Page 91 of Him
I swallow that thought down, then look on the closet floor for my suitcase.
34
Jamie
It’s Sunday dinner at my parents’ house in San Rafael, California. This time I’m not seeing it on Skype—I’m prepping the pasta course myself. I’ve minced a mountain of garlic, diced several onions and chopped a mountain of olives. We’ll be ten for dinner tonight—the eight of us plus Tammy’s husband and Jess’s new boyfriend. Mom has had me in the kitchen for an hour and a half, and we’re nowhere near ready.
As it happens, cooking is very therapeutic. I’ve got something to do with my hands, and I don’t have to look anyone in the eye.
I’ve been home for forty-eight hours, and Mom is circling like a shark. She knows something is seriously wrong with me. All I’ve told her is that I’m having a career crisis. She knows about the interview scheduled three days from now, which conflicts with the fact that I’m supposed to be in Detroit six days from now.
Everything I’ve told her is true. But it’s not all the truth. Choosing between two career paths is big stuff, but it’s not nearly as painful as what Wes has done to me.
After that awful scene in our room, I went out to run. Three miles later, Wes was gone. I don’t mean gone out for a drink—he was gone from camp. All his clothing had disappeared from our closet. His toiletries were gone.
His skates were gone.
I knew without asking that he wasn’t coming back. When I went down to breakfast the next morning, Pat’s face was full of sympathy. And when I asked Pat if he was sure he had enough coaches on hand the following week for me to take off for Cali, he said yes without even an argument.
I’ve spent the last two days trying not to mope around my room. Coincidentally, my parents’ garden is well weeded. I’ve lost to my father at chess four times. And I finally finished that book I’d brought to camp.
But I just ache from the loss of my best friend / boyfriend / whatever. We never did get around to putting a label on it. And now we never will.
“Fuck!” I curse as the paring knife slices the top of my finger. The knife slips from my hand when I pinch the cut closed.
“James.” My mother’s voice is gentle. “Maybe you need a break.” She doesn’t even complain about the F-bomb I just dropped. So I must be acting like a real head case. “Let me find you a bandage,” she says instead.
Two minutes later she’s covered the wound. “I can sauté one-handed,” I offer.
“How about you tell me what’s bothering you instead?”
Now, I could do that. My parents wouldn’t flinch at the idea of me being involved with a man. They’re both California hippies all the way to the core. And if Wes and I had stayed together, I’d share it in a heartbeat. But there’s no point in telling the story now. I’d just be buying myself a lifetime of teasing from my siblings. (“You need to know which shirt goes with those pants? Ask Jamie. He was gay once for a few weeks.”) You can’t just give five siblings that kind of ammo unless it’s relevant.
And anyway, I’m saved from answering my mother’s questions, because the kitchen door bangs open as the first wave begins to arrive.
“Jamester!” my sister Tammy yells. “Here. Hold this.”
Before I can argue, there’s a toddler in my arms.
“Fresh meat!” my sister cackles. And her husband slips past us both to get himself a beer.
I look down at the baby. “Um, hi,” I say to Ty. I haven’t seen him in two months, and I swear he’s doubled in size.
“Hah,” he answers around the four fingers he’s got jammed in his mouth. Then he removes his drooly little hand and uses it to grab my nose.
The size of Tammy’s smile doubles. “Good to have you back, kid.” Tammy is thirty, but she’s been calling me “kid” since she was twelve and I was four.
Ty and I fetch a beer from the refrigerator and head out to the deck where there’s a sweeping view of the San Rafael bay in the distance. My parents bought this house thirty-four years ago before Joe was born. That’s the only reason they can afford this sweet view in a great neighborhood. The house itself received two half-hearted additions as the family grew. We call it the Hodge Podge Lodge. In its current configuration, there are five bedrooms. As the youngest, I had my own room in this house for exactly one year before leaving for college. My life was a series of bunk beds, fights over the best-flavored cereals, and loud family meals.
I fucking love it here.
“I think I need to add a third thing to the list,” I tell Ty. When I look down at him, he’s staring back with wide brown eyes that are not unlike my own. “Detroit, Toronto or California?” I ask him.
Ty scrunches up his face and appears to consider the question. He’s thinking about it hard. But then there’s a small gassy sound. His face relaxes just as I begin to smell something foul.
“Did you just take a crap on my watch?” I ask the baby.
He gazes back, all innocence.
