Page 115 of The Way I Am Now
“Yes, lovely,” Gma agrees, batting her hand through the air. “But, honey, you’re clearly not well.”
I clear my throat. “I guess I’ve just been so busy, not really getting enough sleep.”
“Vanessa!” Gma yells. “Look at Eden.”
“Please, let’s not.” I turn to Caelin, who’s been lingering behind me. “Caelin,” I prompt, mumbling to him, “a little help?”
“Hey, Grandma.” He hugs her, and then our grandpa reaches out to shake his hand instead of accepting a hug. I check Caelin’s face, but he doesn’t seem surprised—I wonder when that changed. Like, what age was Caelin when Gpa decided it was no longer acceptable to hug him? I hadn’t noticed.
“Oh my God,” Gma gasps, pulling on Caelin’s arm so that he’s in front of her again. “And look at you.” She places her hand against his cheek. “What’s going on around here? You look awful, too.”
We share a look and start laughing.
“No, it’s not funny,” she says to us. “Where are your parents, hiding from me, I assume?”
“We’re right here, Ma,” Dad says, coming into the room holding two wineglasses—one red for Gpa, one white for Gma. Mom behind him, fake smile plastered on her face.
We all sit at the table, and mine and Caelin’s appearances are the first order of conversation. “What are you feeding them, Vanessa?” she asks. “They need balanced diets. My God, they’re just . . .” She pauses and casts her hand across the table in our direction. “Languishing,” she finishes.
I can’t quite locate the precise definition of the word “languishing” in my vocabulary at the moment, but I make a mental note to look it up, because something tells me it’s an appropriate word to describe our current state.
Mom says under her breath, “I knew it was going to be my fault somehow.”
“I didn’t say that,” Gma insists. “Conner, what areyoufeeding them?” she directs, pointedly, at my dad now, always the equal-opportunist insulter.
“Will you let it go?” Dad finally says. “They’re college students, for God’s sake; they’re just worn out.”
So I guess the trial isn’t the only secret we’re keeping from them. The part about Caelin not going back for his last semester must’ve never entered one of Dad’s weekly Sunday-evening phone calls with Gma over the past year.
I look at Caelin, and he sighs. “Actually,” he begins, but Dad tosses him a stern look that shuts him right down. Caelin shakes his head and pours himself a generous glass of wine, takes a big sip, then fills it up again. No one seems to notice. He sets it between us and tips his head toward me, gives me a small nod. I gladly take a giant sip, which, also, no one seems to notice.
Gpa asks about Dad’s work, and that takes the focus off us for now. Mom busies herself with bringing dishes to the kitchen and refilling them with food. I pick at my mashed potatoes just so I’m not drinking on an empty stomach, but nothing really appeals to me with all these lies filling in the gaps between us.
“Oh,” Gma says, holding her index finger up as if she just remembered something. “Caelin, we were reading in the paper about Kevin Armstrong. Tell me this isn’t that little boy who was always hanging around here?” she says, shaking her head, already in disbelief. “Your roommate?”
Caelin wipes his mouth on his napkin before answering. “It is, actually,” he answers. “The same one.”
“Oh my,” Gma breathes. “He’s in a world of trouble from what I gather.”
Caelin nods and takes a sip of wine. “Yeah, I hope so.”
And then, out of nowhere, Dad slams his hand down on the table. Everyone flinches, the silverware jumps off the plates. “Dammit,” he yells. “Can we just have a decent family dinner for once and not dredge up all this garbage?”
I take in a sharp breath of air and hold it, unable to let it go.
“Conner!” my mom shouts.
“What’s all this about?” Gma asks, looking around the table. “What did I say?”
Then everyone’s suddenly yelling at each other. I don’t even know what they’re saying anymore or who’s on what side of which problem. Gma is still looking around, waiting for someone to tell her what’s going on. I stand from the table and walk around to give her a kiss on the cheek. I do the same to Gpa. And then I continue through the kitchen, grab my coat from the hook by the back door, slide on my shoes, and go outside. The cold damp night air rushes into my lungs, and it’s such a relief to breathe again that I laugh.
I sit down on the wooden seat of our ancient swing set and let my feet dangle beneath me, let my body rock back and forth in the wind. I lean all the way back and look at the stars, studying the white clouds of my breath, counting again, slowly this time. From one to five, in and out, over and over.
I hear the back door open and close. I sit upright and see my brother walking toward me, carrying the remainder of a bottle of wine.
“Well, they left,” he says as he sits down in the seat next to me, offering me the bottle.
I shake my head. “Thanks, I think I’ve had enough.”
