Page 119 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
She smiles. “Merde to you too.”
The show happens without a hitch.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
The show certainly happens. But there are hitches a’plenty.
The music stops working at one point, and we have to unplug and replug our speaker system to get things going again. During the Menorahsaurus battle scene, one kid forgets the rules of stage combat and attacks his castmate too fiercely, almost tumbling into the audience. During Mikayla’s salty peach fairy dance, she slips and falls, causing a collective gasp from the audience, but like the trooper she is, she gets right back up and continues to thunderous applause.
From where I stand in the wings, I have a decent view of the house. I’ve searched for Penny in the audience every time things have gone wrong, wanting to see her reaction. Truthfully—and I’m not proud to admit this, because my attention should be one hundred percent on the kids—I’ve searched for Penny’s reaction every time something’s gone right, too.
Watching her watch the show is a joy I didn’t know I needed. She’s been completely locked in, laughing, smiling, even jumping to her feet at one point for a spontaneous one-woman standing ovation.
But the show is almost over, and her energy has suddenly shifted.
The kids are lined up on stage waiting for their cue to start the very last number. I peek out the curtain, hoping to catch one more moment of Penny enjoying the show.
But instead of staying until the end, celebrating with the kids, and syncing up with me afterward so we can finally talk about us the way we promised each other…
She rises abruptly from her seat.
And she leaves.
Chapter 33
Matt
Me: She didn’t even say goodbye to the kids after the show.
Gene: I’m sure she had her reasons. Call her.
I want to call her. Hell, I want to run to her apartment and beg her to let me in so we can figure out what the hell is going on between us.
But at what point do I have to let her words and actions speak for themselves? Because they’re all screaming the same thing.
She doesn’t want to be with me.
It’s Monday morning, two days before Christmas, and I’m at the memory care center, texting Gene while I wait for my mom to return from breakfast.
I’m usually teaching phys ed this time of day, but after a triumphant holiday show, PS44 is officially on break until the new year. And Bossfit classes are slow this week with so many members traveling for the holidays, so I find myself with extra time, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
The staff here told me recently that my mom is often at her best earlier in the day, so I decided to shake things up and try a morning visit. When I arrived, my buddy George was mopping the hallways and told me I could wait in my mom’s room for her.
It’s strange being in my mom’s space without her here. It gives me the opportunity to really take it all in. The room smells faintly of her perfume, the same one she’s been wearing since I was a little kid. I find it wild that a person can change so much—their memory of who they used to be can literally be gone—yet their preferences can stay the same. Every version of my mom loves this perfume.
I wander over to her nightstand and pick up a framed photo I don’t recall seeing before. It’s of my parents and me. I’m around seven or eight years old, just a couple of years before my dad died. I’m sitting on his lap. We’re dressed in our holiday best, a lit Christmas tree behind us. We look happy. Even my mom.
“I wasn’t the best wife to him, was I?” My mother’s voice startles me from the doorway.
“Mom, hi!” I place the photo back on the nightstand and move toward her. “How was breakfast? George told me I could wait for you here.”
“Was I?” she repeats, looking deep into my eyes, clearly wanting a response to a question I have no idea how to answer.
“Were you a good wife to Dad? Gosh, Mom. I don’t know, I was so young– ”
“You know,” she says softly and stares out the window. “I wasn’t.”
“Are you okay, Mom? Here, why don’t we sit you down?”
