Drowning Instinct(56)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―Uhm.‖ I debated whether to lie then thought that if I didn‘t mention names . . . ―It‘s kind of not official. I don‘t want to jinx anything.‖ It helped that this was mostly true.

―Mom and Dad don‘t know.‖ Also true.

―Oh, I don‘t doubt that.‖ Meryl started on the other side of the carcass. ―You aren‘t doing anything stupid, are you?‖

―You expect me to answer that?‖

―No. I just had to ask. Anyway, now I know: you are.‖

―Meryl.‖ I changed the subject. ―Mom and Dad are doing a lot better.‖

―For as long as it lasts.‖ By now, the turkey was an unrecognizable mass of flesh and skin, dangling legs and wings. Meryl worked the boning knife along the softer breastbone, being careful not to rip through the thin skin there. I squashed yams and stirred in butter and cinnamon. On the stereo, Sting said he‘d be watching me.

―Listen, I don‘t pretend to be an expert in romance. I‘ve never been married, never had kids. But I know your parents pretty well.‖ She paused to peer over her glasses. Her eyes were bird-bright. ―You ever get tired of the craziness here, you come live with me.‖

―I‘m okay,‖ I said.

―For now.‖ She cut through the joint of one drumstick and pulled out a thigh bone.

―A boyfriend can make you feel like you‘re invulnerable, that nothing can hurt you. But everyone has to come down from that high, eventually. Sometimes, when you do, it‘s not very nice.‖

―Mmmm.‖ I didn‘t know what to say. I wasn‘t sure what she was really saying.

Right then, I was more rattled that she could read how I felt, even if she thought I was in love with someone my age. I had to watch that. I was thinking so hard about that I missed what she said next. ―Sorry. What?‖

She washed her hands and then reached for a large, blue porcelain bowl filled with oyster stuffing. Spreading out the turkey skin-side down, she spooned gray stuffing blobs onto the dark, pink flesh. ―I said, that teacher of yours . . . Anderson? Your mother says he‘s taken an interest. He does seem to go above and beyond. First, the night of your mom‘s party and then driving you home after the meet last week…. Not many teachers I know would be willing to get that involved.‖

A little warning ding in my brain. Another thing therapy teaches you, Bob, is how to read between the lines and then feed people answers they‘ll accept. It‘s like makeup, Bob; there‘s an art to smoothing on enough truth so those ugly zits don‘t show. Or scars, for that matter.

So I shrugged. ―Well, I like him a lot. Most everybody does. But I kind of worry that I‘m imposing too much, you know? It‘s really embarrassing having to cover for Mom and Dad all the time. I feel like I‘m taking advantage of him, except Dad‘s been all over me to get close to my teachers for recommendations. What‘s worse is, I think some of the other kids think I‘m a teacher‘s pet and I don‘t want that either and . . .‖ I sighed. ―Meryl, I just don‘t know what to do.‖

And score one for counterintuitive responses. While I dumped brown sugar and butter into the yam mash, Meryl threaded a trussing needle and then gave me pointers on how to not look like a suck-up as she sewed that turkey back together again. By the time Mom and Dad stumbled down for coffee and warmed-up apple pancakes, we were onto my visiting her on the island during Easter break in time for spring lambing, and all talk of me and Mitch was over, covered, and done.

e

Everything that happened after that? I blame Green Bay.

The Packers played the early game and got their collective heads handed to them on a platter by Chicago. By halftime, when the score was 31 to 14 and Dad came storming into the kitchen to trade his beer for Scotch, we knew it was going to be a rocky afternoon. The turkey was out of the oven by the time Green Bay finished cratering. Twenty minutes later, Dad was grimly carving the turkey like it was brain surgery and spoiling for a fight. I think that‘s why he gave me white meat. He probably hoped I‘d complain and then he could yell and blow off steam and maybe stab the giblets, and we could get on with the meal.

The dining room was silent except for the sounds of people chewing and the click-click-tick of silver on good china. My father gnawed morosely on a drumstick. He looked like Og.

Even not having run for the last week, I was still starving and white meat just doesn‘t do it for me. So I reached for the other drumstick and said, just for form‘s sake,

―Does anyone mind if I—?‖

―Not so fast,‖ Psycho-Dad snarled. ―You‘ve still got food on your plate, young lady.

You finish that first, then we can talk about seconds.‖

My jaw unhinged. Mom and Meryl stared. Mom said, reasonably, ―Honey, you know she doesn‘t like white me—‖

―Stay out of this, Emily.‖ Psycho-Dad thrust out his jaw. ―I am sick and tired of the way you coddle her. She‘s over all that ….‖ He gestured with his half-gnawed drumstick.

Bits of flesh bobbed on strings of tendon and ligaments. ―That psychiatric bullshit. She‘s not going to break. She gets everything she wants. Didn‘t we get her that damn phone? And a car?‖

Mom stupidly, stupidly tried again. ―Elliot, dear. Please. Lower your voice.‖

―Mom, it‘s fine,‖ I said. ―I‘m not hungry.‖

Meryl put her hand on Mom‘s arm. ―Emily, I think . . .‖

Mom ignored us both. ―She‘s sixteen, Elliot. You‘re treating her like a four-year-old. You need to stop bullying people.‖

―I am not a bully,‖ Psycho-Dad seethed. He threw his drumstick onto his plate and swiped a heavy cut-glass tumbler, still a third full of Scotch. He drained the liquor in a swallow. ―I‘m her father,‖ he said, sucking air through his teeth, his voice thin and strangled with the alcohol burn. ―I pay the bills around here. I pay for the food on this table and the clothes on your back and that store. You‘re just lucky I‘ve done that for as long as I have.‖

If only he had stopped there, we might still have been all right. I do remember that he paused, just for a moment, as if thinking about what he wanted to say next. Maybe he even considered that silence would be kinder, although I doubt it.

Instead, Psycho-Dad gave this small, very satisfied nod and pushed on. ―But I‘m sick of it. It‘s time things changed around here.‖

―What‘s that supposed to mean?‖ asked Mom.

I scraped back my chair. ―I‘ll start clear—‖

―Sit,‖ said Psycho-Dad. He didn‘t say stay, but he might as well have. I sat.

Mom‘s eyes narrowed. ―Elliot? What did you mean change?‖