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It turns out it’s actually nice having more people in what was always an empty, hospital-like space.
Mom went through a phase where she was obsessed with white as a decorating scheme. Therefore, all the walls are white. The furniture. The art. Vases. You name it, it’s white.
“I’m in a hospital where I’m surrounded by white,” Dad declared on move-in day. And then he and Dominic proceeded to carry in all kinds of eclectic furniture and place them all throughout the house. Worn leather chairs and overstuffed couches that were actually—gasp—comfortable to sit on.
And, oh yeah, sidebar: Mr. Winters asked me to start calling him Dad after about six weeks. He said it was too awkward for me to keep referring to him as Mr. Winters—it was far too formal. And Paul didn’t sound right either. So why not try out Dad? That was, if I was comfortable with it?
I was probably far too readily accepting of the intimacy. Calling him Mr. Winters, or even Paul…that just meant he was some guy who happened to be living with us. But ‘Dad’…it makes it, I don’t know…real. Like he’s actually family. My family even if he’s not Mom’s.
They avoid each other. Mom stays out all hours of the night and then sleeps all day, only to wake up in the late afternoon to make herself ready to go out all night again. She’s got money again, though Dominick told me Dad’s given her a strict allowance. They have different bedrooms. I heard them say a few words to each other the other night, but that’s been the extent of their interaction that I’ve seen.
No, it’s Dad, Dominick and me that are the family.
We all leave the house at different times of day so we don’t usually see each other for breakfast. Dad’s usually up the earliest of any of us to make it to the hospital. Dominick’s just started his residency at a different hospital. He’s training to be a cardio-thoracic surgeon. Both he and his dad are so crazy smart. Dominic graduated from high school a year early and then raced through college doing a combined Bachelor/MD program. Sometimes when they get to talking at the dinner table about the things Dominick is learning, it’s hard not to feel intimidated.
But then the next second, Dad’s asking me about what I’m learning at college. Talking about my early education and learning theory classes seems a bit, well, juvenile compared to saving lives, but both Dad and Dominick have a way of making you feel like you’re the most important person in the room.
No matter where our days take us, we always make sure to meet back up for dinner. No matter if that’s at six-thirty or ten o’clock. We can’t manage it every day. Dominick has twenty-eight hour shifts sometimes. I always heard that doctors-in-training had insane hours, but getting to see it up close and in person makes me appreciate all the more what a sacrifice it is to become the best of the best in his field.
Dad told me it’s one of the reasons he moved into administration—the hours were so punishing. One day, he said he woke up and wondered what he was doing it all for. He ended up realizing he’d rather spend more time with his son and enjoy the years he has left on this earth.
Dominick obviously feels differently at this point in his life. Then again, he’s only twenty-four.
I look up from the chicken marsala I’m stirring when Dominick calls out in a loud voice, “Honey, I’m home!” from the entryway. It took me awhile to distinguish their voices. Dad’s has a slightly lower, scratchier quality.
The kitchen is behind the main living room beside the entryway, so Dominick’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“In here,” I call back. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Dominick’s heavy footsteps sound as he walks across the hardwood toward the kitchen. Even without his shoes on, I swear he always lumbers everywhere he goes. Dad is totally the opposite. I never hear him and then all the sudden he’ll appear in a room behind me, inevitably startling the crap out of me. It’s become a game with him. I swear he gets a fiendish delight every time I jump out of my socks.
“I’m starved,” Dominick says. His eyes certainly appear hungry as he eyes me. He looks me up and down, from the tips of my bare feet up my legs to the short boy shorts I’m wearing, up my tank top where he pauses on my cleavage, then to my face.
And finally he glances down at what’s in the pan.
My mouth has gone completely dry. My cheeks are hot.
Because I’m cooking, of course. It gets hot in the kitchen when I have the stovetop on like this. That’s all.
I stir the marsala and pull it off the burner to the side of the stove.
