In the following five-part true story, ash describes to her friend a recent trip to Chicago to celebrate ash’s father’s 90th birthday, her mother’s 85th birthday, and their 58th anniversary, all occurring within a span of six weeks. As ash’s friend knew, ash had anticipated this gathering with much anxiety bordering on dread based on rather shaky family dynamics. Less than a year earlier, ash had been excluded by her half brother-in-law from another family celebration in honor of ash’s half-sister’s birthday (they have the same father), and when she admitted feeling hurt to her sister, her sister somehow managed to twist that slight into her own victimhood, though her sister had been invited and attended. Culminating in the pronouncement that ash “crossed the line,” her sister’s final message created a rift between them. Now they were to see each other for the first time in ten months and ash’s friend was eager to hear whether the relationship could be resolved.
Cast of characters: mom and dad of Chicago; half-sister (Sara), half-brother-in-law (Jerry) of Durham, North Carolina, sons (Daren of Austin, Texas and Jordan of San Francisco); brother (Daniel), his wife (Shelly) of Albuquerque, their daughter (Gwen) of Seattle; sister (Chloe) of Santa Monica, California; children (Jillian and Tom), Jillian’s boyfriend (Brent) of Chicago; and my boyfriend (Randy) and myself.
Part I
Here we go. Remember, this is more about reaction than the events themselves, and my highly subjective interpretations, while not provably accurate, I do think are based on my being pretty perceptive. Was going to do this in chronological order, day by day, but knowing myself, I would get bogged down in immaterial details. The overview is I anticipated this trip speculating on one simple question: who would be the bigger “villain,” Chloe or Jerry? The answer turned out to be Jerry, but the real answer is neither.
It was Daniel. My brother Daniel. That’s the conclusion. We’ll work our way there.
By the time Jerry and Sara left the living room chitchat on Friday for their hotel, I knew exactly why he snubbed me last year. He’s an arrogant arbitrator of not only his immediate family but anyone who happens to be involved in any plans he makes. Which is to say he issues orders. He’s also no slave to polite or traditional convention so that when it came time to, say, compile a guest list he thought in terms of the two siblings his wife sees somewhat regularly (because they both live in big cities she visits) and the one she doesn’t, so let’s just invite the two she knows better and never mind that her father and step-mother don’t distinguish their three children using the same criteria. See, he’s a stoic, unemotional, unpleasant, supercilious, obtuse, thick-skinned guy. He’s the kind of guy who, had he been my father, I would have run away from home about the time I hit puberty. He’s a guy who, with his jacket already on on the verge of leaving says, Oh, we’re going to meet for breakfast tomorrow. At that pancake place at 9:30. And if someone (like me) says, Wow, that’s like break-of-day to me, he just repeats the pronouncement without even bothering to add “Tough. It’s non-negotiable.” And then, while we’re on time, shows up 45 minutes late because, well, they’re not from Chicago.
So that’s Jerry, who early on catapulted himself to the fringes of my awareness. A grunt of a hello at the main event on Saturday and then on Sunday, Randy later told me that as I was looking at photos with Sara as they were to leave for the airport, he muttered “Sara, I’m getting nervous” and did not reply when I said goodbye. Good riddance, Jerry, we now turn to Chloe.
Part II
Chloe brought a lot of sweaters. Nothing but sweaters to wear on top. Other than the main event Saturday night, she alternated two pairs of jeans and wore as many sweaters as days she was gone. (Not sure if she arrived Thursday or Friday, but I think she left the following Wednesday.) Nice ones, since Chloe is a a)veteran fashion aficionado, b)LA resident, c)fairly successful career woman, and d)slightly insecure, having never married/had kids and does care about her image, so compensates with stylish, sophisticated clothes. The point is nothing but sweaters? Because she lives in a warm climate and forgot that Midwest weather is notoriously unpredictable in early fall? Or because one is supposed to wear lighter sweaters – pastel, acrylic ones – during the season regardless of temperature. Anyway, so did other people (though their sweaters weren’t nearly as stylish) from Albuquerque, Seattle, and Durham, NC, while Randyl and I and my parents wore short-sleeves because, well, it was mostly warm outside. In fact, and I’m really getting off-track here but I find it interesting, my parents, being typically old, cranked up the register in their house when it got the tiniest bit chilly which about killed Randy with his multiple sclerosis (and of course you know we slept at their house) who had to open three bedroom windows and shut the door to counteract that oppressive heat.
Anyway, Chloe. Who came with a detectible battle plan. OK, let’s just call it her approach. When contact can’t be avoided, be cordial. It’s a social occasion and just short of sinful should the elderly parents get a whiff of feud. But generally steer clear, no in-depth, personal, sisterly conversations (she did ask whether I’m still taking Vicodin for my compressed neck condition and when I said no, that stopped in January, she asked what I was taking, but she’s an RN so it was medical curiosity), and absolutely no acknowledgment of the proverbial elephant hovering in every room.
And she stuck to it. Which became somewhat comical when on Saturday my niece Gwen needed emergency shoes and a bunch of us trooped to a place near Old Orchard (in two cars which, like whenever there were two of anything, we always occupied separate ones) and as I systematically made my way up and down aisles (trying to find slippers which is all I need) she stayed about two rows behind me, a trick whenever I stopped to examine or try on a pair. Though her strategy was evident, I don’t know what she was thinking in real time. Waiting for me to apologize for my alleged offenses? I doubt it, especially as time wore on. Pretend there was nothing between us? No, I think she could see I was following her cues. Then on Saturday night as we entered the banquet room of the restaurant (Italian place in Old Orchard) I first realized she was the hostess, that her present was the party. She was welcoming everyone in and pointing out the hors d’oeuvres. That’s how out of the loop I was. When I asked Jillian to verify that she wasn’t sure but thought several people split the cost, anyway I’m getting side-tracked again. At this point I sensed it was actually frustrating for her to remain detached. Chloe is extremely emotional, even more than I am, and I cry at funerals for people I didn’t like when alive. Or maybe, when my mother complimented my dress and Chloe happened to be there, she chimed in how nice it was just to avoid my mom’s suspicion. Two tables: Randy and I at one, Chloe and Daniel – wait til you hear about him – at the other.
Sunday we were supposed to drive home. As we packed the trunk a group of them left for downtown (later found out they went to Grant Park) which really gnaws at me in retrospect considering that had I known we weren’t leaving I would have loved to join them. Thinking this is it, she began watching me more openly and finally gave me what seemed to be a spontaneous hug. Chloe and I had been tight, you know, previous to the falling out (in fact, just before it had volunteered to fly to Springfield [ash’s home 200 miles from Chicago] to serve as my “advocate” during all my medical appointments), which hasn’t been true of Daniel in years and obviously never true of Jerry. Still, though very much in character, it caught me off guard a little but remember, I’m following her cues so I hugged her back and if not for the car would have left thinking warmly of her.
Of course, this was not to be.
Part III
Daniel. Nothing in particular to alert me at first. At some point years ago I began to note that his always wry personality was acquiring a rather brusque edge. A little distant, a little aloof, possibly a little secretive, never very warm though he could become emotional about matters of concern. On Friday he gave me a perfunctory hug and as the whole group settled in my parents’ living room he dipped in and out of the room, the conversation, engaged in some circumspect pursuit, I figured, though it aroused no curiosity or suspicion on my part.
On Saturday came the defining event. After breakfast at the restaurant we were standing outside having formed several groups and on impulse I approached him to say that after all these years of telling Tommy how much he reminded me of his Uncle Daniel I thought I’d tell Daniel about it. And he wouldn’t look at me.
Solidarity with Chloe? Because in recent years they’ve been closer to each other than I’ve been to either of them? If for no other reason than their geographical proximity allows them to travel to each other’s cities? That later occurred to me. Lord knows her version of our feud although I’ve no doubt he would simply accept it. I recited my lines and he refuted them. In so doing, he used a word I’m not familiar with though I’ve heard it but can’t for the life of me remember now (in my rare manic moments I’ve seriously considered reading the entire dictionary to find it, since I would remember if I can across it). But to the effect of Tom’s full of himself, or self-absorbed, it was clear from the context and even if I got that wrong it was clearly a denunciation, to which he added “That’s absolutely foreign to me.” Stunned, I persisted: “You don’t think he sounds like you, that your voices are similar” to which he cut me off only to make no sense. It’s a “regionalism,” he said. That’s what he called it. “I talk exactly like Dad.” I paused here to consider not whether that was actually consistent with my point – that as he sounds like our father, my son might well sound like him – but whether I had just heard a “furthermore” or a contradiction. “Regionalism?” You mean…” what? The Chicago region? Tom wasn’t raised in Chicago; he was raised in Springfield, a relatively rural location. The Illinois/Midwest region? That’s some large region encompassing millions of people. Maybe the Jewish community? I’d hardly call that Tom’s domain, considering his father has a distinctly Protestant personality. As I formulated that question, I refocused on his face. Impatient, dismissive, distant, in fact staring into the distance. Before I could think further, I simply said, “Never mind.”
Had there been no relatives around, I would have said “Go fuck yourself.”
The hell with him. It was the beginning and end of our communication. If the words he uttered don’t seem especially harsh, his tone and his manner were even more chilling. With no reason to engage him further (though last week I wrote him that “Fuck you” letter defending my son) I simply ignored him the rest of the trip. For his part, he acted as if I weren’t there. And of course we sat at separate tables that night and were never part of the same circle as people wandered around before we were seated. It was a passive disdain which became active when the dynamics changed the next day.
Part IV
Car breaks down. Not without warning, since it didn’t start in the first place and Randy had to jump start it from my dad’s car. But since we hadn’t driven it since we arrived we figured it had something to do with that and I jolted when Randy got it just down the adjoining side street to the first main street we hit and it died as we waited to make a turn.
Well, at least it wasn’t at a major intersection (which would have happened 2 blocks later) and at least – God forbid – it wasn’t on the highway.
But it was the latest in a series of such incidents beginning with my first car and continuing through the entirety of adulthood. And it had a cumulative effect. I went into shock at the edge of denial, refusing to get out of the dead car until Randy walked back to the house (OK, at least it wasn’t that far a walk) and returned with my dad’s car and later my dad. It was a mess for hours, particularly as it revived several ongoing issues I have with my mother. My dear, elderly, intelligent though undereducated mother who once flippantly remarked that “Everyone is a psychologist” not merely discounting my analysis of a situation but illustrating a classic case of doublethink. My proud, easily humiliated mother who, rather than admit being wrong about something significant, chose to backtrack and erase the recording, so to speak, to the part where she actually said “Everybody THINKS they’re a psychiatrist,” and never mind that that’s equally not the case. My nervous, high-strung, neurotic mother who couldn’t distinguish between yelling at her because I was angry with her, which I wasn’t, and damning bad karma as a means of confiding in her. Meanwhile, of course, my father and Randy, neither of whom own a cell phone, were virtually stranded with the ailing car, leaving me to fill the role as liaison between the car itself and summoning help to rescue the car. This involved several walks back and forth, two tow trucks called somehow (the 2nd guy wanted payment, but I told him I had a lot bigger problems than the fact that “gas doesn’t pay for itself” and hung up on him), pacing the floor, telling my sob story to some nice neighbors who hadn’t been born by the time I left for college. All during which I’m struggling to devise a way to get home without it, a booked-up train, a bus which would arrive in Springfield in the middle of the night are out (right off the bat, we know it’s ready Monday at the earliest) and since my parents can’t or won’t lend us theirs for – I’ve said this, right – 400 miles and nine hours even though my dad can’t drive and my mom didn’t need it with all the relatives I finally call Tom who’s the only one with his own car of all the people involved.
And he would have done it except his old jalopy was in no shape for a long distance trip. Which is why I wrote a letter thanking him for being the only noble person in the whole ordeal.
Then the strangest development. Jill calls inviting us to stay with her and Brent since Daniel, Chloe et. al. have checked out of their respective hotels and are staying with our parents from this point on. Thanks, hon, but that would only inconvenience us more since the car’s a few miles from here and you’re a 40 minute drive on the Edens Espressway. I assume that’s the end of it but she calls back. Now she sounds desperate. Who’s pulling her strings? And why is she buying the argument? “I just think you’d be more comfortable” becomes “I just think it would be better.” I eventually relent to end the stalemate since she’s obviously exhausted from playing messenger. Someone – Daniel, Chloe, Shelly, all of them – has been pressuring her, putting it in terms of easing the burden on my parents. They’ve also got something planned for the night, something I’m not supposed to be part of. But the truth is the burden would be Daniel’s and Chloe’s, my mere presence would constitute their burden when for some reason I wasn’t supposed to know this much, that the something I’m not supposed to be part of even exists.
Which is a greater insult than the car breaking down.
But I am familiar with the plans, which have hardly been concealed from me. Shelly assembled a scrapbook – I got to write something for it and everything – to present, and my parents are thinking of moving to a retirement home, consulting with whoever may have done research. What the hell difference does it make if one of their children is in the house, since they seem to believe I’m not willing or able to contribute to the discussion? I’ll camp out with Randy in my old bedroom if it’s so important that I be out of earshot. If not for Jillian, I wouldn’t have agreed to the nonsensical request. But I doubt anyone else would have made it. I also wonder why she doesn’t realize her sweet, accommodating nature has been exploited.
“Hah,” I remark to Randy, waiting for Jillian to show up (by now Chloe and Sherry are busy assembling a dinner from last night’s leftovers and acting as if Randy and I aren’t there while Daniel and I manage never to be in the same room together). “If we hurry we can get out of here before they eat and make the day perfect. You know, since we’re not supposed to be here.” Actually, Randy ends up in the dining room with everyone except my mother who eats in the kitchen with me. (In spite of the big scene earlier, she behaves admirably at this point, calming my nerves considerably). And that’s pretty much it. Jillian drives us downtown, pretending or refusing to acknowledge that there’s anything more to dragging us there beyond my parents’ convenience. And nobody observes that it makes little tactical sense now that I know at least two of the events I will be missing.
Note: I’ve slipped into present tense from years of writing my diary that way. Suppose it’s to inject the “you are there” effect.
Part V. Conclusion
Monday. Jillian and Brient are both gone to work. Daniel and Chloe are to pick us up and drive us to the garage, which must be the compromise they were more than willing to make in exchange for our absence last night. A lot of phone calls and waiting – out to a café for cappuccino and up to the roof to smoke, barely aware of the majestic downtown skyline - but the car is ready (or maybe ready, it’s supposed to be ready but they’re not absolutely sure) only an hour later than estimated, which is to say at noon.
They wait downstairs at the gate. Chloe is decent at first (though I can’t stop myself from staring at her gorgeous, much-too-heavy-for-the-weather fisherman’s sweater), making small talk as Daniel says absolutely nothing, walking ahead of us to my parents’ car. But once inside, it’s like two opposing forces – front seat (them) vs. back seat (us) – though Randy, oblivious to the dynamics, has to be reined in to realize it.
It’s also the birth of our new family joke: “At least Jeanette won’t be homeless.” Apparently Jeanette is a friend of Chloe’s who lost a job, or was about to lose a job, or feared losing a job, and meanwhile panicked that she wouldn’t find another job to replace it, and when she did get another job, could stop worrying about living on the street. The point, of course, is that they spent the entire time on people we don’t know and matters of no interest to us while everyone was aware that just because the car was supposed to be fixed didn’t mean that it was. Sure, you could speculate that they were keeping it light and respecting our need not to dwell on frightening possibilities, but that’s not how I read Chloe’s light-hearted banter (chuckling at Jeanette’s alarmism), in fact it came across as gloating, while it obviously wasn’t Daniel’s motivation to ease our emotional load.
They were acting like we weren’t there. Just as they had the night before.
[Present tense. Past tense. Don’t know why I keep switching.] There was something about housing, the costs of homes in their respective neighborhood’s, maybe Jeanette’s as well, and Randy jumped in. Worse than contributing to a conversation designed to exclude us, he actually had the gaucheness to mention what a cheap house we have, at which point I would have kicked him if it could have been done silently. But since it would have aroused their attention, I grabbed a sheet of paper from my purse and scribbled in large letters, “Stop. Please shut up. Now.” Luckily, he nodded and seemed to understand, though, to ensure his cooperation, I wrote a few more notes by way of explanation: “They’re playing us.” “They’d like nothing better than for us to speak in order to ignore us.”
Indeed they were. When Daniel got off the highway not at Dempster – the closest exit to my parents’ – but at Touhy several exits before it, I first realized he was driving directly to the garage. No announcement let alone a consultation. See, I figured if the car was not done, why not find that out at my parent’s house and get it when it was, not be stuck waiting at the garage for God knows how long? Though I suppose he could have driven us back to the house if that were the case, it would have meant an unnecessary detour. So we dove out as Daniel and Chloe just sat in the car, chatting as if we were no more to them than customers they had let out of their taxi, our fate at the destination of no concern to them. A taxi waiting in case the customer needed to resume the ride until, having learned the car was ready to be driven, I returned for my purse and told them they could leave.
But they didn’t. Instead Daniel pulled up toward us and took a sharp turn, positioning his car such that the back end faced us a few feet away. Then, as if in slow motion, I watched the trunk door lift to reveal our suitcases that we had transferred from our malfunctioning car for safekeeping while it was in the hands of the mechanics. The message was clear: come and get them. And you get no assistance from me. The impersonal nature of it – a remote-controlled trunk requiring no direct human contact, declining to offer help, not even verbalizing the command – chilled me then and rechills me to envision now. Daniel must have watched from the rear view mirror as I tapped Randy’s shoulder and he retrieved them, for once Randy had completed the task Daniel needed no prompting to leave. He also must have assumed, or was taking no chances, that we were heading straight to Springfield from the garage that he had to get rid of any remaining traces of us.
We did drive to my parents’, though, not only to say goodbye but to leave Jillian’s cell phone and apartment keys Daniel must have forgotten we still needed after she left. Of course, not having told us where they were headed, they were neither expected nor unexpected to be there, which, in fact, they weren’t. (It was at this point I noticed the scrapbook opened to the page of my parental tributes, and asked my mother how the “presentation” went. “Oh,” she replied, as if unwittingly part of the conspiracy, “they didn’t ‘present’ it to me. They gave it to me.”) But while I was fixing sandwiches for the trip home they appeared, laughing over who knows what, and proceeded to engage our mother – you guessed it, as if we weren’t there. Then Chloe opened some tin foil to reveal a huge Italian beef sandwich and Daniel appeared from the other room to do the same.
The next thing I was aware of was Chloe giggling and pointing at Daniel to our mother. “He’s crying!” she chortled, as I realized Daniel was pretending to tear up over food that’s just not made the same in Albuquerque. Our sandwiches done (and such measly ones they were, since there was very little spread to go around and since over the years my mother’s cooking has become bland to accommodate my father’s exceedingly limited taste), I quickly scanned the room for any possessions I may have missed before kissing my parents and grabbing up everything.
Then I turned to Daniel, mid-bite. “Thank you,” I said, “for the ride.” The other direction toward Chloe. “Thank you, too.” Their reactions couldn’t have contrasted more. While Daniel didn’t so much as nod, Chloe looked stricken. Not insulted or hurt, mind you, but surprised. Which is the primary, though not only, reason she emerges from this episode in much higher esteem than our brother. Then I ran out to get in the car with Randy.
Two days later I emailed Tom informing him how I defended him to his uncle. Two days after that I sent a letter to Daniel disowning him, though I pulled my punch on the word. And “at least Jeanette won’t be homeless” means regardless of the emergency we’re in the midst of, or the next in the endless series of hapless events, at least somebody we don’t know is going to be all right.
4290 words