bib on to notice.
It occurs to me, maybe I don't have to say it. Maybe Dad could just see it for himself, right? Kind of accidentally? So I say, "You guys going to bring Carolyn by the house to trick-or-treat this year?"
Dad just looks at me, offended that I've even mentioned his old house. Like I'm bringing up the time he went streaking across the football field when he was a drunk philosophy major out for a teensy bit of fun.
"We're taking her to the club," Brandi says. She bites into something brown and slimy and lets out a "Mmmmm."
"The club? The country club?" I say, wrinkling my nose as I look across the table in complete and total disbelief at my dad.
"Carolyn is getting to the age where we can really enjoy the holidays," Brandi says casually. "I actually can't wait until we've got a little tween in the house. I mean, there are just so many things to do, once they get old enough," like I'm the fucking next-door neighbor. "And Keith is so good about the holidays. Some men aren't, you know."
This practically lights my whole scalp on fire. "Yeah," I say, glaring at Dad. "Really good. Especially with picking out Christmas trees."
The silence that falls over the table has a pulse. An actual pulse. Because Dad and I are both thinking about the same thing: that last Christmas, when Keith was still my dad, back when I was thirteen years old. Mom had voluntarily gotten on her meds to please him-not another mirage like the one she'd had on the soccer field, and no more running away from home to climb a Colorado mountaintop (the episode that had officially filled the bathroom cabinet with amber bottles). Everything was going so well at home, and stupid me, I actually believed the ground under my feet was solid.
Dad and I split up, each of us racing through the Christmas tree lot that was like a forest that had suddenly come to roost beside an out-of-business gas station. When I found one-not too tall, nice and full-and I knew, this is it, I turned to call him.
But he wasn't alone. He was with a woman-blond hair, neonatal eyes, and it was all so obvious it should have had theme music behind it, the score from some sweeping love story. As he tightened Brandi's pink cashmere scarf around her throat, it occurred to me just how much like a lie pine trees smell.
The way they smiled at each other ... God, that sickeningly sweet smile. I swear, that look they exchanged, even from the other side of the lot, I could taste it. The back of my tongue actually burned.
I tightened my grip on the neck of the spruce I'd wanted to show him, like I was strangling the thing-like I'd have strangled him if I could.
Brandi skittered off across the tree lot like a scared house cat when she caught me watching them. Of course, I didn't know that was her name-not then, and Dad pretended not to, either.
"Never seen her before," he insisted, clearing his throat repeatedly. "Just a lady who dropped her scarf." And I knew. Merry fucking Christmas, Aura.
I stomped off, into the thick of trees, wishing I really were in the midst of a forest and not some parking lot, that I could get turned around in the dense sameness of branches like some kid at a wilderness retreat, and never be heard from again. Because he was changing all the rules, Dad was, and even then, I was wondering about the rule that went something like, must love Aura. And I was thinking that maybe he'd revise that one, too. Or cross it off the list completely. Cross it off the list completely, I think as I stare at him from the other side of the antique dining table. Definitely.
"Yes," Brandi says, ridiculously oblivious to the elephant in the room. How stupid could one woman be? "Keith is really good at picking out gorgeous trees."
"Yeah," I say, tightening the hold on my glare. "A real, chainsawed tree, killed in the name of the jolly good hoho-holidays."
"And gifts," Brandi says, winking at Dad.
"Gifts," I snarl, shaking my head. Because the dad who lived with me had railed
It occurs to me, maybe I don't have to say it. Maybe Dad could just see it for himself, right? Kind of accidentally? So I say, "You guys going to bring Carolyn by the house to trick-or-treat this year?"
Dad just looks at me, offended that I've even mentioned his old house. Like I'm bringing up the time he went streaking across the football field when he was a drunk philosophy major out for a teensy bit of fun.
"We're taking her to the club," Brandi says. She bites into something brown and slimy and lets out a "Mmmmm."
"The club? The country club?" I say, wrinkling my nose as I look across the table in complete and total disbelief at my dad.
"Carolyn is getting to the age where we can really enjoy the holidays," Brandi says casually. "I actually can't wait until we've got a little tween in the house. I mean, there are just so many things to do, once they get old enough," like I'm the fucking next-door neighbor. "And Keith is so good about the holidays. Some men aren't, you know."
This practically lights my whole scalp on fire. "Yeah," I say, glaring at Dad. "Really good. Especially with picking out Christmas trees."
The silence that falls over the table has a pulse. An actual pulse. Because Dad and I are both thinking about the same thing: that last Christmas, when Keith was still my dad, back when I was thirteen years old. Mom had voluntarily gotten on her meds to please him-not another mirage like the one she'd had on the soccer field, and no more running away from home to climb a Colorado mountaintop (the episode that had officially filled the bathroom cabinet with amber bottles). Everything was going so well at home, and stupid me, I actually believed the ground under my feet was solid.
Dad and I split up, each of us racing through the Christmas tree lot that was like a forest that had suddenly come to roost beside an out-of-business gas station. When I found one-not too tall, nice and full-and I knew, this is it, I turned to call him.
But he wasn't alone. He was with a woman-blond hair, neonatal eyes, and it was all so obvious it should have had theme music behind it, the score from some sweeping love story. As he tightened Brandi's pink cashmere scarf around her throat, it occurred to me just how much like a lie pine trees smell.
The way they smiled at each other ... God, that sickeningly sweet smile. I swear, that look they exchanged, even from the other side of the lot, I could taste it. The back of my tongue actually burned.
I tightened my grip on the neck of the spruce I'd wanted to show him, like I was strangling the thing-like I'd have strangled him if I could.
Brandi skittered off across the tree lot like a scared house cat when she caught me watching them. Of course, I didn't know that was her name-not then, and Dad pretended not to, either.
"Never seen her before," he insisted, clearing his throat repeatedly. "Just a lady who dropped her scarf." And I knew. Merry fucking Christmas, Aura.
I stomped off, into the thick of trees, wishing I really were in the midst of a forest and not some parking lot, that I could get turned around in the dense sameness of branches like some kid at a wilderness retreat, and never be heard from again. Because he was changing all the rules, Dad was, and even then, I was wondering about the rule that went something like, must love Aura. And I was thinking that maybe he'd revise that one, too. Or cross it off the list completely. Cross it off the list completely, I think as I stare at him from the other side of the antique dining table. Definitely.
"Yes," Brandi says, ridiculously oblivious to the elephant in the room. How stupid could one woman be? "Keith is really good at picking out gorgeous trees."
"Yeah," I say, tightening the hold on my glare. "A real, chainsawed tree, killed in the name of the jolly good hoho-holidays."
"And gifts," Brandi says, winking at Dad.
"Gifts," I snarl, shaking my head. Because the dad who lived with me had railed
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