Page 25 of Told You So
“Good,” I lie, becausefineis his least favorite word. “I had three lectures today, so I’m glad it’s over.” I lean against the kitchen island. “And, I just finished my shift at the salon.”
Jesse is quiet, as usual, and when he doesn’t say anything, I glance over at him. He’s sitting on the bottom stair and staring at the ground as he runs his finger along the smooth wood floor.
“J?” I give him an encouraging smile when he meets my eyes, and, slowly, he makes his way over, dragging his feet until he reaches the barstool beside me. Jesse looks everywhere in the kitchen but at my dad.
“And you?” my dad prompts, leaning against the counter as he brings his glass to his mouth and looks pointedly at Jesse. “How was school today?”
Jesse shrugs. “Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yep.” He starts drawing invisible circles on the marble countertop, retreating into a safe place in his mind. It only takes someone with ears and a heart to know my dad’s tone is anything but loving, and Jesse doesn’t do well when my dad’s home.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Tell Dad about your trip to the Exploratorium yesterday.”
My dad sets his glass on the counter. “A fieldtrip, huh?” His words don’t resonate with Jesse, they’re too stiff and unyielding, like concrete. Each word is leaden with an unspoken censure, and Jesse shuts down every time.
So, I change the subject. “What did you and mom do after she picked you up from school?” I ask and brush his sandy-brown hair from his eyes.
Jesse’s entire demeanor changes in an instant, and he looks up excitedly. “Mom bought me new trading cards today!” The solemn drum of his voice is suddenly a falsetto, and he climbs down from the bar stool and runs for the living room. He stops at the coffee table and looks frantically around. “Where are my trading cards?” he asks in a panic. “Where are my cards?”
“I had the cleaning lady put them away,” my dad says with no affect.
“Where are they?” Jesse nearly shrieks.
The garage door opens and my mom fumbles in, paper bags in her hands and her purse and briefcase hanging from her shoulder. “Evening, everyone,” she says with an exhale. She’s oblivious to Jesse’s turmoil and the brewing storm she’s just walked into. “Since I went back to the office for my briefcase, I stopped for takeout.” She sets the two paper bags down on the countertop.
Mom meets my gaze first, then peers out at Jesse, who’s riffling through the living room in a whirlwind.
Frowning, my dad watches him. “Calm down,” he says, but Jesse can’t help himself. In a panicked flurry, he opens the entertainment center drawers and the blanket chest. He looks in the cubbies under the coffee table and then in the writing desk by the bay window.
“Where are they?” he demands, and runs up the stairs.
My mom’s gaze shifts from me to my dad. “What’s going on?”
He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “Why don’t you ask your son?” he says, and he walks into his office.
“Great,” she grumbles and drops her purse onto the floor. My sentiments exactly.
She hurries upstairs after my brother. As meltdowns and spin outs go, that one took less time than usual, thanks to my dad. I bite back every caustic remark that comes to mind. We’ve seen him all of five minutes and the house is already in unrest.
My dad’s chair squeaks from inside his office, and I hate him for acting so indifferent. No, he’s not acting, heisindifferent when it comes to his own children, and it’s sickening.
Jesse’s muffled shrieks carry down the landing. I hear my mom’s low murmurs of reassurance, but it won’t help, nothing will—not until she finds his cards. I consider taking a shot from the bourbon bottle staring at me from the wet bar, before I brave the crap storm I’m likely going to start as I walk into my dad’s office.
“You seriously don’t know where his cards are?” I ask him, storming into his office. He sits in his overstuffed office chair, like I imagine a pompous, self-absorbed politician would, pouring over documents in front of him that are clearly more important than my standing there.
“No, Beth, I seriously don’t.” He doesn’t even bother looking up at me. “Probably in his room with all his other toys.”
“Why couldn’t you just leave them where they were? They weren’t in anyone’s way.”
That earns a narrowed look from him. The angles of my dad’s face are sharp, his face clean shaven, and despite the way his fingers flip through stacks of papers on his desk, his eyes are always fixed on something, always focused and thoughtful. And now, they’re fixed on me. I swallow thickly.
“I told her to straighten the living room because that’s what I pay her to do. So, that’s what she did. Despite what you and your mother think, it’s not a personal attack on your brother.”
“Whatever,” I grumble and decide retreating upstairs with the rest of my family is probably best. Just as I turn on my heels, he says my name.
“Beth?”
