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“Anybody home?” I yell down the hall toward the large eat-in kitchen. I find Tally there, looking as uncomfortable as she did last night standing at the espresso machine.
“Good morning, Tally. How was your night after I left?”
She grunts and casts her eyes to the machine.
“That good, huh?”
“I had too many champagne cocktails and too many post-party chats. It was late, and I don’t do late.”
“You usually work on Saturdays, don’t you?”
“Mmm.” She takes a quick sip from her demitasse cup and hisses. “Yes. And I never have to make my own coffee.”
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Makes me wonder where the heck I came from and if I simply don’t belong anymore.
“Must be nice to have peasants.” I grin, hoping she hears the joking in my tone and doesn’t read sarcasm where there is none. “Can I slide by you to see if Mother has any tea?” I gesture to the cabinet behind her with my chin and she slides closer to the sink, not bothering to even step out of the way.
Tea sachet firmly placed in a bone china cup, I add hot water from their always hot dispenser and wait the two minutes I must until I can have my fix.
“Anything fun happen after I left last night? And where’s Michael?”
“He went home. You embarrassed me with that bunion talk last night. I swear it was intentional. You always had a knack for ruining a moment.” Her sigh might as well be years of disappointment and frustration.
“He seems like a decent guy. And I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Talls. You should know that by now.”
“Oh should I? Your arrogance amazes me, Olivia. And for the last time, it’s Natalia.”
“Hey. What’s this about?” Mother asks as she and Father poke their heads around the corner from the long hall.
“Olivia embarrassed me last night with her gauche comments. Sad behavior for a woman who ducked into the bathroom with an engaged man not long after.” The steely glint in Tally’s eyes tells more story than her words ever could. She’s getting pleasure in shaming me.
“Olivia,” Father admonishes, before continuing. “A tryst at our party?”
Mother’s voice cuts an octave above his at the same time saying, “What gauche comments? Did you say something uncouth in front of my guests?”
I’m used to the onslaught, though three against one is not typical. Tally is rarely here, so this dynamic is new.
I slice my eyes to her first. “I didn’t duck. I was accosted. Attorneys should be able to distinguish the difference between a victim and an instigator.” To my father I add, “There was no tryst. There is no tryst.”
I turn to my mother and lift my tea cup, settling a hip into her counter. “I made a joke to Tally’s date.” Turning to her, I continue, “Date or boyfriend?” Under my breath, I add, “He was so offended, he chuckled.”
All three decide that piling on me is the way to go. Their voices rise, and, in my mind, they’re cartoon characters getting larger and looming over me, as if a camera lens stretched them and amplified them and I’m the speck on the floor drawing their ire. I’m used to Tally’s insults. Nothing I ever do is good enough. My parents act the same. Olivia is the object of everyone’s disappointment.
But not any longer.
“I’ve tried. Actually, I’m the only one who tries. I call. I make every effort to connect." I turn, setting my tea cup in the sink. “The ball is in your court now. I don’t have to fight this hard only to have my family accuse and belittle me, thinking the worst at any given moment.
Without another word, I skirt the accusing trio, and walk to the doorway. I turn one last time, hand on the jamb, watching them still fussing, but twisting to the door to make sure their barbs land. I tap the jamb as an overwhelming sense of peace and rightness wells over the loss that wants to rise from my belly.
I stride down the hall, out the front door and down the street, eventually grabbing my phone and ordering a car. I let myself feel the heartbreak of knowing what my life has become. No, what my life has always been. My “privileged” upbringing was bondage and control. I feel the sadness I finally recognize as I shake off the shackles of external expectations.
When I step out of the car and stare up at the red brick and patina green structure in front of me, I shake off the past and vow to live. And, every place I’m able, to let others do the same. I stride to the ticket booth and talk to a surly man who promptly informs me the stadium just opened and hands me my ticket.
I walk into Fenway Park, overdressed for any kind of game and straight to the nearest tee shirt vendor. I buy the smallest shirt I can find and head to the bathroom to replace my brunch shirt with my new tank. I walk to my seat, staring out over an empty stadium. Aside from crews scraping the field and some staff milling in the dugouts, only a handful of adults are already here. I take in everything I can see.
My phone tells me it’s the oldest baseball stadium still in use in the country. The green monster has its own lore. I try to imagine how many people have come and gone in the more than a century of baseball it’s seen.
And I try to understand how I’ve never been here before.
