry that my mom was such a bitch. ‘Such a bitch’ doesn’t really describe it. Doesn’t even start. And then, because it’s hard to know what to say when someone tells you something like that Cassie said, “I didn’t know.”

“No one really knows. Kind of a hard thing to bring up.” I let out a big sigh. I didn’t have to ask her not to tell anyone.

“Yah.” I started back on my frosty, half eaten and half melted, somewhere between ice cream and odd milkshake. Should I eat it or not?

It wasn’t everything. Not the start or the finish, but that was the biggie. I knew it would tie a lot of the pieces together for her. There wasn’t anything else we wanted to say at that moment.

I finished up my frosty. Cassie pretty much stopped eating hers when she figured out I was telling a suicide story. I had long since past the point of not being able to eat and considered finishing her frosty, but thought better of it. We still had five hours on the road, so I took the cup from her hand and put it in the cup holder so the frosty could finish melting and later risk spilling.

It wasn’t my mother that was keeping me from the food, the road was. My mother had taken enough away from me. I tried very hard to not let her take any more from me. Even something as small as a frosty.

The proposal wasn’t a gimmick. I needed her to know that. I took Cassie’s hand. ‘I meant it.’ She squeezed back. ‘So did I.’

Eventually, back on the road, we were able to talk again. But not about it. We played 20 questions. She guessed diamond ring after three questions. I guessed breadbox after two. We both laughed hysterically at that (long story – you don’t get to know). We debated a Vegas wedding or a justice of the peace hitching for a good hour. But we’ll probably have it near her family. But nothing traditional. Oh no. If we have a reception they’ll be a graffiti artist or fire breather there. No DJ’s, chicken dances, or inflatable musical instruments for my bride. She’s still an art school chic that revels in irritating her parent.

Plus, she’s their only daughter, so her mother has to put up with her shenanigans or risk no wedding at all. Cassie has made this perfectly clear. Her mother knows that the threat of elopement is not idles talk. Not long after I had her laughing at my lame jokes again we arrived at my brother’s place. All in all a pretty eventful trip.

My brother’s house is nice. Two stories. Brick. Some siding. Windows, bedrooms. Front yard with a tree. Jungle gym out back. Other houses in the neighborhood look similar, but not the same. And thankfully he’s not o9n a cul-de-sac. Looks like the kind of place you’re into when you’re married. My brother is very proud of it. He put a deck on the back last year. He’s a little handier than me.

I like it, but to me it looks like every other house. Truth be told, I think my brother feels the same way, but to him what makes the home isn’t the outside, it’s what goes on inside. I couldn’t agree with him more.

I parked behind my brother’s car in the driveway. His wife’s car was in the garage. My brother the consummate gentleman. Cassie commented on how nice the lights looked. “Not much snow.” She had hoped for more snow. Prior to age ten she had lived in Vermont where snow was nearly a prerequisite for Christmas. Or so I understand, I’ve never been there myself.

My brother burst from the front door, pretending to offer to help carry bags, but I knew he really wanted a hug. I wanted a hug too. We were all each other had. The only family left that wasn’t crazy, drunk, or both.

His four year old son came out – all dressed in his cozy winter best. “I can help!” Little Sam Jr. I loved him to no end. He reminded me of myself at his age, except he had his own clothes and felt comfortable talking to others. So, maybe it’s just the familial resemblance.

“Oh there you are.” I ran over to him and picked him up. “You’re so big now.” I carried him over to Cassie. “Cassie, Sam. Sam, Cassie.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” She said. Was she already thinking about kids of our own?

“Oh, my manors. This is my brother Sam, uh senior.” He stuck out his hand. “Sam this is my fiancé Cassandra.”

“Fiancé!” Sam yelped before Cassie could correct me with ‘Cassie’. It was a little holiday fun on my part. I knew she’d eventually get her real name out there, but the fiancé buzz would drown her out for a good fifteen minutes. “Come on, come on. We have to tell Julie.” And he quickly grabbed up the bags along with Cassie, who had no choice but to follow him inside.

I grabbed the rest of our things, handing a small bag to Sam Jr. (he really could help – just a little), hit the alarm button on the car and made it to the door to hear Cassie say, “No, sorry, just Cassie actually.”

But no on heard her. Julie screamed when she saw me and ran over to give me a hug. She came from a massive family. Screaming, hugging, and treating everyone like the dearest cousin came second nature to her. Her family was so big that you almost had to assume everyone was a close cousin. At least I would have to – I couldn’t keep all of her family straight.

I went to a family gathering of hers a few years back. Hue affair, close to two hundred people I would guess. Graduation or reunion or who knows what. I never could figure. I settled in with drinks and snacks and having no one to talk to let my mind wonder. I got it into my head that I could pretend to be someone’s cousin. Probably could even use my own name. Who could know? Then I thought that such a large family might not be a foreign concept to a large family. So I just ate chips and played bocce ball.

Cassie and I said hi to Kate (just short of two years old) and played with her and Sam Jr., but not for long. They had stayed up late to see us and were scooted off to bed. My brother said something about schedules and sleeping and more parent talk that I didn’t take in. Truth is, I didn’t want to take it in. The idea is a little scary. I’m just now starting to get myself together. And I desperately don’t want to screw up my kids.

The adults had a drink and Cassie was finally able to explain that she preferred being called Cassie. Julie said I was mean to pick on my new fiancé like that. Cassie said it was ok. “If he keeps it up I’ll tell people he still wets the bed.” This gave everyone a good laugh.

Then the details. Where, when, how, and the most important.

“Where’s the ring?” Julie asked.

“It’s coming.” I said.

“I don’t think you set out today to ask me.”

“Well. It wasn’t an impulse to ask, just the timing. I figured I’d wait till after the holidays. Not make it so cliché.”

“So why today?” From my brother.

Nosy. I only shrugged. I didn’t want to tell him, even though he already knew. We talked about everything – nothing bothered me, but I couldn’t look him in the eye and talk about that. Julie and I had never talked about it directly. I’m sure Sam had told her, and that’s fine, but I don’t want to have the discussion with her. Cassie squeezed my hand under the table.

My brother saw my face, knew at least generally why, and kindly shifted the conversation. No, no bad weather. Yup, we made good time considering the pit stop. Smiles all around. Work is fine and all that. Cassie and I begged off a game of cards, opting instead for a shower and bed.

We visited Cassie’s grandmother in the early fall. She has two guest bedrooms. One with a double bed and the other with two twin beds. Though she knew we lived together, we were unmarried, so we were given the two twins.

My brother had no spare bedrooms, only an office with a pull out couch. That’s where I had slept on previous trips and that’s where Cassie and I slept on our current trip.

We were exhausted by the time we eased into bed. I could only manage “what a day”. Cassie mustered “got that right”.

The press came the next day. Move back, be around someone you know. It was subtle, not pushy. I knew Cassie was open to it. She was open to moving anywhere to get away from her family. Piss them off a bit. But she didn’t partake in the press. Her family was screwed up, but just PG screwed up. No unaccompanied minors were allowed access into my family’s mess. She would let any move be my call.

And I didn’t want to move back. It was where I started – too near so many places I had known. I had gotten comfortable enough to drink, but I hadn’t dealt with enough of the other demons to come home.

Plus, Massachusetts was new. Like being on an indefinite paid vacation. And we’re near the ocean. The ocean is always your friend. Listens diligently, never judges. Never makes you feel bad.

But if I moved back I would be heading back to where I started. I’m not a snob, but I’ve placed myself above people I grew up with because I got away. I didn’t get my high school girlfriend pregnant. I didn’t drop out of college (or just not go in the case of most of my friends). I didn’t do nothing with my life.

I don’t live in the same town where I lost my first tooth. Maybe if your childhood isn’t a nightmare there’s no stigma about staying in your hometown. But my childhood was abysmal. I associate my hometown with pain, heartache, failure and all else that is bad.

I haven’t been able to deal with it or let much of it go.

I changed the subject of moving, offering to help the kids decorate cookies instead. And that was it. My brother and his wife wouldn’t make a fight out of it. They were happy for me, no matter where I lived. They just would have liked to have me a little closer.

The rest of the trip was great. It was what you’d think a happy Christmas with family should be. Lots of good food, fun times, games, presents, and smiling faces. None of our lives are perfect. Our relationships not without fighting or disagreements, but my brother and I worked hard to ensure a few near perfect days.

Cassie and I were too busy to talk more about my mother. Honestly though, I was trying to avoid it and she was waiting on me to bring up the subject. We were saving the conversation – no sense in spoiling Christmas with more suicide talk than is necessary.

And before we knew it, it was all over. Time to stow away the books, shirts, movies and do-dads for the trip back. Dirty clothes in one bag, clean in the other. I always get a little melancholy ending any trip, and packing up and leaving made me feel like I should move back. Maybe. Who knows?

Either way, we weren’t moving back without all of our things. We packed up the car after breakfast one morning and hit the road hoping for good weather.

“I-” But he stopped. He almost told her what no one else living knew. And he stopped for the same reason he had told no other. She wouldn’t understand. He thought it would take months to explain why. He was too scared to try. He didn’t admit it to himself, but he felt guilty for what he had done. Shame.

His mother was still alive when he walked in the door. Half her head was gone, but she was alive enough to raise a hand to him. She held it there for a few pauses, then dropped it. A few visible shallow breaths, then her eyes closed. He watched her chest rise a few more times, and then stop altogether.

The whole time, maybe half a minute, he only stood there. Truthfully there was nothing that could be done after she pulled the trigger. She still would have died if a surgical team had come through the door in place of her son.

But there was no mistaking her gesture. I’m sorry, please a last touch from my son before I die. It was regret in its most pure and profound form.

His reaction had not been pity or love, instead hate. He hated her for all she had done to him – her last act the ultimate. He wouldn’t take her hand. He wouldn’t allow her last moments to be of satisfaction. She had created the game of blame and pity and he wasn’t willing to let her win the last round.

He only stood there looking at her still body. He hadn’t spoken a word to her in three days. He hadn’t had a happy moment with her in eight months. It was the last time she had checked out of the psychiatric hospital. She seemed “fine” for a few days. She cooked meals, cleaned the house, and used her new techniques to control anger and process her emotions. But that didn’t last long.

When he was sure she was dead he retraced his steps back outside. In the clean air, in the beauty of the earliest fall days he began to tremble violently. Then he threw up. He wretched forcefully, expelling the contents of his stomach. On his knees he looked at what moments before had been inside of him. The smell was pungent. He thought of his mother’s brains minutes ago being inside her and vomited again. But little came up. His throat burned from the bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He thought of the fetal pig he had dissected his freshman year. The smell of the creature when he cut through it’s skin stayed with him for some time. He hadn’t been able to eat ham sandwiches for five months after. He considered briefly what he wouldn’t be able to eat after seeing his mother like that. What song, smell, or scent would twenty years hence take him directly back to that moment?

He didn’t cry then and had rarely cried since, and never had he cried for her. He wouldn’t allow himself to. He had cried once watching a movie and another time reading a book. Deep down he knew he was crying for her, but wouldn’t admit it to himself. He didn’t want her to see him crying. He wasn’t sure if there was an afterlife, but part of her still lived inside him and he wanted to deny that piece of her the satisfaction as well.

If there was a Heaven or Hell, he was sure she was in the former. She would have certainly conned some saint or devil into letting her in. She had always been great at fooling people. People felt sorry for her, thought she was a good friend and a generous person. All his friends thought she was a wonderful mother.

It took sometime to compose himself and walk back inside to look for a note. People that kill themselves always leave a note, he thought. He needed confirmation. Why. He found the note on the counter opposite the door – written in heavy black marker. The letters had been pressed deeply. With conviction. She had meant what she had written and wanted all that read it to be sure of it.

He looked it over, turned the page over and examined the back, then the front again. The lack of information or the tone of it didn’t surprise him, but still he had hoped for something more. He had hoped for some explanation as to why. Why had she married his father? Why did they have children? Why couldn’t they talk to each other and work out differences? He had long before made his own assumptions, but he would liked to have heard it from her.

“Yeah, ok.” He said, and without looking at her left the house.

Cassie will understand. Tell her. “There’s something I’ve never told anyone. Don’t judge me until I’m finished.” And somewhere on the road between where it all happened and where I had run away to I told her.