Keep tuscany, p.16
Keep Tuscany, page 16
colt
“Dad, nobody wants this. Who eats octopus? This is disgusting, I mean dis-gust-ing.” Sloan enjoys complaining about all kinds of food. If it’s not chicken tenders God forbid, I’ve had to learn to serve what I’m going to serve then she can make what she wants.
“Sloan, try it. Remember that’s the rule: you don’t need to eat it, but you do need to try it. Octopus is quite delicious, and I worked hard on it so, I’d appreciate if you’d eat it.”
Daisy bursts through the door late after going for gelato with her cooking class friend. She throws her bag on a chair, then sits down at the dining room table.
“Wow, that’s repulsive.” She moves her long brown hair behind her ear and looks over at me with a smirking smile. She’s got a little touch of chocolate dried in the corners of her mouth. I reach over and wipe my girl’s mouth, and she shakes me off. It’s hard to not see them as little girls.
I clap my hands as they push their plates away. “Fine, who wants tiramisu?” All hands go up. I run and get the dessert and bring it to the table. We haven’t done this in a long time, but I think we all need dessert for dinner. But the charred octopus is delicious.
“I am not a pudding fan,” Daisy exclaims. I think she forgot what tiramisu is and I don’t want to tell them that I made the ladyfingers from scratch today.
“Give it a shot.” Sloane shrugs.
“Daisy, tell me about class today.” I say, digging directly into the dish.
She huffs “It was fine. I don’t know. It was fine. We made stuff.”
“I love stuff!” Sloane says.
“You really don’t Sloan. You don’t love stuff. If you did, you wouldn’t be eating pudding for dinner. I don’t know. It was… it was fine. I mean we made like vegetables and linguini, and it was good. I didn’t eat a whole lot of it because I’m hungry for the disgusting blackened tentacles that you’ve decided to serve to us for dinner. But afterwards, with my new friend, was fun.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Well, she’s American and hilarious. She’s not a skilled cook but really supportive. She asked a lot of questions and really likes boy bands. We have that in common. She likes Taylor but she doesn’t love Taylor, you know just like me.”
Sloane says, “No. You love love Taylor.”
Daisy rolls her eyes, “I mean it’s hard not to like Taylor but whatever.”
Sloane clears her throat and tosses some sarcasm. “She sounds fascinating.”
“Shut up. It’s like you’re jealous or something, is that why you’re shitting all over me just cause I have a friend and you don’t.”
I toss my hands up. “Red flag on the play. Language like that is not acceptable at the dinner table. And your sister has lots of friends, don’t you?”
She shrugs. “There’s Ernesto who thinks he’s my boyfriend.”
“Like hell he’s your boyfriend,” erupts out of me.
Daisy deepens her voice and says, “I will not tolerate language like that at the dinner table, Dad.” She parrots me, and I sometimes want to tear my hair out but it’s funny. And then there’s a strange pause and both realize it’s not my rule about language at the table at all. It was Gemma’s. She bites her lip and wraps her arms around herself.
“What is this about, honey?”
“Mom.” She bursts into tears and runs from the table. My heart breaks for her and Sloane leans forward. “I don’t think the pudding went over well. You gotta teach the children well, Dad.” She’s gone full tilt 1968 Laurel Canyon hippie quoting Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.
I stare at her. “Stop quoting classic rock to me as advice. I got this.”
“Do you? It’s like what Brown Sugar said.”
“You don’t even know what that song is about?” Please God let her not know what that song is about.
“Dessert, duh. She’s a sweet lady. Mom told me.” I silently throw a glance and thank you to Gemma for the save with that one. She must have fielded that question before and instead of having sex with a dark skin woman, she came up with dessert. Thank you, Gemma.
I push back from the table, arming myself with a glass of milk. I set out to see if it’s hormones or grief. Most likely both. Gemma’s been gone for five months, and I wish I knew how to guide them through this.
I knock on the door. “Go away.” I expected that. I step inside anyway and she’s sitting in a stereotypical teenage position. Knees up, rocking and sobbing as if it’s the end of the world. In a lot of ways, it is.
I sit on the edge of the bed. And she blubbers out, “It sucks. It sucks that people get to keep walking around with their moms and I don’t.”
There’s a long pause. “You wish you could trade me in for your mom. I get it. She was much better at this stuff—” I don’t even get the full sentence out before she launches into my arms and nuzzles her face to neck racked with sobs. The Chocolate milk spills to the ground, leaving a sweet sticky path down my left leg and her back.
I clutch her close. “Daddy.”
“Now, I’m Daddy?” She laughs a bit but in that sad way that you’re just looking for a tension break not actual laugh.
“If I don’t miss her all the time, am I a bad person? I freaked out on my new friend. Like crying like a baby. I’m so terrible because I was happy. She was with me, and I was sad Mom wasn’t but I didn’t miss her. Does that make me a monster?” She leaves my arms and sits back on heels. I put a hand on her knee.
“Never. You can miss her and have a life. It’s what I’m learning. Two things can be true at the same time. And any one of those church bigwigs around here would tell you the same thing. Even your therapist would tell you that, Daisy.”
She settles herself and ducks out her lips. “I had a good time in cooking class today.”
“I know with your new friend. That’s good.”
“Daddy, she’s not like my age. She’s older, but is it okay that I had fun?”
I pull her into me again. “Your mom would want you to have all the laughs, fun, and joy you can find.”
Not me, just the girls. The last time we spoke, she said she hopes I’m there for our girls and that no one should take her place. And I got to be happy once, and she got to be happy none of the time. She actively hoped I’d be alone forever. In a weird way, I hope that gave her peace as she passed.
But that’s what duty and honor get you. A hateful, spiteful, jealous death bed confession from the one person you tried to do right by. Fourteen years after I chose this life over what I know was happiness and on her death bed she couldn’t let it go that once upon a time I knew what love felt like for twelve weeks. And she told me as she drifted off for the last time. “I’m the one who took the ink out of that fucking pen you carry around.”
The girls were the purest part of her, and the only part worthy as far as I can tell. I swallow all of that down and tell Daisy a truth.
“Honey, she loved you so much.”
“I know. And Daddy, I don’t want to trade you in.”
“That’s excellent news because there’s some super rubbery charred cold octopus tentacles downstairs calling your name.”
She laughs and I exaggerate, licking my lips as if I’m salivating for this dinner that at this point is repulsive.
When I stand she sees the milk. Her lip quivers again and I point at her. “Ehh. Nope. What do we say?”
“Don’t cry over spilled chocolate milk. Just go make another glass.” I grab a towel from her bathroom to wipe it up.
I head down the stairs behind Daisy to the sound of the Moody Blues blaring throughout my house. It seems Sloane has found her next phase, so I’ll tuck away her banjo and balloon animal books and stop quoting the movie “The Jerk.”
“Sloane, please turn down ‘Nights in White Satin’!”
My eight-year-old twirls around like she’s at Woodstock, flinging around a scarf and says, “Never!”
“Where did you get that scarf?”
“Chiara.” I roll my eyes. God, I hate that song. I walk by her to catch up with Daisy.
“Hey, Bug. How much older is this friend and what’s their gender?” I say with low-key panic. As she chomps on leftover pasta from last night.
“This is good. Did we have this last night?” I nod, then she shrugs.
“It’s from Gus.”
She rejected it last night but now with a mouthful of amatriciana sauce she says, “Female. She’s American and here working some stuff out about her life. She, like, walked in on her husband doing something unsavory, but she won’t tell me what. Just that it’s cheating stuff. I think he kissed another woman.” Thank God this stranger is not graphic with my daughter.
“That’s rough.” I’ll give Gemma that, we never cheated on each other, as far as I know.
“She ran away from him and divorced his ass.” I cringe at the language but let it go. “And she has way too many lemons and critters in her rental. She’s funny. I don’t know? She’s not as old as you, that’s for sure. Maybe mid-twenties? She’s got a cool babysitter vibe.”
“I’m thirty-three, not a hundred. Be careful with strangers.”
“Lady Margaretfield is not a stranger danger stranger,” she says in a goofy British accent. I grab a fork and dig into the cold container with her. There’s howling coming from the other room as she croons ‘Oh, how I love you?’”
“My sister is so weird.”
“She’s quirky and there’s nothing wrong with quirky. You could stand to be a little less embarrassed by things.”
“I’m only embarrassed by you.” She sucks up a noodle and adds, “And her.”
I lick my fork, then put it in the sink. I grab the bag of Amoretti cookies. “Fine. What kind of name is that for a cool babysitter?”
She laughs and tears a piece of bread, crumbs finding their way down her shirt and onto the floor. I grab a broom, and she steps to the side so I can clean this up too.
“I was whining about how Daisy can’t have a nickname. Like Daze is annoying. And nobody should call me Bug but you. So, she called me Lady Daisyfeld and now Daisy’s my nickname.”
I laugh at the nutty logic behind all of that. “When can I meet this woman so I can thank her for giving you a nickname?”
“There’s a dinner cooking expo thing we can invite people.”
“Sloane and I will be happy to eat your food for a change.”
“Cool.” She leaves the mess on the table, and I rinse out the container and her fork.
“Clean your room and can you put in a load of laundry?”
She yells from the other room, “Get the flower child to do it.”
“Lady Daisyfeld, I asked you.”
She groans and stomps up the stairs. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I do know they’re not shy about telling me how and what they’re feeling and for that I’m grateful. But occasionally it would be nice to get a break from all the feelings. My phone lights up from the counter, and I grab it and head outside with a beer to sit and not hear the Moody Blues on repeat.
Tony: What the Fuck?
Robbie: What the fuck fuck?
Tony: It’s been months since we’ve seen each other. You still maudlin?
Robbie: I’m good.
Dax: Yeah. Not maudlin at all.
Hayden: Gentleman. What’s happening?
Law: He was never maudlin. Right, man?
Colt: Is this your way of checking on me? What the fuck? Shit. Is there a wager I don’t know about?
I grin as they do their version of caring.
Dax: Yes. There is a wager.
I miss these guys so much but being here feels better. We’re starting to be a family without the illness or Gemma. I like defining a new normal.
Hayden: Must you always be truthful, Dax?
Dax: It’s a curse. And Monica is reading this and would call me out.
Colt: Hi, Mon. How’s life with our intrepid writer?
Dax: She says we’re boring, and I should tell you that there’s a good chance Doubleday is picking up the book about her.
Tony: YES!!!!!!!! That’s fantastic. And you do know I own a media group with a publishing arm, that you developed.
Dax: Yeah, but that’s um, a touch of nepotism, isn’t it?
Tony: Fine, do without elite privilege and do it on your own. Also, we just had lunch. Where was this news?
Dax: Yeah. Yeah. It happened ten minutes ago. My agent slipped it to freaking Tess McGuire Bishop! She loved it and recommended it to her editor at Doubleday.
Robbie: You’re a romance author, now?
Dax: Yes. Hell, yeah I am.
Law: Is it porn?
Dax: No. But isn’t everything porn to you in some way? It’s a romance novel, like a cute, sexy, book about Monica and a happily ever after.
Law: But there’s fucking?
Dax: Yes, you philistine, there’s fucking.
Hayden: That’s amazing. And aren’t you going to be the cutest one at the romance conventions?
Dax: Glad you think so. They asked if I was thinking of writing another one about a side character.
Robbie: Is it me?
Dax: Hockey is hot right now, but they want Lizzie.
Hayden: Nope. No way.
Dax: Not your call, not so secret, Alpha.
Robbie: Burn
Law: Fine. Good. Write it. Woo! What the fuck is this thread about? Is Colt even on this? The Colt cracking thing? Isn’t that the bet?
Tony: I thought this was the international intervention?
Colt: I’m not cracking. I’m simply living in Italy.
Hayden: Come to Paris next weekend. Let’s hang out.
Colt: I’ll check with the girls but might be the weekend after. Good?
Tony: We can be there that weekend!
Robbie: We can’t.
Tony: Come on, I’ll get a plane.
Dax: You can’t.
Tony: As long as we tell Mak it was someone else’s idea, then I don’t lose that bet.
Colt: Is there a list somewhere of all these bets?
Dax: Monica is keeping it, cool?
Hayden: Only if you all come to fucking Paris. Lizzie can’t get out of here for another month so come here. Don’t Make me beg. It’s Paris, for god sakes. It’s not like I’m asking you to backpack to Rugged, Maine.
Dax: Fuck off. I’ll see.
Hayden: Lawrence! Baby brother- I just checked. You can totally come.
Law: Who did you check with? You don’t know my assistant.
Hayden: Ma. She knows your schedule. Robbie, you’re clear too. She and Lizzie’s mom are headed out that next day on some girl’s river cruise so the house will be lonely and open, and you’ll get to hug your mama and then party the rest of the time.
Robbie: Fine. Can you get a plane, Tony?
Tony: Anon good knights. A good fortnight until we be gathered.
Hayden: Will you ever let that shit go?
Tony: NEVER!
Colt: Be warned Sloane is all about early Zeppelin, The Stones, and late Beatles these days. And Janice. The messy hair, the tiny glasses. All of it.
Law: That’s why she’s my favorite ‘niece’
I turn my phone off and smile. It has been a long time since all the Brothers hung out. I don’t always love seeing Tony. As close to him as I am, he’s married to Maggie’s best friend. I spend way too much anxious time around Mak not asking how Maggie’s doing. It’s hard to be around her, and sometimes I miss entire conversations because I’m repeating in my head, ‘Don’t ask about Maggie.’ I keep waiting for that inclination to go away since I’m around Mak more often, but it doesn’t. I pull out the plastic husk of an old purple pen and rub the side. I will always wonder what she’s doing.
33
maggie
I put a giant basket of lemons out in the front on the street. Nobody really wants them because they all apparently have lemons of their own but maybe some lemon-less person will stroll by and be like, ‘Score! Free Lemons!’
Daisy said she’d take a couple home and that her dad might be able to cook with them. “Hey what does your dad do?”
“Live to annoy me.” I giggle a little. “He did have a job but not here. He’s not doing much of anything because you know we just don’t have a whole lot going on now that we’re in Italy so he’s just kind of enjoying cooking for us.”
Mom’s dead, they’re in Italy, and he does nothing. I’m very intrigued because I figured he was a diplomat or something.
Perhaps if I offer why I’m here, it might open her up and let their stories spill. The sound of the knives on the cutting boards fill the room. The precise crunch cuts of red peppers or the clean, easy chop of a zucchini. I keep my hands moving and don’t look her in the face as I talk.
