I didn’t want to hang out with her that night. I wanted to go out and chase girls at the orchard party. Back then, we used to park our trucks all up the canal banks and carry twelve packs of beer deep into the orchards, where it was cool and private. And we played music and drank and eventually got run off by a grouchy, tired farmer threatening us with trespassing. Some of the best nights I had were back then when my only focus was nailin’ chicks and out-drinkin’ my friends.
I had to stay home, so I was a prick about it. Took it out on her, even though it wasn’t her fault our parents had a late-in-life kid and made their older kid into a babysitter. Hell, I don’t even blame my parents now. I shoulda done it without being a little asshole, but hindsight and all that shit.
I stayed in my room that night, refusing to play a board game or paint with her–those were her two favorite things. Playing board games or painting, painting anything, really. Her nails, a canvas, my Mom’s dresser, a birdhouse–whatever she could get her hands on, she loved painting.
My Mom didn’t love it all that much. She saw it for the mess it made, as moms often do. I guess if you’re the one cleanin’ up everyone else's messes, shit stops looking like a fun activity, and you start seeing it for the work it’s gonna be.
That night I was listening to music, moping, and being a general prick when I heard her scream.
My kid sister.
The scream was high-pitched. She sounded frightened. I still remember the noise. I remember how my body sprang out of my bed without my head even knowin’ what was happening. I thought she fuckin’ cut herself or burned herself or… fuck, I don’t know. Before I could even wrap my head around it, I found her in the kitchen painting her fingernails. Navy blue. Her school colors at the time.
Her big eyes were watery, and even though I knew she was okay ‘cause I could see her right there all fine and not bloodied and shit, her tears kept that panic alive in my gut.
“What?” I said, rushing to the table. “What’s the matter?”
The way her tears rushed down her face, I remember seriously thinkin’ I was missing something. She was so upset.
She pointed to the navy blue spot on the table. A tiny mark.
“I got nail polish on the table!” she blubbered. You’da thought we were abused with the fear that spewed from her eyes in that moment. “Mom said not to paint my nails out here, and I did, and I got paint on the table!”
I remember running my palm over my chest to feel my heart slow down, to let the panic subside. “Jesus Christ, Mere, I thought something was fuckin’ wrong!”
“Don’t curse at me!” she cried back, and I remember how she sobbed harder at my reaction and how fuckin’ shitty that felt.
I wrapped my arm around her. I told her it was going to be okay. We got the acetone from Mom’s bathroom, but something about the seventies kitchen table made removing that paint imfuckingpossible. I guess they really did make shit different back then because paint thinner, acetone, and rubbing alcohol did nothing for the spot.
I did what I had to.
I painted my nails navy blue, too, and when my parents got home, I told ‘em it was me who marked up the table. Being a grunge kid through and through, painting my nails wasn’t something I’d done before, but it didn’t surprise my parents; they bought it.
I took the heat, and Mere, in appreciation, baked and brought me a different cookie in the garage every day after she got home from school. I did a lot of work on cars out of my pop’s garage back in those days.
I haven’t had a cookie since the last one she made. My Mom never makes them anymore, either.
I keep my glass of milk over the blue nail polish while we eat. I always do.
“You know,” Mom starts after blotting her napkin on her lips. “My friend Irene has a daughter who just moved back to Oakcreek.”
I lift my palm. “No setups, Mom.”
My parents make eye contact over the pasta, and their silent exchange slithers up my spine, icy and uncomfortable.
“What?” I bite out because they are clearly thinkin’ something.
My pulse picks up when dad doesn’t meet my eyes and Mom lowers her fork to the plate. I don’t like that shit’s turning serious.
I find myself swallowing anxiously as my Mom smiles sadly. “You have to live, son. You’re forty-two. You’re still young enough to find someone and have a family.”
My fork clunks loudly against my plate as I feel the tantrum erupt inside me. “You ever think I’m fine how I am? That I ain’t gotta have a lady in my life to be okay?”
Mom doesn’t react to my big noises and harsh tone. Her smile remains soft and sad, only now she’s tipping her head in the way moms do when they’re making you feel guilty.
“It’s time to live, son.” Her hand comes down over mine, and I want to yank it back and fight against her message. Tell her I am livin’ and that my life is just the way I fuckin’ want it.
But I don’t.