“Making enough for two?” Mom asks from behind me, and I jump.
I push Ray’s cup farther back on the countertop, hoping she doesn’t see it, figuring she can probably smell it. I should have dumped it out. I’m not used to spending one-on-one time with Mom so even something as simple as standing in the kitchen making coffee with her seems strange.
All those years ago, I got lost in the Lola shuffle. Mom got so caught up in her that the rest of us disappeared. I was the only girl I knew whose father took her shopping for her first bra and helped her decide which type of sanitary pad to buy when the time came. That had been a shopping trip for the books. I had been mortified, but as Dad and I stood in the feminine care aisle comparing one package to the next, trying to decipher the pleasantly worded absorption ratings, things got silly and suddenly less dramatic. Dad had a way of taking the edge off life in general.
We were finally assisted by a passerby—a young woman who looked at Dad with googly eyes the way women will look at a guy playing with a puppy in the park. For just a second, I wondered what life would be like, just me and Dad on our own in the world. Just for a second.
Afterwards, Dad and I sat in the car in the parking lot, laughing hysterically, too doubled over to drive home.
In my more bitter moments, I tell myself that Mom forgot me altogether, but I know that’s impossible. She was only one person with four others to care for, and I’m sure that’s hard to juggle in the best of times, to say nothing for the extenuating circumstances. But those are revelations that don’t come to you as a child. Those are the definition of hindsight.
I wasn’t sure who the day was harder on, me or Mom. But she’d been Dad’s longer, so I’d have to give the day to her. The choice to love someone seems so doomed from the get-go. Even as you walk down the aisle toward him, every intention to stay together forever, you know there is no such thing. But no one thinks about that on their wedding day. Perhaps that’s the reason for all the intricacies, the four-tiered cake with alternating yellow and chocolate layers, the little plastic bride and groom atop the thick frosting, the days of indecision that result in just the right shade of pink roses in the bouquet, the back and forth over the typeset on the invitations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, chicken or steak, sit-down or buffet, what to use for the toast, and where everyone should sit.
It’s all pomp and circumstance to distract you from the inevitable truth. That one day, one of you will agonize over the details again—urn or casket, blue lining or tan, silk or suede, which flowers at the front of the church, which stone for the gravesite, what to wear for this occasion now that you made it to death do you part.
I can be pretty pessimistic. Mom pats my hand and leaves me alone again. I wait for the coffee to brew and pour Ray a cup.
Through the pass-through in the kitchen, I see Jack outside in the front yard. I stop short. He’s standing on the front lawn, looking nervous. I pick up Ray’s cup from the counter and head back into the living room.
Don’t go out there, I tell myself.
I go out there.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a loud whisper, even though no one is around but the two of us.
“Cassie called me,” Jack says and steps in to offer that estranged, significant-other, obligatory cheek kiss required on occasions that supersede the awkwardness at hand.
I jerk back from him.
“When did she call you?” I ask. “Is everything ok? Where is she?”
I look around suddenly and slosh some the contents of the coffee cup onto the grass, realizing that I hadn’t grabbed the cup with the coffee.
“Vodka?” Jack asks, sniffing deeply.
“Ray,” I answer.
Jack nods and touches a tulip with the edge of his shoe.
I stand there, nerves getting the best of me. I bring the coffee mug up to my lips and then remember that it isn’t mine and that it isn’t coffee. Jack smiles a little.
“Cassie wants to stay with me tonight,” Jack says, getting us back on track. “Didn’t she tell you she was calling? She told me she told you.”
“Do I look like she told me?” I ask, squelching any good humor that might have been forming.
“She’s had a rough time,” Jack says, donning his Concerned Dad face. “Lay off her.”
Suddenly, I want to throw the coffee mug, vodka and all, at Jack’s head.
“You don’t think I’m aware of that?” I ask. “You don’t get to do this, you know.”
“Do what?” Jack asks, and I believe he actually doesn’t know what I’m talking about, which ticks me off even more.
“Be the good guy,” I say. “You don’t get to swoop in and save the rough day. You don’t get to put out the fire that I’ve already exhausted myself fighting and call yourself the hero.”
Jack scoffs and looks towards the house. I turn as well, watching to see if Cassie is coming out.
“Settle down,” he says.
I throw the coffee mug, vodka and all, at his head.
He ducks past the ceramic, but the potent liquid sloshes across his shirt. He doesn’t say anything; he just lifts his hands in protest. I hear the front door open and shut, and Cassie sighs when she sees me. She walks over to Jack.
“Hey, Pooh,” he says and kisses her forehead.
I want to pick up the mug and throw it at him again.
“What happened to your shirt?” she asks, looking at me.
“I spilled a drink on myself,” Jack says. “Wasn’t paying attention to what I was
