But at least the storage room hadn’t changed. Uncle Dan still used the same brand of flour, the shelves lined with familiar labels, vibrant red tomato vines and smiling cartoon chefs, everything in its place, the jars of minced garlic beside the paprika and cayenne pepper, the boxes of penne and angel hair pasta stacked on the top shelf. Even the Army cots were still there, folded up and standing by the fridge like soldiers waiting for duty.
“I like her,” he said, meaning Kelly. “She reminds me of that actress, the one on TV.”
“Yep. They look exactly alike.”
“Wiseass,” he said. “I meant her voice, not her looks, and I know you have no idea who I’m talking about. Who cares, anyway? I like her—keep her.”
“I’m trying.”
He grabbed a loaf of bread and sliced it down the middle, working the knife from end to end. “Remember that when you visit your little girlfriend.” Meaning Amy—he’d been calling her that since we were twelve.
I handed him the olive oil, which he drizzled over the bread before sprinkling the garlic.
“I stopped by the house,” I told him. “The bay window looks great.”
“Insurance money,” he said, then put down the garlic, rubbing his neck. “Look, I should have warned you about Nancy. I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” I said. On the ride over, Kelly had coached me on what not to say, my responses limited to creative varieties of best wishes and I’m-so-happy-for-you-both. “It was a bit of a surprise.”
“I wanted to tell you, explain how it happened, but it seemed wrong to do it over the phone. It’s not something I planned…it just happened, and I couldn’t say no.”
“Hey, it’s fine. It’s your house; you’re entitled to a life, Uncle Dan. I’m happy for you.”
“Happy?”
“It’s hard being alone. I’m glad you finally found someone.”
He shifted his feet, his forehead crinkling. “What are you talking about?”
“You and Nancy, living together. It’s great!”
“We’re not ‘living together’,” he said.
“You don’t have to lie, Uncle Dan. I’m not a kid. If she makes you happy…”
“Wait a minute. You think she’s my girlfriend?”
“You were always very private when I was a kid, but really, you don’t have to hide things anymore…we all have needs.”
“Oh, shit,” he said. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”
“We didn’t stay long. I fell asleep, and then Kelly was hungry…”
“Shit,” Uncle Dan said. “She was supposed to tell you…”
“…you make a lovely couple.”
“Stop talking,” he said, and walked to the far shelf. He pushed aside a five-gallon jar of pickles and grabbed a bottle of red wine, an already-opened merlot, Uncle Dan yanking the cork and swigging from the bottle like a pro.
My uncle rarely drank. Was it worse than I thought? Were they already married?
“She showed up at the Jaybird last winter with nowhere else to go,” he said. “I couldn’t say no. She has problems…and she’s family.”
He offered me the wine, but I waved him off.
“She’s family,” he repeated. “You get it, right?”
As far as I knew we didn’t have any family, just a few distant cousins.
“Christ, what are you smoking out there in California?” he said. “She’s family…she’s my sister…I couldn’t turn her away. My sister; your mother.”
“My mother’s name is Kathy,” I said. “I’ve seen the birth certificate. Kathleen Ann Marcino.”
“I know her name, Donnie. Nancy is her ‘stage’ name. She’s…not all there. She was homeless for a while…I should have told you; I’m sorry about that, but it’s not bullshit. She’s your mother.”
I waited for him to start laughing, but Uncle Dan had never been one for jokes.
“I think she might be conning you…she looks nothing like my mother.”
Didn’t he remember that Sears ad, my seventeen-year-old mother and her two arms smiling in her summer clearance underwear, her hair cascading over her bare shoulders in waves of dark curls, her body tan and slender, her smile warm and inviting, Sunday-circular approved.
Uncle Dan put the wine back on the shelf. “Trust me, it’s her. Nancy. She showed up at my door with literally nothing except some clothes and a prescription bottle of Risperdal. That’s an anti-psychotic.”
“I know what it is.”
My head spun. As a kid, I’d always daydreamed about my mother coming home. I’d even written about in Confessions of the Midnight Chair. Act Two, Scene One: the hero’s mother returns as a disembodied head projected over the stage. (It sounds dumb, but it worked—even Frank Rich thought so!) I never expected it could happen for real.
“How did she even find you?”
Uncle Dan shifted his feet, eager to get back to the counter. “How could she not find me? I haven’t left town since 1975. We’ve been in touch over the years. I never told you…maybe that was a mistake.”
“In touch?”
“Letters, phone calls, I’d send her money every now and then…you haven’t been around for a long time, you know. Things happen that have nothing to do with you…. I’m sorry. She’s my sister…I couldn’t toss her out on the street.”
“No, of course not,” I said, my legs suddenly weak. I searched for a bucket in case I threw up.
“It’s something we deal with,” Uncle Dan said. “We might not like it, but we deal with it. Story of my life.”
Somewhere in that story, of course, was me, two months old and crying on the doorstep, and Uncle Dan had dealt with it. I thought about waking up on the couch, Nancy (my mother?) stroking my hair, comforting me. Was it possible that I was starting to cry?
“Risperdal…that’s pretty strong, isn’t it?” I asked, getting a grip. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Schizophrenia,” Uncle Dan said. “There’s a social worker from the County who comes and checks on her twice a month. She sees an MD for her prescriptions.”
“What happened to her arm?”
“She doesn’t know,” he said.
“She doesn’t know?”
“She doesn’t remember. From what she’s said, it happened a
