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I was a classic case of “live what you know.”
But I knew that if I didn’t commit to dinner once a month, my mother would make things so much worse. I had learned to manage our relationship mostly on my terms, but that meant succumbing to a meal on Nightmare Street to make up for the rest of the time when I could actively avoid them both.
I could hear my parents shouting from the porch. They were at it already and I hadn’t even arrived yet. Usually, they saved the show for when they had an audience. I knocked on the door and waited. The yelling stopped and I could hear footsteps stomping down the hallway.
The door opened to reveal my dad looking decidedly frazzled. He hadn’t aged well. Living with my mother had taken years off his life. I had asked him once why he kept taking her back and he had shrugged. “It’s not like I can do any better.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why personal relationships were hard for me.
“Sky, there you are. You’re a bit late.” He looked at his watch. “You were supposed to be here at six. Your mom burned the lasagna.”
I stepped inside, not bothering to hug my dad. We weren’t a touchy-feely kind of family. “It’s 6:02, Dad. It took me a couple of minutes to find a place to park on the street.”
“You should always give yourself time to get to where you’re going. People that are late leave a bad impression,” he lectured, and I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide it. I had to remind myself it was only an hour. I never allowed myself to stay longer than that. I could stomach their fighting and their nitpicking about my clothes, my job, my lack of significant others, knowing it was only for sixty minutes. I got the feeling that was all my parents could deal with too.
But my mom had this weird ‘keeping up with the Jones’ thing to her, where she felt these monthly dinners gave the impression of a close-knit family that didn’t actually exist. Because what would the neighbors think if her daughter never came to visit? Perhaps she thought about how she looked to the neighbors when she was screaming at my dad about him eating the last of potato chips.
Dad gave me a slight push toward the dining room. The smell of burnt cheese filled the air and I could hear the sound of crashing and banging coming from the kitchen.
Well, here goes nothin’.
“Hi, Mom,” I called out, keeping a distance as she moved around like a whirling dervish. The kitchen was a mess. My mother liked to play like she was a good cook. It was another way she lied to herself that she was a decent person.
“You’re late. Go sit down. The food is barely edible, thanks to you.” Mom scowled at me and shooed me into the dining room.
I joined my dad, who was already seated, drinking a large whisky. He lifted the bottle. “Want some? You’ll probably need it.”
“Absolutely.” I held out my glass. My dad poured the whiskey to the brim. “She’s in fine form tonight.”
Dad took a long drink, downing half the contents of his glass. “When isn’t she in fine form? She’s been pissing and moaning about one thing after another today. I’m too old to listen to that crap.” And here we go. The script was always the same. Dad would bitch about my mom. Mom would bitch about my dad. Then they’d bitch at each other. Then they’d bitch at me. Then I’d go home.
Wash, rinse, and repeat.
Mom came out carrying a smoking glass dish. She plopped it in the center of the table, the charred remains of our dinner giving off a nauseating smell.
“I don’t want to hear either of you complaining about dinner. It wouldn’t have burned if someone would have shown up on time.” Mom looked pointed at me as she sat down, snatching the whisky bottle from Dad’s hands and moving it out of his reach. “You shouldn’t be drinking this stuff, Tom. You have a bad liver.”
“I’m hoping it will off me sooner rather than later,” he muttered, drinking the rest of the whisky in his glass before Mom could take it from him.
I swallowed my sigh and scooped burnt pasta on my plate. When I was a kid I usually had to make my own dinner. Mom would either be out or had taken off in one of her predictable huffs. So, this whole cooking for the family thing was new.
Mom folded her hands in front of her and glared at me. “We need to say grace before we eat.”
“Since when?” I asked with a disbelieving snort.
“Since your mom decided to find Jesus,” Dad mocked, taking the spoon from my hand, and scooping his own lump of what Mom was passing for food.
