Surviving Valencia

“I love it,” I said. “Really, I do. You’re too good to me.”

Chapter 16

When Adrian and I arrived at my parents’ house the next day, they were sitting outside in lawn chairs facing the street, as if they were watching a ballgame. It was cold and they were both bundled up in winter coats, hats, gloves. I was embarrassed both by them and for them.

“Was there a parade on this cul de sac this morning?” Adrian joked.

“Ugh,” I rolled my eyes and he put his hand on mine.

“It’s just one day. I’ll help you through it.” He parked in front of their house and opened the trunk. “I’ll get our bags, don’t worry about it,” he said. This way he could avoid some of the greeting process. I couldn’t blame him.

“Hi Honey,” said my mom, giving me a kiss. Then my dad approached, drink in one hand and cigar in the other, and gave me a big bear hug. “Whiskey or a brandy old fashioned?” he asked.

“Brandy old fashioned,” I said.

“What about you?” my dad yelled to Adrian. He avoids saying his name. Adrian is the first Adrian he’s ever heard of, and I think some part of him cannot really believe it’s a name. A man’s name anyhow. Perhaps he is afraid he will mispronounce it.

Adrian hesitated. “Whiskey,” he decided.

My dad disappeared inside, returning a minute later with an icy old-fashioned glass for me, complete with a plastic swizzle stick of maraschino cherries, and a double shot glass of Old Kentucky Chicken for Adrian.

“Tastes just like Jack Daniel’s. I dare you to tell them apart,” my dad said.

Adrian smiled his isn’t-this-quaint smile and downed the shot. In his family they are eccentric in a refined, clever way. Their handmade lawn ornaments go on to become priceless folk art. Their family gatherings might include a sword fight, or the reemergence of some far off relative who had been living in a tent in Greece for seven years. All members of the family will at some point write a book. They did not take family trips in RVs or ever personally know someone who sold insurance.

My dad refilled Adrian’s shot glass and handed him the bottle so he could keep up with it himself.

My mother led us inside. “What do you think about pork chops on the grill?” she asked.

“Okay. Whatever’s easiest. A salad is fine, too.” I had not eaten meat in six months and couldn’t believe this was how I would be breaking back into the carnivorous world. With pork chops. Second only to meatballs in disgustingness.

“What about Swedish meatballs?” asked my dad, on cue.

“Really, it’s all the same to me,” I said.

“Passive aggressive,” my husband sang into my ear, disguising it as a kiss. His breath smelled of alcohol.

“Well, the pork chops are thawed out. That’s what we were planning on.”

I cleared my throat, trying to gather some nerve. I imagined myself saying aloud, Do you know, I actually am not a fan of pork chops. Or Swedish meatballs. Those were things your other, dead children liked. I imagined my mother’s disinterested response: Since when? she would say. She wouldn’t look up. She would be multi-tasking or munching on a carrot with her mouth half full.

I remained silent. This was no longer my home. I was a guest now, and I would eat what they served me.

“She’s always been that way: Picky,” my dad said to Adrian. “Once, when we were on a trip to Glacier National Park, she ordered a big plate of fish sticks and French fries. Only, you see, they weren’t the kind of French fries she was used to, so let me tell you, she starts crying and carrying on, and before you know it she’s thrown the whole plate on the floor.”

“I’m ready for another drink,” I said. I remembered the story he was telling, only he had a key detail wrong: It had not been me. There had been a little girl who was about three years old sitting at the table next to ours all those years ago. She had been upset that the fries were not crinkle cut. Furthermore, she had not thrown a plate of them onto the floor, she had thrown a small fistful onto the floor, and then had been backhanded by her father.

I looked at my mother but she was busying herself with the pork chops and a bag of Shake and Bake.

“Do you remember that, Mom?” I asked.

“Hmmm?” She shook, shook, shook the bag without looking up.

Adrian put his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Is that the truth? Would you actually throw your fish sticks on the floor?”

“French fries,” I corrected.

Adrian turned back to my father, “She still throws her food on the floor when I take her out, Roger. It’s why we can never go anywhere fancy.”