Time Off for Good Behavior (38 page)

***

I hate flying. It doesn
’
t make sense tha
t a multi-ton piece of machinery carrying hundreds of people can stay in the air just because it
’
s moving really fast. I realize that millions of flights zoom all over the country without event every year and that flying is statistically safer than drivin
g
, but I still found myself digging my fingernails into the armrests while staring out the window, as though the plane would drop out of the sky if I didn
’
t keep my eyes attached to the clouds.

We landed safely in New York, just as the stewardess predicted.
I didn
’
t find out until after I
’
d referred to her as a stewardess that they were called flight attendants now. I spent much of the flight trying to think of a clever, irritatingly PC nickname for
“
passenger,
”
until I realized that it didn
’
t do much to div
ert my attention from the real source of my anxiety, and so I turned to crossword puzzles.

My return flight was open-ended. I could leave that night, or I could leave in the morning. Elizabeth and Bones and the kids had assured me the Santa Station could l
ive without me for a day. Now the only thing left to worry about was whether I was about to experience a happy reunion or flat parental rejection.

On with the show.

It wasn
’
t until I was halfway to Chappaqua in my rental car that I reconsidered my decision
not to call first. It was December 23. They could be anywhere. Dad had retired from the firm in the city some years back and started a small practice in town, but he never worked Christmas week anymore. Maybe they
’
d be spending the day with Aunt Margaret
in Hoboken. Maybe they would take a few days and do Christmas in the city. Maybe Mom wouldn
’
t be home cooking dinner. Maybe they were out nabbing some Chinese and a movie.

Maybe the whole trip would be a bust and I
’
d have to come back and my whole plan wou
ld fall apart and...

My train of thought stopped short as I pulled into the driveway.

They were home.

Through the huge living room window, I could see Dad sitting in his chair, reading the paper. Mom came out, refilled his glass of wine, and leaned in for
the quick thank-you kiss that
’
d been part of their routine since I could remember.

Suddenly, my heart ached for routine.

I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and forced my legs to carry me up the driveway to the front door. I never knew ankles could shake, bu
t mine seemed about ready to give up and drop me.

I hit the doorbell and briefly considered running, until I saw my father glance through the living room window to see who was there, disappear, and then come back, his face registering recognition this time.

Must have been the hair. I was sure he couldn
’
t recall having given life to a giant match. I ran my hands over my head, and there was my father standing before me, door open. Tall. Gray. Silent. I reached into my bag and pulled out a bottle of Chivas Reg
al, holding it out to him.

“
I brought you something,
”
I said, trying to breathe.

He reached out and took it from me, staring down at it for a moment before looking back up at me.

“
Thank you,
”
he said, and smiled.

That
’
s what did it. The smile. It
’
s shockin
g how powerful a smile from your father can be. I stood where I was and felt the tears fall down my face.
Goof,
I thought.
Doofus. Say what you came here to say.

“
I
’
m sorry,
”
I said, barely a whisper. I looked up and caught his face and he was crying, too,
and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me on the top of my head, the way he used to do after my recitals at Miss Maria
’
s School of Dance.

“
There
’
s nothing to be sorry for, honey,
”
he said quietly into my hair.

“
Jonathan?
”
I heard my mother
’
s wary tones
come up over Dad
’
s shoulder. He released me, swiped his hand over his face, and turned slightly, clearing the way between my mother and me.

Her eyes fixed on me and paused. Eight years and a wacky haircut were hell on recognition. When the moment hit, her
eyebrows knit together briefly, and she looked at my father. He nodded at her, and she froze, her hands still clutched to her apron in a gesture of perpetual drying.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the first English edition
Anna Karenina
that Bones h
ad let me have at a hell of a discount and handed it to her.

“
I brought you something,
”
I said, my voice crackling as I spoke.

She released her apron and took the book from me, running her hands lightly across the cover. I tried to concentrate on breathing
, steadied myself, and then looked at her. When her eyes rose from the book to me, I spoke again.

“
I understand now,
”
I said, falling back on memorization and rehearsal to get through it.
“
I didn
’
t for a long time, but now I do. George is gone. Long gone.
I
’
m living in Tennessee, and I have a life there. I like it. But I wanted to come here and tell you how sorry I am.
”

My mother calmly put the book on the small table by the door and stepped forward, putting her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a h
ug.

“
We love you, honey,
”
she said.
“
I hope you always knew that.
”

“
I knew,
”
I said, although I hadn
’
t, not really, not until I heard the words.

Dad stepped back and ushered
me into the house, and we settled into the living room. Mom went to fill some glasses with ice, and Dad went to work opening the Chivas.

“
Have you developed a taste for Scotch?
”
he asked.
“
I remember you hating the stuff when you were younger.
”

“
I
’
ve chan
ged a little,
”
I said.

He looked at me and grinned.
“
I can see that. I like the hair.
”

Mom came in with the glasses, and Dad filled them, and the whole scene was surreal in its serene domesticity. She handed me a glass and sat down next to me on the sofa.
Her eyes were red, and it looked like she
’
d been crying in the kitchen, but Dad and I didn
’
t say anything. Either one of us could crack at any moment, so there was nothing to be gained in pointing fingers.
“
So how have you been?
”
she asked quietly.

“
Good,
”
I said.
“
I
’
m divorced. Single. Living over a friend
’
s garage.
”

I saw my parents exchange glances, and I berated myself for testing them. Old habits die hard. I smiled.

“
I own my own business. I
’
ve been seeing a lawyer.
”

My father
’
s face brightened.
“
Reall
y?
”

“
Yeah,
”
I said, not worrying that Walter and I weren
’
t technically dating at the moment. I was taking it one sticky note at a time.
“
He reminds me of you a bit, Dad.
”

Dad smiled.
“
Sounds like a good man.
”

“
Yeah,
”
I said, taking another sip of my drink
and feeling a small smile emerge on my lips.
“
He really is.
”

***

It was the middle of the night. I woke up in my old room, which hadn
’
t changed since the day I left. I sat up in bed, staring at the faded, curling eighties heartthrob posters on the wall,
hearing phantom strands of that goddamn song.

Again.

I
’
d been hoping that it had something to do with this visit. That it would just go away, magically, as soon as I resolved things with my parents. Apparently, I
’
d been engaging in what the kids today call
wishful thinking.

I threw my feet over the side and slid them into my old slippers. I laughed. I couldn
’
t believe they still had my stupid slippers.

I saw light from the television flickering over the living room as I came down the stairs. Dad was sitting
on the couch, futzing with the remote while
The Philadelphia Story
played silently in the background. I smiled.

“
Hey,
”
I said.

He looked up, his face chagrined.
“
I
’
m sorry. I couldn
’
t sleep, so I put the tape in. It started out pretty loud...
”

I waved him
off.
“
I was awake.
”
I jerked my chin toward the television.
“
Haven
’
t seen that in a while.
”

He grinned.
“
Me neither.
”

“
How about you rewind it and turn the sound back on, and I
’
ll go get us some ice cream?
”

He nodded.
“
Sounds perfect. Thanks.
”

I pa
dded into the kitchen and stuck my head into the freezer. There were three pints of Ben & Jerry
’
s Cherry Garcia.

“
You
’
re a good man, Mom,
”
I said, grabbing one pint and two spoons and heading back into the living room.

I froze. There it was. The music. The
phantom music I
’
d been hearing all along.

The theme from
The Philadelphia Story.

“
Oh my God,
”
I said.

Dad turned around and looked at me.
“
Wanda?
”
he said, concern thick in his voice.
“
Are you okay?
”

I nodded, swiping at my face with the back of one han
d and coming around the sofa to sit next to him. I pulled the top off the ice cream and handed him a spoon.

“
When did we start doing this, Dad?
”
I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“
Watching
The Philadelphia Story
every Christmas?
”

He shrugged, taking a
dig from the ice cream.
“
I don
’
t know. We had it on tape when you were a kid.
”

I nodded. From the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me.

“
Wanda?
”
he said.
“
Are you sure you
’
re okay?
”

I looked up at him and smiled, snuggling next to him. He put his
arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I felt twelve again. Safe. Loved.

At home.