“Phoebe, do you really think you need four sandwiches, twenty granola cookies, an apple, and two pears for one lunch?” my father asks.
I nod. “It’s for Garbage Gut. I can’t believe he’s so skinny with all that he eats. If I ate half of what he does, I’d have to be rolled around.” I pack another lunch.
My father pulls out a new batch of granola cookies from the oven. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” he says.
“You kids are really organized.”
We are. Phase Three is: Everyone brings lunch. No one buys it. That’s why my father and I are doing this—to help out the kids who can’t make their own lunch, for one reason or another.
Garbage Gut said he’d bring his own, but we were afraid that he’d still be hungry and not be able to keep away from the cafeteria line.
My assignment is to bring five extra lunches. At first I was kind of worried about whether doing this would put us over our food budget, but my father says not to worry.
As I put a new batch of cookies into the oven, I think maybe I am turning into a worrywart about money. I’ve never thought about it so much, but when my parents were married they never used to talk about it either.
I guess I’m thinking a lot about it today because my father’s mother called. Grandmother Brooks is still absolutely freaked out that he’s quit his job. She says things to me like, “Put your father, the bum, on the phone” and “I hope that he doesn’t think he can come to me for money when he runs out.”
I really do hate her. She’s never been nice to him. He’s never gone to her for money. I know he’s not going to start now.
It did scare me a little, though, and I know he was upset when he got off the phone after talking to her.
He’s okay now. After the call, he went out and worked on his painting. It’s so beautiful . . . filled with nature and bright colors. I think he’s doing the right thing.
If only he gets accepted to a gallery, everything will be fine. It is kind of strange, though, living in this really nice house with a swimming pool and worrying about money. It’s a weird kind of poor.
“The new painting really looks good.” I continue to work on the lunches.
“Bob Miller saw the painting, likes it, and wants it for the new house he’s building.”
“Oh, Dad. That’s fantastic.” I stop taking cookies off a sheet and hug him.
He whirls me around the kitchen. “It is wonderful. And—guess what? We’re using the barter system. He’s getting the painting and we’re getting three cords of wood and he’ll help install our new wood stove.”
Wood stoves save on heating bills. In the City, heat always comes up like magic in radiators and the landlord is responsible. In Woodstock, people try to keep the oil costs down by using wood. I wish we didn’t have the wood stove, since it’s installed right in the fireplace. It’s not so pretty.
Sometimes I feel like a pioneer. When you live in New York City, you never think about raccoons eating your garbage, or pipes freezing up, or trading for firewood. You do think about stuff like garbage strikes (I always think that phrase sounds funny. Can you imagine a bunch of garbage looking at each other and saying, “Hey, man, let’s go out on strike”?) You also think about getting mugged. I know lots of kids there who carry extra money so that if they get mugged, the muggers don’t hit them for not having enough. There are lots of good things about New York City, so I don’t want people to get the wrong impression. Plays, music, museums, more kinds of people and experiences. I’m lucky to have both places.
The phone rings.
My father picks it up.
It’s my mother. I can tell by the way he talks to her, kind of friendly but a little guarded. It’s changed over the years. At first it was kind of awful. Then it was kind of a false getting-along. Now it’s pretty good. I guess that parents go through stages when they split up.
Mine sure did—the fighting and anger—then the distance—and making me feel caught in the middle. After the divorce they try to be “civilized.” I know that there were even times that they missed each other. I know for a fact that after the divorce they even slept with each other once in a while. It was confusing. Now they act like people who have a past history together, but only a future of knowing each other because of me.
He motions to me. “It’s your mother. Why don’t you take this upstairs?”
I run up the steps and pick up the phone to hear her saying “Yes. Things are going wonderfully. Traveling’s great. Money’s not bad. It’s very exciting.”
“I’m on,” I let them know.
My father hangs up.
At first my mother and I talk about general stuff, like how school and work are going and how we miss each other.
Finally she lets me know what’s really happening. With a sigh she says, “I just wanted to call. I miss you so much. Sometimes I feel so lonely. I feel like I’m not a real part of your life anymore.”
I try to convince her that’s not true, but I do know that it is different because I don’t see her every day.
Then she tells me that she and Duane have broken up.
I debate saying “No loss” but keep quiet.
Now she’s crying. It’s over. She’s sad. She’s lonely. She wishes I were there to keep her company. She’s sorry that she’s laying all of this on me, but she needs someone to talk to.
It’s almost as if my mother’s forgotten that I’m the daughter and she’s the mother.
I tell her that it’s going to be all right, that she’ll meet someone else, someone better . . . or do fine by herself.
Finally she says, “I guess this isn’t fair to do to you. I just miss you. Three weeks apart is a long time, and this year is the first time in sixteen years that I’ve lived alone this much.”
What to say is a problem. I love her and want to make things all better for her but why can’t I just be a kid, one who has parents with problems they can handle by themselves? Or even better would be parents without problems.
After we finish talking, I go back downstairs.
“How’s your mother?” my father asks.
“Fine,” I say.
FAMILY. Rearrange the letters and it spells MY FAIL. I’m not sure that I know any families that really get along, except Dave’s and the Parsons and they moved to Minnesota.
I wonder how Rocky and her family are doing. Do raccoons ever divorce? If so, who gets custody of the kids?
Oh, well—I can’t control my parents’ ups and downs. It’s hard enough to cope with my own.
I think about Phase Three and wonder if it’s going to work.
I’ll find out soon.