Page 55 of Fa-La La-La Land
A loud throat-clearing cuts through the surrounding laughter. “Enough of that now,” Grandpa Sparks barks from the head of the table.
Rhys immediately releases me and sits up straight, like he’s been caught misbehaving in class, murmuring under his breath, “Blimey. You’re right. He’s terrifying. Could scrub rust off iron with that buzzcut.”
“I think he has,” I whisper back.
“Let them be in love, Grandpa,” Mom says dreamily, and I almost forgive her for embarrassing me. “They remind me of Mike and me. When we fell in love, we couldn’t walk a block together without sneaking into an alley or behind some bushes for a?—”
“That’s okay, Gia, dear,” Granny Sparks says gently from Grandpa’s side. “We don’t need the details; we’re just glad you found each other, even if it was only for a short time.” Her chin quivers, and she swipes at her eyes.
“What are the tears for?” Rhys whispers.
“My dad. She still misses him.” I blink back my own tears as Grandpa Sparks stands and awkwardly pats Granny on the shoulder.
“Time for grace,” he says and bows his head.
Everyone does the same, and we sit through Grandpa’s typical thirty-second prayer that includes blessings for the military and the men who’ve given their lives. As a secondthought he adds, “And ladies, too.” Which, honestly, is progress.
I love Grandpa—he’s the only grandpa I’ve ever had—but the only time he shows any affection is with my niece, Charly, and she’s only been a part of the family for the past two years. Before that, he had a seventy-year run of greeting everyone with a firm handshake, including babies, according to my Aunt Heidi, who passed away a little over a year ago.
“Let’s eat,” Grandpa says and guides Granny to the buffet table where he lets her go first, mostly out of politeness but partly so she can help him fill his plate like she does every time they eat. Gender roles are strong with those two.
But I do the same thing with Rhys when he passes by the plate piled high with meat. “No venison?”
“Isn’t that deer? Yeah, nah, I’m good.”
“Just try it.” I scoop a forkful of meat onto his plate.
“Don’t I get a day off from you making me do stuff I don’t wanna do, La-La?” he grumbles.
So I add another forkful. He huffs, half-laughing.
We take our places at the table, my niece Charly on my left and my cousin Adam on Rhys’s right. As soon as Grandpa takes the first bite, the rest of us tuck into our food. Well, everyone but Charly. She’s too busy singing “Fa-La La-La Land.”
I have only myself to blame. I’m the one who introduced her to it, and now she’s an even bigger addict than I am.
“Can you think of another song to sing, Charly?” I ask her.
“No,” she replies matter-of-factly and continues singing, mangling most of the words, but there’s no question what the song is. She sings it too many times to leave that unanswered.
Rhys’s jaw goes tight every time she comes to the end of the song and starts right back up again.
“What about ‘Jingle Bells’? We could sing it together,” I try again.
“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I wike Fa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa wand. It’s my favorite.”
She pokes at her mashed potatoes and licks a dollop from her pointer finger.
“Charly. Manners, please,” my sister-in-law Hope says to her and hands her a fork.
“I like my fingers,” Charly sings back to the tune of “Fa-La La-La Land.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Rhys, trying not to laugh.
“Good thing she’s cute,” Rhys says with a mock scowl.
“What are you going to ask Santa for tomorrow?” I ask Charly, trying to distract her.
She shakes her head and sings louder, kicking her chair legs in time with the rhythm of the song—which, to be fair, is pretty good for a five-year-old with special needs. Still not great, though, and Rhys’s shoulders go tighter with every new version Charly attempts.
