A Little Friendly Advice. Siobhan Vivian
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“Good answer. Then suffering through your first hangover will be your only punishment. You can consider this Get Out of Jail Free card a belated birthday present. But know that if you ever come home intoxicated again, you’ll be grounded like there’s no tomorrow.” She plants her hands on her hips and waits for me to formally acknowledge the huge amount of parental slack I’ve just been granted.
So I mumble, “Umm . . . thank you.”
A smirk creeps across her mouth. “That was quite a tirade last night. At least your father knows I’ve raised one very polite teenager.”
This is how my mom and I communicate. Sarcasm acts like smoke and mirrors, so we can talk about something without having to actually say anything. But her punch line lights the fuse of my memory. I see flashes of faces gawking at me by birthday candlelight, feel sparks of soreness in my throat from my courteous rant, hear the crackle of cellophane in his tightening fist. He was here, but now he’s gone. Again.
“First off, he’s not my father.” I half expect her to defend him, but she doesn’t say anything. “And what did he want me to say? ‘Hello there! Umm . . . gee, this is awkward, but what’s your name again? Ahh, that’s right . . . Dad! I totally didn’t recognize you there! Would you care for some cake?’” A clump of eggs slides off my quivering fork. I might still be a little bit drunk.
Mom walks over to my window and opens it wide. I’m glad, because her perfume is thick in the hot room and my first bite of breakfast tastes like a mouthful of overripe petals. Sharp October wind pours in and tangos with the heat of my radiator. She stands there quietly for a minute, peering down at the front lawn.
While her back is turned, she says, “I don’t know what he expected and I’m certainly not going to guess. But it’s obvious what he wanted. He wanted to see you.”
Her words get colder the longer they hang in the air. Maybe she’s jealous, because she’s the one who actually still seems to care about him. At least I have a best friend who’s helped me deal with everything. My mom has nothing but work and awkward conversations with me.
“Well, he got what he wanted,” I say through squishy bites of buttery toast. “Now he can go on back to wherever he’s been hiding for another six years, because we don’t need him.”
She turns back around to face me, and we wrestle our lips into weak smiles. Then she pulls out the dirty towels from my hamper while I eat, and both of us ignore the uncomfortable silence that has settled over my room. Just like always. It’s almost comforting.
Mom flips the hamper lid shut and makes for the door. My throat suddenly feels tight and I swallow hard to force shards of bacon down. Something triggers my gag reflex. But it’s not food that bubbles up.
“So, did he say anything to you last night? Like . . . where he’s been for the last six years?” My voice is tinny and high-pitched. It doesn’t sound anything like me.
Mom surveys the distance left between her and my open bedroom door. Her shoulders slump and her lungs empty with one deep sigh. “Yeah. He did.”
I sit up too fast and my bloated gut seizes in protest, swishing around remains of last night’s champagne. Mom sits down on my comforter. Her bottom lip catches under the ridge of her front teeth. I wait patiently and avoid eye contact.
“Your dad’s been living in Oregon.”
“Oregon?”
“Yes. At least, until last week.” Her voice stays even and measured. “Apparently, he was a park ranger there.”
I look for an edge to these two puzzle pieces. Some kind of cheat to link park ranger and Oregon with what little I know about Jim. But they are blobs from somewhere in the hazy, undeveloped middle of What Happened. I have no idea where or how they belong. Or why I even care.
A few seconds pass before my breathing kick-starts. “A park ranger? In Oregon?”
She bites at her pinky nail.
“Mom.”
“Ruby.” She matches my tone exactly. Then her head dips back and rolls around her shoulders a full 360 degrees. “Okay, fine.” She sounds tired and annoyed. Not with the conversation. With me. I grip two fistfuls of my comforter and let her continue. “After you left, he sat down and asked if he could smoke.”
My nostrils flare. “You should have told him no.”
“I honestly didn’t know what to do. His hands were so shaky; it took him about half a book of broken matches before he got one lit. It was very awkward and very quiet, so I got the dustpan out and swept up your flowers. But I did ask him what he’s been doing these days. He said he’s been living in Oregon, working as a park ranger, but now he’s moving on to something new.” Her fluttering lashes mask her eyes. “And he said, ‘Tell Rubes I’m real sorry for ruining her party.’ Then he left.”
Cold sweat beads on my temples. “That’s it?” That can’t be it.
“Don’t look so surprised. You should know by now that your dad isn’t particularly good at apologies.” She couches it in a hollow chuckle, because she’s not being mean. Just honest.
I cram the million other questions I have back down my throat.
Mom shakes out her arm until a gold watch slides to her wrist. She checks the time and says matter-of-factly that she better get over to the hospital, as if our conversation needed an official ending. Leaning over, she takes a bite of the toast in my hand and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. Her gooey lipstick deposits sticky crumbs on my face.
“Sorry,” she says. And she wipes my face clean.
I don’t bother to clarify the intention of her apology.
On her way out of the room, she bends over to pick something up off my floor. “Oh, Ruby. This is beautiful!” She rubs my gray birthday scarf against the side of her face.
“Yeah. Beth made it for me.”
Her fingers trace the yellow ribbons. “She’s such a good friend.” Mom carefully folds the scarf up and lays it on top of my dresser, making me feel crappy that it was ever on the floor in the first place.
I roll away from the rest of my breakfast and fill my face with the pillow until her car scuttles down the driveway. Then our tiny house is quiet, except for the silence, which seems extraordinarily loud. There’s no sleeping through this kind of silence. So I get up and take a shower.
My fingers jerk hard and fast through soapy knots of hair. I squint my eyes so tight while I rinse that, when I open them again, the colored spots take forever to fade from the white bathroom tile. Not once but twice, the bar of Ivory flies out of my hands. Every movement feels clumsy and awkward. So I make the executive decision not to shave my legs, even though they’re pretty prickly.
It’s certainly no secret that I’ve got some serious emotional baggage. Make that a complete set of luggage with wheels for easy transportation, zippered sections for compartmentalizing, and ballistic nylon for an impenetrable shell. But I remind myself that there’s no need to worry. All my issues are packed nicely and neatly away. Just because Jim randomly showed up doesn’t mean I have to relive everything all over again. Once was more than enough.
The water turns icy and my skin is pruned. I run to my freezing room and slam the window shut. I squeegee myself with a towel and pull up my favorite Levi’s. They feel chalky and in desperate need of a wash, just the way I like them. I shiver into a white tank top and a Japanese Coca-Cola T-shirt I found at Revival, twist a pile of my thick wet hair on top of my head, and secure it with a rubber band. I take one more Advil and start a load of towels in the washing machine.
Then I crash onto our puffy floral couch. The late afternoon light makes everything in the living room look dusty. Traces of leftover cigar smoke burn through my nose.
I try not to think of Oregon. Oregon. Oregon.
Especially