They Do Love Me
This week, I took my dad out for breakfast for his June birthday/ Father’s Day.
It was one for all-time. He took me, actually, to Don’s Diner in Marshall-Shadeland, under the old bridge that’s black and sooty, a secret haven for breakfast lovers, functional alcoholics, folks going to work, who want to eat real bread, real butter, and sit among real grimy booths, walls, stools.
My dad said, they filmed two movies here.
and he said, Don learned to cook in a hotel, so the story goes.
I said, Hm, I’m not sure about that because hotel breakfast is usually gross.
I think he learned to cook in prison.
I was watching our waitress, thinking, she is an meth or crack addict.
She’s fluid, she’s fast on her feet, but her eyes are dead, and her face looks
frozen, immobile. It’s a wall. Waitressing here’s not a bad deal, though.
She’s got serious track marks, but she’s earning her shots legally, ain't she?
Don looked back away from his grill a couple times, and saw me looking around.
What is it? he asked me, wearing an old-man's mask and a white apron.
I blinked, (or maybe I winked). I think I see YOU, killer.
We ordered a breakfast sandwich with Mancini’s bread, with an egg and Swiss cheese, one omelette, and with one blueberry pancake.
Dad shared his pancake, and his omelette with peppers and sausage, with me
All the food was perfect! That’s how sausage should be, I said,
Crispy on the outside, hot and peppery on the inside, never rubbery or fatty.
The food was the shit. Note to self: this secret drop of heaven in the vicinity of (drug) hell, Woods Run and Brighton.
Afterwards, when I dropped my dad off at their house, he asked,
Can you come in for a few minutes?
I asked, why, thinking, oh shit, damn. Should I say, hell no!?
We had a grudge with each other over all these years.
I mean, I had a grudge. But so did they.
Last week, I said to myself, I don’t even care, anymore.
I don’t care if they apologize. They don’t need to. I don’t need it.
I’m good. It’s really water under the bridge.
But I was nervous, sensing the potential for emotional ambush.
I said, it sounds serious.
Dad said, Well it is serious, but it’s a good thing.
So I agreed to go in for the talk.
Mom came out to the living room.
We all sat down.
Dad talked. Mom kept interrupting, Can I just say one thing here? It wasn’t a confrontation about the past (1991). It wasn’t an awkward apology. It was nothing like that. It was about their house.
Dad said, be THE STATE as it may be, if you can keep us out of nursing homes, we’re leaving our house to you. You’ll own it, you’re about to own it, and you’ll care for us if we need it, and then live here. I said, Oh, God! It’s the last thing anyone wants to think about.
I don’t want to think about 10-20 years, and I might not even want to be here, when my pets die, my parents die, and friends start to die. What if even one of my sisters die? That can’t be. We haven’t lost anyone who wasn’t nearing 100 years old, so far.
Dad made a joke to tease mom about her beloved garden in the back, He said, when you live here, you can remove the deer fence, if you want to! Mom said, Oh god, please, no! I said, Mom, don’t worry. If you want, I’ll build the wall higher and thicker for you. I’ll make it like between the US and Mexico! Your raspberries, tomatoes, herbs, cucumbers, everything will keep growing. I’ll get help. And I think this was how we made things right forever.
My dad got teary when he said, I hope we’ve done enough for you. He said, Your sisters all have houses and partners. They’re smart. They’ll be okay. At least this way, you don’t have to worry about where you’ll live. I won’t get homeless, I said.
It did help, it did provide peace, it DOES, even though I’m not sure if I can trust that things will work out right, like the vultures could sweep in and take it away.
It makes it better, more imaginable, if then, I’ll live in my parents’ house, like I imagined. I might have to nurse one of them first, and I do have skills. So that’s what I kind of expected or imagined.
I said to them,
I made so many impractical, dreamy choices.
I never should’ve left home. I never should’ve went to Smith.
I should’ve lived at home and joined a band. OMG IF ONLY I DID THAT.
It’s actually a viable alternate ending or path.
I’ll take it next time, if given that choice.
Not leave my people. Stay home.
(even now, I know I can’t)
About Smith, mom and dad said, But we never could’ve talked you out of it. Me: I know, I’m not blaming you. It’s just so obvious how my choices were always most likely to create romance and accrue all kinds of debt.
Mom said, I think the same thing for us, with my choices. What if I had stayed a nurse, not gone to graduate school? The schools are goddamn vultures, aren't they?
But we learned stuff. We walked a road. We went somewhere and came back. One never regrets learning.