Bitter Rose Page 5

  “Yeah. I didn’t want to stick around for coffee hour.”

  “But your mom did?”

  “I guess.” I notice what looks like the beginnings of a goatee on his chin. Also, his hair is cut different. “What’s up with the new look, Dad?”

  He grins kind of sheepishly as he rubs his chin. “I thought I needed a change. What do you think?”

  I chuckle. “I think it’s going to look good. And I like your short hair too. Very cool.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what are you doing here?” I nod toward the trailer and jukebox.

  “Just picking up some of my stuff.”

  “What are you going to do with that old thing?” I ask as he pauses by the trailer door.

  “Oh, I thought I might mess around with it, see if I can get it to work.” He wipes his palm across his damp forehead and glances over his shoulder.

  “I got your message the other night. Your apartment sounds nice,” I tell him as he wheels the jukebox up the ramp and onto the trailer. I peek into the dim interior to see there are already some other things in there, such as his leather chair and ottoman and some things from his office.

  “Nice, but pretty sparse,” he says as he positions the jukebox. “I thought I’d pick up some of my stuff while your mom is gone. I didn’t want to upset her, you know.”

  I nod. “Need any help?”

  “Sure. I just have a couple more things, and then I better scram.”

  So I help Dad bring out a few other things, and finally we’re loading the last piece, a futon, and it’s quite a struggle to fit it in. We’ve almost got it when we hear a car pull up—fast.

  “Uh-oh,” I say when I realize that it’s Mom. We both look to see that she’s blocked the driveway with her car and she’s already out and hurrying toward us.

  “What is going on?” she demands, her eyes flashing, first to Dad and then to me. “What are you two doing?”

  “Just picking up some of my things.” Dad gives the futon frame one last shove and then slams the door behind it.

  “Your things?” Mom says as she puts her hands on her hips and glares at him. “Who says what’s yours and what’s mine?”

  “Look, Rosa, I paid for these things—they are mine.”

  “Not so fast, mister. I’ve already done some research on this, and you have no right to come in here and start taking things.”

  “I have every right to take what belongs to me.”

  And suddenly they are both yelling and screaming at each other, and my mom is even using her Spanish swear words. Our neighbor Mrs. Flanders is actually standing on her porch watching them, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she calls 911.

  “Stop it!” I yell, moving to stand between them. “Stop it!”

  And it seems I’ve gotten their attention, because they stop.

  “You guys are acting like children, fighting over your toys. It’s just stuff, you know!”

  “So you think it’s okay for your dad to come in here and take everything while I’m gone?” my mom demands. Her face is flushed and I can tell she’s close to tears.

  “He needs some things for his place.”

  “Let him buy his own things,” Mom shoots back at me.

  “But these are his things,” I say.

  “No, Magdela.” She’s seething now. “These are our things. And they should stay in our house until a court decides who gets what. Your dad chose to leave this marriage, and as a result, he’ll have to leave all this behind.”

  “But that’s not fair,” I attempt.

  “All’s fair in love and war—and this is war!”

  “Why are you acting like this?” I demand. “Why have you turned into such a witch? It’s no wonder Dad is leaving you. I want to leave you too!”

  My mom looks like she’s about to explode, but she presses her lips together and glares at me as if I’m the one to blame for all this. “Fine!” she yells. “Let him take everything. Let him ruin my house, just like he’s ruined my life!” And then she storms off to her car and tears off down the street, tires screeching.

  I am shaking all over now, and tears are pouring down my cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, Magpie.” My dad puts his arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug. “You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of this. I’m so sorry.”

  And I just cry into his jacket and wish I were five years old again. I wish that my brother and sister were still living at home and that Mom was in the kitchen, humming to her Latino music as she makes us some lunch, and that we’d all sit down together around the big island in the kitchen and eat and talk and laugh—just the way we used to do.

  “I’m sorry too, Dad,” I finally say. I step back and wipe my wet face on the sleeve of my sweater. “I don’t know why Mom is like this.”

  “She’s hurting too, Maggie,” he says sadly. “We all are.”

  “But she’s being so unreasonable, so out of control. I don’t see why she has to act like this.”

  “Situations like this bring out the worst in everyone, Maggie.”

  I look at him. “Not you.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Well, I think you have every right to take what you need from the house,” I tell him. “And if you need any more help, let me know.”

  He shakes his head. “No, that’s fine. And I probably should go before your mom comes back with enforcements.” He winks at me.

  “Yeah, I can just imagine her hauling Tio Eduardo and Tio Vito back here to beat you up.”

  “Hey, don’t joke about it. Stuff like that used to happen in situations like this, back when we were kids. Families didn’t take this kind of thing lightly.”

  “I know, Dad. I don’t think they take it lightly nowadays either.”

  “Thanks for the help,” he says as he gets into his car, “and for the moral support. I’ll give you a call later this week, once I’ve gotten more settled, and you can come over and check out the new digs.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  Then I stand in the driveway and watch as he pulls out and drives down the street. I wish I were going with him. I turn and look at our house. No way do I want to go in there now. And no way do I want to be home when my mom gets back. Who knows what that woman might do? Probably go ballistic at me for aiding my dad. So I get back into my car and just drive around. I consider calling Claire, but I don’t really like to bug her family on a Sunday, especially since I saw her sitting with her family at church today. That doesn’t happen too often with them since her parents sometimes work on the weekends. I don’t want to interrupt a “family day.”

  So I go to the mall. I know it’s pathetic, but it’s starting to rain and I can’t think of anyplace else that’s not cold and wet. And I just walk around. Naturally, there are Christmas decorations everywhere, and it’s not even Thanksgiving yet.

  I try not to look at families, but it’s like that’s all I see. And I know that’s ridiculous, because I’m sure there are lots of people here who aren’t with their families, but it seems like each time I look up, I see another happy family. A dad with his arm around the mom and a couple of kids trailing along. A lot of them look like they’ve just been at church. Even when I go to the food court, I see them. Finally, I can’t take it anymore and I have to leave.

  I consider going to my grandma’s, and I’m sure she’d enjoy the visit. I know she’s been lonely since my grandpa died. But I also know that if I stopped in, I’d probably spill the beans, and then my mom would really be furious at me. So I just drive around a while. Finally, I give up my resolve. It’s nearly three, and I figure Claire’s probably had enough family time by now, so I call her.

  “What’s up?” she asks.

  Just the sound of her voice makes me start to cry. I try to explain, but I’m just blubbering.

  “Want me to come over and pick you up?” she offers with real concern in her voice.

  I manage to convey that I’m in my car. “Just a few blocks from yo
ur house.”

  “Well, get on over here,” she commands me. “Are you like nuts?”

  It’s pouring by the time I get to her house, and I get fairly wet just running up to the door, but Claire opens it quickly and gives me a hug. Then we go up to her room and I pour out the whole story.

  “Yeah,” she says when I’m finally done. “I can remember stuff like that. My parents fought over everything. It was horrible. It got even worse when they went through the divorce. And then there was the crud with alimony and child support.” She just shakes her head. “Makes you want to be really careful if you ever get married.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get married,” I tell her.

  “You say that now, but you’ll probably feel different when Mr. Right comes along.”

  We hang together for the rest of the afternoon. We consider going out and doing something, but it’s so cold and nasty out that we decide to just watch movies from the eighties and nineties as we pig out on a pan of brownies that we baked just long enough to get good and gooey. We sit in the family room and use spoons to eat the brown glop straight from the pan.

  “You know,” I say to Claire, “chocolate and old Meg Ryan movies are a pretty good distraction right now.”

  “Better watch out though,” she teases. “You could end up looking like Aunt Betty.” That’s Claire’s aunt, who is so obese that she can’t leave her house without assistance.

  I drop the spoon in the pan. “Thanks for that lovely image,” I tell her.

  She laughs as she dips her spoon in again. “All right, my strategy worked. I get the rest of this to myself!”

  Finally, I know that it’s time for me to go home. I’ve already managed to get myself invited for dinner, and now it’s getting late. I have my cell phone turned off, just in case Mom is trying to reach me. And I happen to know that Claire’s stepdad has been online all afternoon, which ties up their phone line. So, short of Mom showing up here, I’ve been safe. Still, I know that I better go.

  “Thanks for the haven,” I tell Claire as I head for the door.

  “Anytime,” she says. “Oh, yeah, I didn’t want to tell you this—I mean, while you were so bummed about your parents and everything.”

  “What?” I say, knowing that she’s probably keeping something terrible from me.

  “Well, I was at youth group last night, you know, and Kyle and I were just talking and joking around, you know, and you’ll never guess what happened.”

  “He proposed and you guys eloped and now twins are on the way?”

  She laughs and punches me in the arm. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”

  “Yeah, right. But tell me … what happened?”

  “We decided to go to the Harvest Dance together.”

  “Oh.”

  “See, I knew it would just make you feel bad.”

  “No,” I say quickly, “you know I have to work that night anyway—as if it matters. Really, I’m glad for you. And Kyle’s a nice guy.” Then I narrow my eyes at her. “But tell me the honest truth: Did you follow the advice in that magazine article and ask him first?”

  She grins mischievously. “Well, let’s just say I did some heavy hinting.”

  I pat her on the back. “Well, good for you. And, really, I’m glad for you. I really am.”

  “Thanks.”

  It’s still rainy and cold when I go outside, but I do feel a little better now than when I got here—well, other than finding out that Claire is going to the Harvest Dance. Before, it seemed like she was the only one besides me who wasn’t going. Selfish as it is, it made me feel better. Oh well.

  When I get home, the house is dark. Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway, but I know it could be in the garage, especially now that there’s more room.

  I unlock the door and tiptoe inside. I’m hoping to get to my room without having to talk to my mom. I have no idea how she’s going to treat me after I showed my allegiance to Dad today. Like she said, this is war. And I have a feeling that she now considers me the enemy too.

  I do a pretty pathetic job on my homework, but I’m in a hurry to be done and relieved that so far my mom hasn’t barged in here and started yelling at me. I blame the poor quality of my English paper on my home life and even imagine myself sitting in the academic counselor’s office and telling Mr. Hurley that it’s all my parents’ fault that I’m failing my senior year.

  Then I put my books and stuff away and quietly get ready for bed. It’s not even ten thirty, but I figure my chances of avoiding the mom-confrontation will improve if it looks like I’m asleep. Then I turn off my light and hop into bed. Of course, I don’t feel the least bit sleepy, and I miss the music that I usually listen to as I drift to sleep. But I don’t want to chance getting up and putting it on and having Mom bust in here to read me the riot act.

  And so I lie in my bed and just think. I remember how I had a hard time going to sleep when I was little and how my mom told me to pray myself to sleep. She taught me how to do the “A to Z Prayer,” and I would say, “Thank you, God, for apples. Thank you, God, for bubblegum. Thank you, God, for Christmas.” And usually by the time I reached G, I would be asleep. I consider trying this again tonight, but then I remember Father Thomas’s words.

  “A state of unforgiveness will hinder your prayer life. How can you ask God for something when you know that you are living in direct disobedience to his will? Forgive first. Then come to God with your requests.”

  Forgive? Yeah right. Like I can forgive my mom for that horrible scene she pulled in the driveway today. Forgive her for treating my dad like dirt? Forgive her for throwing him out? How does a person forgive those kinds of things? I saw the pain in Dad’s eyes when she lashed into him. I know how badly he’s hurting. How can I forgive her for this?

  eight

  TALK ABOUT SHIPS IN THE NIGHT. IT’S LIKE MOM AND I DON’T EVEN LIVE in the same house anymore. I literally have not seen her since the big blowout on Sunday, and now it’s Tuesday. I’m starting to think this might be the only way to survive this thing—Mom and I just living our separate lives until I graduate and get out of here. I’m highly motivated to ask Dad about being his new roommate.

  And I’m feeling hopeful because I check my messages on our way home from school to discover he’s called. He’s inviting me to come check out his new digs today. “And I’ll take you up on that offer to make dinner,” he says, “if it’s still good.” So I call him back, and he gives me directions and says to meet him there at five thirty.

  “What are you fixing?” Claire asks after I hang up.

  “Spaghetti,” I tell her. “It’s about the only thing I know how to make. And that’s only because we use Ragu.”

  “Well, that’s better than my specialty.”

  “You mean frozen dinners?” I tease as she pulls in front of my house.

  “Hey, they’re supposed to be nutritious.” She glances at the driveway. “Looks like your mom’s home.”

  I turn and am surprised to see her car. “Yeah,” I say as I gather my stuff, “I wonder what’s up.”

  “You guys still not speaking?”

  “Sort of. Mostly we don’t even see each other.”

  “That’s so weird. I mean, there are times when I wish I could go for days without seeing my parents, but it’d probably bug me too.”

  “Well, this is probably for the best—for now anyway.”

  Then I thank Claire for the ride and brace myself before going into the house. This is pretty early for Mom to be home, and I have no idea what to expect. I walk into the house but don’t see or hear her. I pause in the foyer for a moment, trying to decide whether to head to the kitchen like I usually do or just duck up to my room and avoid any possible confrontations. As I’m standing there, I can’t help but notice how our house looks kind of weird. There are still these holes or gaps where furniture and things are missing—the things my dad took with him to the apartment. I mean, it’s not like we’re hurting. We still have plenty
of stuff, but it’s obvious that some things have been removed. And I’m kind of surprised my mom didn’t do some rearranging, especially since she usually really cares about how things look. I mean, if you move a chair or table out of place, she will notice and put it back where it had been. It’s just how she is—or rather, how she was. Now I don’t even know who she is. I’m not sure that I even want to know or that I care.

  Confident that she’s not downstairs, I grab a soda from the fridge and then go up to my room. I figure I can just chill for a while, and if I get lucky, she’ll take off to go show a house or something. That’s usually what she’s doing this time of day. I doze off while reading Twelfth Night—go figure—and when I wake up, it’s almost five and I remember that I’m supposed to meet my dad.

  But when I go downstairs to scavenge some groceries for dinner, I am surprised—make that shocked—to see that Mom is cooking.

  “Magdela,” she says, looking up from where she is browning some hamburger. “How are you?”

  I kind of blink. “Uh, I’m fine. What are you doing?” Okay, I realize it’s a stupid question, but I’m kind of stuck.

  “Cooking dinner,” she says.

  “For who?”

  She looks at me funny. “For us.”

  “But I’m not going to be home tonight.”

  I can’t tell whether she’s disappointed or angry. “But I thought you only worked Wednesday through Saturday nights.”

  “That’s not it. I mean, I don’t work tonight, but I’ve already made plans.”

  “Can you change them? I thought maybe we could talk tonight, honey.”

  “No,” I say quickly, “I can’t change them. I mean, I’ll be working the rest of the week and this is the only night—”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  I feel defensive and want to tell her it’s none of her business. But then, I suppose, that’s not really true. “I’m going to Dad’s,” I say in a tone that I hope sounds nonnegotiable.

  Her eyebrows arch, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I would’ve told you if I’d known you were fixing dinner and everything.”