The Downside of Being Charlie (16 page)

“Hey, Doug,” Mom says as Dad appears in the kitchen doorway. He's looking through a bundle of mail in his hands.

“Carmen . . . ,” he says. He stops abruptly, turning his attention to Mom, and then puts the rest of the mail on the counter. He doesn't say anything about her hair.

“How . . . are you?” Her hand flies up to her hair and smoothes it down. She walks over and gives him a hug. He looks awkward and uncomfortable, and I can't believe she's hugging him or talking to him or that she actually came back.

“Sit down, guys. I brought food.”

“Of course you did,” Dad says.

“I already ate,” I lie.

“But sit with us,” she pleads. I sigh and sit down.

My stomach growls. On the table there's lo mein, fried rice, General Tso's chicken, sweet and sour chicken,
and
man, how much did she get?
It smells so good and makes me feel like some kind of animal. All I want to do is shovel it into my mouth and fill the emptiness inside the pit of my stomach.

“Come on, come on,” Mom urges as she busies herself opening more cartons and getting plates.

“Charlie, aren't you going to have at least some?” she asks when I don't serve myself any food. She breaks apart her chopsticks and stares at me.

“Carmen . . . don't, please,” Dad starts.

“What? Come on, it's a celebration, sort of, and besides, it's not good to deprive yourself of things,” she says, looking back at me. Celebration? What the hell would we be celebrating?

Dad snorts.

Mom gives him a look. The air gets heavy and thick.

“I'll have some of the rice,” I say loudly before either of them can get into it. Mom starts to scoop some of the fried rice onto a plate.

“No, white rice,” I tell her, “and those vegetables over there, the ones with the least amount of sauce.” She shrugs her shoulders, scooping heaping spoonfuls of food onto my plate.

Mom tries to make conversation. She's doing her usual “everything's normal” routine. Whenever Mom comes back, I can tell she feels sheepish or embarrassed or sorry even though she never says so, and she tries to cover it up by talking or laughing too much, and, of course, by bringing food home. And she always studies Dad's face trying to figure out if she's forgiven. She's doing it right now—forcing big smiles and laughing
even though no one else is. She's acting the way she always does, and Dad is acting anything but remorseful. Which means she must not know. She has no idea that Dad is cheating on her. But I do, which makes everything worse than usual, because now I have to keep his secret, which he doesn't even know I'm keeping. It also means that she left us for the same reasons she always leaves. She doesn't want to be with us.

I move the food around on my plate, and Dad grunts an answer from time to time. After awhile she gives up. I guess this is our way of punishing her. Why should she ask us about things here at home? If she really wanted to know, if she really cared, she would stay. She wouldn't pick up and leave for no reason and then come back like it's no big deal. We sit in a terrible awkward silence—so silent I can hear the crunch of Dad chewing his broccoli, the scrapes of his fork and mine on our plates.

Finally, Dad finishes up and goes to his study. I hear the door close and the click of the lock. I start to follow his lead, but then halfheartedly offer to help clean up. Even though I'm upset with Mom, I also feel bad. If anyone should be feeling terrible, it's Dad. He's a big ass for letting her sit out here feeling like everything's her fault—and leaving me to deal with it. Even though I know better, I wish the food she brought would have somehow had us all talking and laughing and feeling better. But it didn't—nothing ever will. I wish I had talked more or answered her questions about fat camp and school. I wish I had said something, anything, so she wouldn't be sitting here looking like she wishes she hadn't come back. Why do we do this? Why do we make
her feel unwelcome? Why couldn't she want to be here?

“Just leave it,” she says when I pick up my plate. Her voice sounds flat and I feel like there's something I want to say to her—something I have to say to her—but I don't know what it is, so I just go upstairs and leave her at the table all by herself. I head to the bathroom and quietly retch up all the food I just ate. Then I go to my room and close the door and try to forget the whole night by closing my eyes and listening to music. But I can't because she's really back now. It seems like she's been gone for years, and everything's changed since she left. I don't know how we all fit together anymore. Things are far more screwed up than ever before. I know stuff I wish I didn't know, stuff she doesn't, stuff she can't know. And I can't decide what's worse. Mom knowing or Mom not knowing. I pluck the earplugs out of my ears because I can't stand the music anymore, and I put a pillow over my head because I can't stand the quiet in our house.

I
try to act normal and go about everything the way I always do, but it's not the same. School drags on. Ahmed gets on my nerves. And instead of being happy when I see Charlotte, I'm depressed, even when we go scout out more places to take pictures. Nothing is the same when Mom is home. I don't feel like myself at school or at home. It's like having a stranger visiting and staying at your house. When I walk into a room and she's there, I don't know what to say to her and I'm constantly thinking of a reason to be somewhere else. Dad has gone completely AWOL. He leaves before I wake up and comes home long after I've gone to bed. I understand why he does it, but I wish he would stick around. If not for her, at least for me.

One day I get home just as Dad calls and he says he'll be late. Mom sounds pathetic on the phone, telling him she made his favorite, then sounds annoyed when she can't get a specific time of when he will be home. I don't tell her I had planned on skipping dinner when she serves me a heaping bowl of spaghetti and meatballs she made. She serves herself some, too and we sit down.

For once, she's not talkative. She eats quietly, not looking over toward me. I look down at my plate and
chew slowly, willing myself to eat only half. I imagine taking the pot full of marinara and meatballs and hiding out in my closet while I gorge on it all by myself. Lately I've been hungrier than usual and the diet crap I'd fooled myself into believing could fill me up, doesn't cut it. This is what I want. I want to scarf it down and stuff more in until I'm full, so full that I can't think or move or speak. I abandon my plan to eat only half and end up stuffing a whole meatball in my mouth. It'll be easy enough to get rid of later.

“More late nights,” Mom mutters suddenly and shakes her head as her voice trails off.

The way she says it makes my stomach turn. Could she possibly know? If she did she would die—or maybe she would kill. Would Mom be one of those people who kills their spouses in the heat of the moment? Would she get off by reason of insanity? She couldn't find out. I couldn't let her find out.

“Mom.” I choose my words carefully. “Dad really missed you this time,” I say.

She looks over at me. Does she believe me?

“I mean, he always does, but this time he kept talking about all these things he wanted to do together once you got back.”

She bites her bottom lip and stares out our kitchen window. “I . . . ,” she starts, but she doesn't continue.

“He told me he wanted us to go camping at Morrow Mountain State Park like we did that one time, remember?”

She nods her head and pushes the plate of food away from her. She looks confused and fragile. I remember
thinking Mom used to be, like Mr. Killinger said about his mother, a “free spirit.” The way she seemed to blow in the direction of the wind. The way her mind hopped from this to that. Now I don't think Mom is a free spirit. The thought makes me sad. I take another bite of food.

She brushes her hair with her hand and looks over at me. “Really, Charlie?” she asks. She's looking at me, and I can barely meet her gaze. I swallow hard and do the worst thing I've ever done.

“Yeah, it's all he's talked about,” I say. “I'm surprised he hasn't mentioned it to you yet. Maybe because he's been working so much. You know, he took some time off to spend with me while you were gone.”

She takes a deep breath and smiles. She sits, then nods her head, and kind of laughs. The creases on her forehead disappear, and suddenly, she looks soft and vibrant and the happiest I've seen her in a long time. I can't believe the transformation from that one little lie. I should be happy that I can offer her this one moment of peace. But it's the shittiest thing I think I've ever done, and I hope I go straight to hell for it because that's what I deserve. I shove a forkful of spaghetti in my mouth.

She gets up from the table and comes around behind me. “I don't know what gets into me sometimes,” she whispers and kisses the top of my head. “I should know better. I'm wrong about so many things so often.” She pats my shoulders and walks over to the sink to wash dishes.

Maybe I didn't even hear right the other night. Maybe there was no forbidden conversation coming from
Dad's den. Maybe there was no whispered “I love you.” The hushed words float to my ears. No—there was.

I look over at her and then quickly look away because staring at her back, watching her wash the dishes and listening to her hum happily to herself makes me feel terrible and like at any moment I'm going to yell,
You're right! It's true! You're not crazy . . . about this!

I shove more food in my mouth. I can barely eat it, but I do because if I don't, those words will come up, and I'll end up telling Mom the truth.

Later that night, Mom goes out of her way to do nice things for Dad, and I feel sick to my stomach each time. I've just made a fool out of her. And it continues the rest of the week. She bakes his favorite stuff, buys him new shirts and ties, and talks about taking a camping trip to Morrow Mountain. But he's indifferent and distant, and I can tell Mom doesn't know what the hell to make of it. It's my fault. It's my fault that Mom stares at Dad the way she does, so hopeful. And then her face turns from hopeful to hurt when Dad announces one night that he has business in Chicago and has to fly out the following day. I can hardly handle the way she looks when he leaves

Charlotte and I hang out during drama as usual, but something seems off. I try to make small talk, try to listen when she talks, and try to laugh when she jokes around with me, but it doesn't feel like it used to. This
is the girl who is supposed to save me. This girl is supposed to make everything better, but she's not. Maybe she's already given up on me and that's why things seem different. Maybe she's made her final choice between me and Mark.

I walk around feeling terrible about Mom and Dad and Charlotte until one day, on our way home from school, Ahmed finally says, “All right, cat, I get it. I know your mom's back and I told myself I'd give you a week, but your week is up and you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and get back in the game.”

“I'm not feeling sorry for myself. And you have no clue, okay? So drop it.”

Something in my voice makes Ahmed look at me sideways as he navigates the Roller Skate to my house. “Okay, sorry. But . . . you know what I mean.”

I don't snap at him again, so he goes on. “You gotta step up and be a player, get it? You gotta live, Chuckie. You gotta go be a pimp. You gotta do something that'll counter your funk. Like go up to Charlotte and say,
chickie, I claim you, you dig?
You can't sit around like this and let everyone suck the life outta you.”

Ahmed is my best friend, my only friend, but I really feel like shoving his own car up his ass. It's easy for him to say this since he doesn't know all the shit I'm going through. But even though he doesn't know everything, some of what he's saying makes sense.

“Maybe you're right, but I just gotta get things straightened out, you know? I'll be fine, dude. I just need . . .” I shrug my shoulders because I don't know what I need. I look up at my house and dread going in.

“I gotta get some work done on Killinger's project. Wanna go with me to the botanical gardens?” I ask since I need some nature shots. I also really need to get started on superimposing Charlotte's pictures on the other ones to get the effect I want. And maybe it would help get my mind off of things.

“Charlie, that's fruity. Listen to Ahmed,” he says. “You're gonna go in your house, and you're gonna give your baby a ring-a-ding. You two are gonna hang. You're gonna smooch, and you're gonna feel better. Trust me. Besides, I have a date,” he says and grins.