Page 33 of Lovebug
“It’s the least he can do after working the man like a dog,” Mom says in a rare show of almost-anger. “He’s the reason things happened the way they did.”
I want to say, “No, Mom, he’s not the reason ‘things happened the way they did.’ Dad is the reason ‘things happened the way they did.’” The man has been wound tighter than a drum for well over a decade. It was only a matter of time before something burst in him.
But what I want to say to people and what actually comes out of my mouth are often worlds apart.
“Is he okay?” is all that comes out.
“Of course. Your father is always okay,” she says, her eyes glued to the dishes. “He’s just a bit of a curmudgeon. You know that.”
“I know, but he just seems especially rattled tonight. And what was that slip saying he’s sixty-eight instead of fifty-eight? That’s not the first time he’s done that, you know. Maybe there’s some cognitive type thing going on he should get checked out?”
“Nonsense. He’s fine. Fifty-eight and fit as a fiddle.”
“Mom.” I try to get her to look me directly in the eyes. No luck. She seems so squirrely tonight. “Mom,” I say a bit louder this time but not a yell. McGonigles don’t yell.
“What, Mabel, what?” She sounds exasperated as she finally turns to face me.
“You don’t have a heart attack in the middle of the Willow Grove Mall if you are ‘fit as a fiddle.’”
“It wasn’t an attack,” she says. It was—”
“An incident,” I correct. “Right. A heart… ‘incident.’”
“That’s right.” She exhales, then immediately returns her focus to the sink.
I listen to the sounds of the warm water and the squeaky plates for a few moments, considering what I could possibly say next. Then my phone rings from the charger on the counter, startling us both, my “Walking on Sunshine” ringtone blaring through the kitchen. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should keep this thing on silent.” I rush to it, check the number, and immediately decline the call.
“You can take the call, sweetheart. Don’t mind me.”
“No, it’s okay.” I wave her off. “I’ll call them back later.” What I don’t tell her is that it was an unknown caller, the same one that has already tried to contact me several times this week. A call I’ve ignored each time. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s my student loans company. I missed my last two payments—not like me at all. But since my dad’s been off work, I’ve been helping out more with the bills, and my bank account is starting to feel it. I can’t wait until this business with Doreen and Bert starts to pay off. I could really use that extra money.
I get back into the dishwashing flow with Mom. After a few quiet moments, she says, “He doesn’t like speaking about your aunt Tina. So when she comes up in conversation, he gets… Well. You know how he gets.”
“Why doesn’t he just call her? Say he’s sorry?” I ask.
“Why do you assume he’s the one who needs to apologize?”
“I don’t know. She just always seemed so cool. I imagined whatever went down between them that day had to do with his hot temper and inability to admit when he’s wrong.”
“Mabel, the issues between them went far beyond just that day.”
“Okay…?”
I wait for an explanation. It doesn’t come, so I continue.
“Is anyone ever going to explain to me what those issues were?”
More silence.
I push a little further.
“When I was nine, the story was ‘you’re too young to understand adult problems.’ Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m twenty-four now, so I’m pretty sure I’m at a point where I can comprehend whatever went down between them.“
“What does it matter, Mabel?”
“I dunno. I loved her. She seemed to love me. That was the last time we ever saw her. We’re not exactly overflowing in extended family and friends. So if you ask me—though clearlynooneis asking me—we’re really not in a place to be cutting people out of our lives.”
I guess she has no response to that.
