What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [58]
He had a weekend routine, too. And I knew what flavor ice cream he would order when we went out, how and when he wore his slippers, what television shows he never missed, what he would say to his parents when they called. If I asked for a dollar, he’d give me two, admonishing me not to lose them. When he buttered his pancakes, he would cut the pat into four tiny squares before he spread it.
But, “Believe me,” he said now, “I can be just as surprising as the next guy.”
I thought it was so cute, this lie—it made for a soft spot in my stomach. For him, a man whose habits were so utterly predictable, to say he was full of surprises! I wondered if he actually believed it.
After we went to bed, Sharla and I were talking about what teacher I might get my first year in junior high when our mother came into our room, stood just in the doorway. At first I thought we were in trouble for waking her up. But then she only said softly, “Good-night.”
“You slept all day!” Now that I knew she was not angry at us, I had the luxury of being angry at her.
“Are you sick?” Sharla asked.
This had not occurred to me.
“No, I’m not sick.” She walked over to sit at the foot of my bed, began playing with the thinning tufts on my spread. Then, looking up, she said, “I think I’ve raised you so wrong.”
I held still, the breath inside me feeling like a swallowed balloon.
“What’d I do?” I asked, finally.
I could feel Sharla smirking, basking in some unearned victory until my mother said, “No, I mean both of you. You didn’t do anything wrong. I did something wrong. I did everything wrong, and I’m sorry.” To my horror, she began weeping, her shaking hands covering her face. I had two simultaneous impulses: to embrace her and to shove her.
“Where’s Dad?” Sharla asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
My mother waved her hand in dismissal. “Oh—him. Don’t … This is not …” She stood up. “I’m sorry, girls.” She kissed my cheek, then Sharla’s. “I’m sorry.” And then she was gone.
“Dad?” Sharla called softly. And then louder, “Dad?”
He came into the room. His face was drawn, softened by sadness. “Yes?”
“What’s wrong with Mom?” Sharla asked. “What’s the matter with her?”
I looked down, picked at my thumb. I felt as though my bed were an island, surrounded by a roiling sea. I feared for the rest of my family, but I was fine. I was. I was fine.
I lay down, closed my eyes. “If you want to talk,” I said, “go downstairs. I’m going to sleep.”
I heard Sharla and my father leave, and I opened my eyes, lay still and straight in my bed. I could not hear them. I tried, but I could not hear a word.
I turned over, away from the door, raised my arm up to lay my hand flat on the wall as high as I could reach; relished the slight pain caused by the excessive pull of my muscle. Then I received my own arm back to my own self. I wrapped it in the sheet, I kissed it at the wrist, and at the elbow, and then I rocked it.
Then, against my will, I remembered my father coming home from work a few days earlier, walking with gentle fatigue into the kitchen where my mother was making dinner. He’d kissed her, then stood close to her, watching her, watching. He’d turned his hat around and around in his hands, nervously, absentmindedly. My mother had snatched the hat away from him, and the gesture was sudden and violent enough that it had caused her to lose her balance. She’d caught herself against the counter, then handed the hat back to him. “For God’s sake, Steven,” she’d said. “Stop it.”
I awakened to the