Page 70 of Forget About Me

Since traffic’s at a standstill again, I check the notebook I use to keep track of everything: client names, issues, what we’ve done so far, homework, as well as directions to each house. Or business. Right now I’m trying to get to a small architecture firm in Brookline where a nervous spaniel spends an uneasy day. The Blickners don’t want to leave their dog at home, but he’s unreliable around customers, so we’re working on safe ways to introduce him to new people.

The first time I visited their office, I drove from Back Bay on the weekend. Now, crossing town at two-thirty on a weekday, there’s so much more traffic.

Craning my neck, I realize I’m stuck in a line of parents picking up kids from school. Thinking that there’s got to be a way around this, I scrabble in the glove compartment for a map, and almost rear-end the car in front of me.

“Shit!” I yell, slamming on the brakes. Even though I’m going to be late, I make myself wait until I can pull over on a side street before trying to read the map. Just as I find a place to double park—a fine Boston tradition—and fish out a map—which rips—the tape in the player stops. When I push the eject button, the cassette comes out, but the tape sticks, unspooling. And I lose it. On a long “AGHHH” I rip out the tape, wad it up and throw the damn thing in the back of the car before bouncing my head on the steering wheel with a few more yowls of frustration.

If only clients came to me so I could spend more time training dogs and less time in this goddamn car.

Blowing out a breath, I carefully unfold the map so as to avoid further damage and figure out a way to cut away from the school traffic. Settling for some tape of Vinnie’s I find on the floor—Beastie Boys, not my favorite but it’ll do in a pinch—I take a quick left and steer my way across town.

I’ve been getting home much later than usual lately, but Friday evening, it’s after eight o’clock by the time I open the back door, expecting to find a cold kitchen and a hungry family. Or worse, the scent of fast food, which is what I came home to last night.

“Papa, I’m so sorry I’m late again.” I call from the mudroom. “Traffic is killing me.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

In the kitchen, my dad and brothers are seated at the table, half-empty plates in front of them. No takeout containers, though. “Something smells good.”

“There’s plenty left,” my dad says.

“We even made salad. Yours is in the fridge,” Vinnie adds. My dad pokes him in the shoulder, and he hops up. “Sit down, I’ll get it.”

“Who cooked?”

“We did,” Sal says proudly. “Well, Pop did. But he taught us some stuff.”

I take my seat, which is set with a napkin and everything. My dad fills my plate with chicken parmesan. Vinnie sets a salad in front of me, and Sal pops out of his seat. “Can I get you a drink?”

Tears prick behind my eyes. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

My dad shakes his hand. “Nothing’s wrong. You’ve been working late a lot and?—?”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just—I feel like I have to take advantage of the publicity from this article. But I think I can?—?”

My dad captures my flapping hand. “Lucy, we’re the ones who need to apologize.”

I swipe at the tears leaking out of my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Until you started taking on these extra jobs, which we think is great”—he adds before I can protest—“we had no idea how much you were doing around here. Shopping, cooking, cleaning. You were doing it all. Even when you took on the extra work for the play, you were still making sure dinner was on the stove every night.”

“Well, you and mom are working and the boys are still in school and?—?”

“And you have a full-time job. Now you have a chance to build a business of your own. You’ve taken care of us for far too long. These boys?—?”

“Men. We’re men now.” Vinnie pounds on his chest, a goofy grin on his face.

My dad rolls his eyes. “Theseyoungmen need to learn how to fend for themselves.”

Sal lifts a fork loaded with pasta. “Pop’s a pretty good cook, too. Who knew?”

“Yeah, who knew?” My dad smiles, and the crinkles around his eyes deepen. It’s good to see that smile. He doesn’t look as tired as usual, either. “The three of us have decided that we are officially taking over dinner. I’m teaching Vinnie and Sal how to cook.”

“You’re not allowed in the kitchen anymore,” Sal says. “Except to eat.”

“So, eat!” Vinnie says, sounding just like my mom.

Blowing my nose in my napkin, I look down at the beautiful meal in front of me. Suddenly ravenous, I pick up my fork and take a bite. “Wow. This is yummy.”

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