Pennsylvania, with Everett at the helm. With only one break, despite my repeated offers to take the wheel for part of the way, for most of the trip we were silent or sang along to Beatles songs on the radio.
Our anticipation of holiday joy had been overshadowed by John Lennon’s death. Back on campus, the night of his murder, candle-holding students had appeared from all over, a spontaneous memorial on both campuses, I learned when Everett called me in tears. I had rushed across town to be with him, and through my journey, it was as if the entire city were lulled to a somber tone. It was such a strange day, how quiet everything was, until strains of “Imagine” and other songs echoed from windows. It wasn’t the first time we had shed tears together, but it was altogether different.
When we finally pulled up to my parents’ house, both of them met us in the driveway, insisting that Everett take a break. Although he had less than an hour to get to Pittsburgh, after a pleasant meal of catching up, he asked to take a nap, and I let him alone for an hour before sneaking quietly into my room, just to watch him sleep in my bed.
His pants slung over an arm of his wheelchair, his shoes lay on the floor. The curls of his hair poked out of the blanket, his back to me. I resisted the urge to join him, and instead considered all we had been through together, our first abrupt encounters, and an additional one in my own room.
What problems would he face in Pittsburgh? Between his generous yet somewhat indifferent father, the protective pressures and silent disappointments from his mother, would his sister Holly’s defiant support get him through the next few weeks?
As if sensing my presence, he rolled over, tugged an arm under the covers to flop his legs over, offered a groggy smile, and opened the blanket as an invitation.
“Just a little cuddling,” he warned with a smirk. “I gotta get back on the road.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure of the protocol. ‘Merry Christmas from the parents of your son’s…boyfriend.’”
“You’re not writing that, are you?”
“Well, we’re not exactly friends, or in-laws.”
“Anne?” Dad called out from the garage. He was packing his car for our annual visit to Mom’s brother’s family; the holiday trek to Scranton. We’d begun to limit our visits to a single day, and thankfully booked a pair of hotel rooms. I had even offered to help pay for them, since the previous year I’d been relegated to a sleeping bag on the floor of my younger cousins’ bedroom.
Although ready to go, Mom was still sitting on the couch with a small stack of cards, envelopes and stamps, poring over a few of what she called her “late entries,” the Christmas cards she felt she had to send because we had received cards from them, but forgotten to send one back.
“It’s still good through New Year’s Eve. That’s how it works,” she half-joked. “Here, you sign them, too.”
Before he’d left, Everett had given my mother the separate addresses of his divorced parents and his sister. He’d also reminded me of his invitation to join him and Holly in Pittsburgh for an overnight New Year’s Eve visit.
“Just one more,” Mom said as she handed me a third card, addressed to some family whose name was new to me. “One of your father’s coworkers.”
I scribbled my first name as Dad tromped into the kitchen. “Anne. I’m ready for the cake, then we should go.”
Mom pointed to a large Tupperware container on the counter, then licked the envelopes and sealed them. I grabbed my parka and followed Dad through the kitchen door to the garage.
We sat in the car as he clicked the door opener attached to the visor. From the back seat, I saw his shoulders slump, then he caught my glance through the rear-view mirror.
“Another family gathering,” I half-groaned in an attempt at a sympathetic comment.
“It’s just for one day,” he replied. “Let’s just pretend to enjoy it.
Our anticipation of holiday joy had been overshadowed by John Lennon’s death. Back on campus, the night of his murder, candle-holding students had appeared from all over, a spontaneous memorial on both campuses, I learned when Everett called me in tears. I had rushed across town to be with him, and through my journey, it was as if the entire city were lulled to a somber tone. It was such a strange day, how quiet everything was, until strains of “Imagine” and other songs echoed from windows. It wasn’t the first time we had shed tears together, but it was altogether different.
When we finally pulled up to my parents’ house, both of them met us in the driveway, insisting that Everett take a break. Although he had less than an hour to get to Pittsburgh, after a pleasant meal of catching up, he asked to take a nap, and I let him alone for an hour before sneaking quietly into my room, just to watch him sleep in my bed.
His pants slung over an arm of his wheelchair, his shoes lay on the floor. The curls of his hair poked out of the blanket, his back to me. I resisted the urge to join him, and instead considered all we had been through together, our first abrupt encounters, and an additional one in my own room.
What problems would he face in Pittsburgh? Between his generous yet somewhat indifferent father, the protective pressures and silent disappointments from his mother, would his sister Holly’s defiant support get him through the next few weeks?
As if sensing my presence, he rolled over, tugged an arm under the covers to flop his legs over, offered a groggy smile, and opened the blanket as an invitation.
“Just a little cuddling,” he warned with a smirk. “I gotta get back on the road.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure of the protocol. ‘Merry Christmas from the parents of your son’s…boyfriend.’”
“You’re not writing that, are you?”
“Well, we’re not exactly friends, or in-laws.”
“Anne?” Dad called out from the garage. He was packing his car for our annual visit to Mom’s brother’s family; the holiday trek to Scranton. We’d begun to limit our visits to a single day, and thankfully booked a pair of hotel rooms. I had even offered to help pay for them, since the previous year I’d been relegated to a sleeping bag on the floor of my younger cousins’ bedroom.
Although ready to go, Mom was still sitting on the couch with a small stack of cards, envelopes and stamps, poring over a few of what she called her “late entries,” the Christmas cards she felt she had to send because we had received cards from them, but forgotten to send one back.
“It’s still good through New Year’s Eve. That’s how it works,” she half-joked. “Here, you sign them, too.”
Before he’d left, Everett had given my mother the separate addresses of his divorced parents and his sister. He’d also reminded me of his invitation to join him and Holly in Pittsburgh for an overnight New Year’s Eve visit.
“Just one more,” Mom said as she handed me a third card, addressed to some family whose name was new to me. “One of your father’s coworkers.”
I scribbled my first name as Dad tromped into the kitchen. “Anne. I’m ready for the cake, then we should go.”
Mom pointed to a large Tupperware container on the counter, then licked the envelopes and sealed them. I grabbed my parka and followed Dad through the kitchen door to the garage.
We sat in the car as he clicked the door opener attached to the visor. From the back seat, I saw his shoulders slump, then he caught my glance through the rear-view mirror.
“Another family gathering,” I half-groaned in an attempt at a sympathetic comment.
“It’s just for one day,” he replied. “Let’s just pretend to enjoy it.
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