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She smiled at me and my heart stuttered a little.Wow. So that’s what it was like having the full force of her approval.
“Okay, but only if I get to pick the movie.”
“You’re a tyrant, Margo Clarke.”
“I know” she replied happily as she snagged the remote and flipped channels. “Oo, Jurassic Park! My favorite.”
“Good choice.” I grabbed my bag and dumped the snacks onto the bed. “Let’s see…I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I got all the food groups. String cheese, gas station olives, goldfish, chips, Twizzlers, and Butterfinger. Those are mine though, so don’t even think about it.” I gave her a mock serious look and raised an eyebrow.
“Wow, a feast! I’ll take anything cheese-flavored. You’re quite the survivalist.” She gave me another sparkling smile, her shiny dark hair swinging in front of her face as she snagged a string cheese, and my chest swelled.
I grinned at her. “Yes, I’m a regular the boy scout.”
She bit into her cheese. “As good as this is, Emily said Dad was making roast pork as comfort food for my mom and I would give my first-born child for a bite.”
“My mom probably had carrot sticks and champagne for dinner if it makes you feel better. I think you’re getting the better end of things.”
She frowned. “Do your parents not do meals together?”
I must have been hard for her to picture what the Markman family was like, when hers was so wonderful. “Well, my father isn’t home a lot. They go to dinners with clients a few nights a week, or sometimes out to their country club, but I think they stopped having big dinners at home when Schwartz went to college.” I shrugged. “It was never very enjoyable anyways. A lot of strained silences.”
“Even on holidays?” She sounded so surprised that I had to smile.
“Honestly, the only holiday I go home for is Christmas. Thanksgiving is just too short of a break and it’s not like we’re having a home cooked meal anyways.”
She took another bite and laid her head against the headboard, gazing at me with warm understanding. I was having a hard time focusing with her soft eyes on me. She made me feel 100 feet tall when she looked at me like that. “What’s that like?” She asked.
“Well, most years we have Christmas eve cocktails, which isn’t so different from any given day for my parents. My mom usually has a sidecar or a martini. I always pick beer just to piss them off. My brother typically sails in around 10 pm, since he’s smart enough not to subject himself to the awkward sober conversation. Last year, my father actually chose to read the Economist while we were sitting around the fire.”
“Sounds cheery.”
“Oh it is,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Somehow, it was easier to talk about this with her listening. “I honestly don’t even know why I go anymore. I don’t think they would notice if I were gone, but my brother doesn’t go anymore and I feel some sick sense of family obligation, so I keep attending.”
She considered me, her eyes soft. “I get that. I love seeing my family, but sometimes the obligation weighs on me too. And my parents know how to guilt trip me like no one else.”
“Exactly. For years, all it took was one word from my mother and I was driving to Connecticut. You think after all these years I would have learned. You know they never even used to pick me up from school for the holidays? My father used to send his company’s driver to come get me. Christmas Eve and I’d spend hours in the car with Philip listening to all the music my parents abhorred. Honestly, it was probably better that way.” I shook my head, shaking the memories off of me. I couldn’t bear how sad she looked for me, her dark eyes trained on my face. “Anyways, we do a present exchange Christmas morning, and it’s always the best and worst part.”
“Ooooh I want to know.” Margo leaned in, her attention rapt. I grinned. It felt freeing to joke about this with someone. It took away the pain.
“So every year my mother refuses to make a Christmas list and give it directly to my father, so she gives it to my brother and his job is to somehow get word to my father of what she wants. But my father makes Schwartz go through his assistant every time. So after a whole game of telephone with the list, my father often gets my mother something that is not at all what she wanted. For example, last year she asked for a beagle, but somehow that got turned into “BMW.” Imagine my mother’s surprise when my father proudly presented her with a new car.”
Margo giggled and I wanted nothing more than to make her laugh again. “Mind you, this is her third car and she barely drives anywhere. I don’t think it’s ever been off the property.”
“That’s absurd!” Margo burst out. “I can’t believe that. But what do they usually get you?”
“Oh. Uh. They stopped getting me presents a long time ago.” I didn’t want to discuss this. My parents had never been the warm and fuzzy type. They paid for our educations and gave me a wad of cash every year. At 10 years old, $1000 had been a pretty sweet gift, but it had always stung that they didn’t care to wrap action figures up or even get us socks. And now that I was gainfully employed, the money wasn’t relevant. I had taken to donating it every year.
Margo was frowning at me while I was lost in thought. “That’s fucked up.”
I unwrapped a Butterfinger and nodded in agreement. “Totally fucked up. The Markman family is not a normal family.” I wanted to know what her life was like. I imagined her as a happy and clever child with a loving family.
“What about you? Do you like Vermont? Why did you choose New York?”
“Oh you’ll see.”
“That sounds ominous.”
She laughed. “No, no I meant you’ll see how much I love Vermont. It’s the best place in the world. Wait until people wave when you drive through town and you’ll understand. At first you’ll think they’re waving because they know you, then you’ll realize they don’t. And then if they don’t wave, you’ll start thinking something is wrong.”
