“A third?” I nearly shout. “We can barely operate as it is! They can’t be serious.”
“They’re serious, Danielle. Dead serious. I just . . . I’m at a loss for words.” She ends her statement on a sigh, the weight of her battle landing on me.
This department was completely overhauled by me and Gretchen, made into something truly special. Parents fight for their kids to come here because of the atmosphere. We keep the kids lively, engaged. We keep them from remembering they’re sick.
A lump swells in my throat. “What can we do?” I ask.
“I’m doing everything I can, Danielle. Just send good vibes and a prayer if you can.” Her voice nearly breaks. “We can’t lose the funding. I’ll do everything I can.”
“I know that,” I whisper.
“I’m going to go. I need to get some numbers together before we resume our meeting this afternoon. You’ll have some minutes in your email if you want to take a look. I sent them this morning.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. Before I find my voice, she’s said her goodbye and the dial tone blares in my ear.
Letting myself fall back into my chair, I survey my office. It’s bright and playful, a testament to the kids that have been through our program. My gaze lands on a picture taken a couple of years ago, a young family with a little girl with pigtails. Her mother came to my office the day she was released and told me her daughter made little progress in the two other facilities she was in before here. Here, she rebounded and she could never thank the program enough. I get updates from her every six months or so.
Flicking the mouse, I wait for my computer to fire up. When it does, I see a number of emails. The one from Gretchen is bolded and shines at me, begging to be clicked. But another one sits right above it, the name staring me in the face. It’s that one I click on first.
Dear Ryan,
Your father and I will be leaving for St. Thomas in a couple of days. We’ll be staying through the Thanksgiving holiday and will, for the most part, be unavailable until the second week of December.
Joyce has offered for you to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner. I told her I would pass along the invitation.
We will be spending Christmas with the Spencer family in Aspen. I will leave your gift under the tree when we leave. Give Joyce a call and she can stick it in the mail.
Take care and talk soon.
Mom
The lump in my throat just doubled and it’s difficult, if not impossible, to work around it. I wait, unmoving, to see how I react. Every time it’s different. Sometimes I cry, unable to push away the rejection of my own parents. Other times, I laugh at their self-absorption and wonder how miserable they must really be. And then there are times where a numbness settles over my soul and I can’t make any headway on how I really feel beneath it all. How am I supposed to internalize the absurdity of a second-hand invitation to a holiday with their housekeeper? It’s like I’m not good enough to be with them, just their help. An afterthought, as always.
It’s moments like this I’m grateful that the numbness is stronger than the hurt. That somehow I’ve trained myself to block out the most agonizing moments, like holidays, and just embrace the alternative: unfeeling. Maybe shock. Either way, it’s preferable.
Easter two years ago was the last time I was invited to my parents’ house and that was only because they needed me to put in an appearance. I went along with it because it was easier than being on the receiving end of their wrath. Or so I thought.
“You seem like such a sweet girl,” a wife of one of my father’s associates coos, swirling around an absurdly-priced wine around in an overpriced crystal glass. “Your mother was telling me that the two of you don’t quite see eye to eye on a lot of things.”
“That’s true.” The explanation is on the tip of my tongue, how my mother only cares about appearances and my father’s acceptance. That I don’t spend time with them because they don’t want me.
“Your mother told me how you refuse to accept their help.” She eyes me carefully, the wine blushing her cheeks. “It’s too bad you won’t let your mother get closer to you, honey. She has so many connections. I would love a daughter to shop with, go to the spa with,” she sighs. “It’s such a shame you and she are so different.”
“No, it’s such a shame she wants nothing to do with me,” I say aloud, startling myself. I jump again when my cell hums on my desk and am grateful to see Macie’s name on the screen. “Hey,” I say, blowing out a rickety breath.
“Hey! What’s happening?”
“Oh, the same old stuff. What about you?”
“What’s wrong, Danielle?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Of course I am,” I promise, although it isn’t completely true. “I’m fine.”
“You get like this every year around the holidays . . .”