By Zachary Kirshbaum
Fall 2012 Kaplan Award Winner
“We might,” my mother said with difficulty, half glancing at my father, who was sitting in his usual chair across the room. My brother looked over at me, perhaps expecting some reaction to base his own off of after hearing the near confirmation of my parents’ divorce. What kind of person am I that I felt an upsurge of excitement at that moment? I’ll give myself a break: my brother is the same way. Years later he admitted to me that he felt happy at the news, under his tears. I still wonder how someone in elementary school could have been so deceptive.
Sometimes I think my brother and I share the same brainwave frequency. I’ll say something hesitantly, thinking that I’m alone in my views, and he’ll stare at me in shock before saying that he’s been thinking the exact same thing. It’s a little spooky at times, but it’s very comforting to have someone to relate to.
Squish, squish, squish. “Eew!” Eli looked down at his freshly muddied shoes. “I really wish we were in Michigan right now! I just want to live with Aunt Norie!” I looked up at our towering, beautiful house with the expansive, mountainous view, and felt that we were both spoiled. What Eli had said was only a fleeting fantasy, not to be taken seriously. However, the thought of moving had been brewing in my mind for a couple of weeks. I soon discovered that my brother was actually serious, but did not want to bring it up to my mom. After we discovered our mutual secret wish, we confronted her.
“Well, I’m a little surprised. But honestly, I’ve been thinking about moving someday, too. You guys know we don’t have the money to live here for many more years, right?” The thrill of an unexpected possibility gave us courage, and we started to talk about moving regularly. Back then, I had a vision of greeting my aunt and cousins at their door on a bright and perfect day in Michigan. Now, I can see that moving across the country would have been a little drastic. Furthermore, the image in my mind had been based on summer vacations, and had ignored the freezing temperatures of Michigan that I had never been exposed to.
“Hi, sweetie!” My mother and I lifted ourselves off of the couch to see my brother, who had just come home from play rehearsal. Normally Eli is his bubbly, happy self when he comes home from drama practice, but this time, we were greeted with a cold silence and a dark stare. The door, allowed to swing freely, slammed against the wall as we looked at his face, which was ominously shadowed by the lights above. Having a telepathic connection to my brother, I knew immediately what had happened.
Eli has always been one for the dramatic. This means that when he is happy, everyone needs to know about it, and his joy spreads quickly to everyone in the house. It also means that, when something bad happens, or he is upset, his account of the details will often take on the likeness of one of his plays. Tonight, we were being treated to Sweeney Todd.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “What is it, sweetie?” she prodded him. “Dad,” I said, staring at my brother. I could tell by his appearance that he was alright; if he was really hurt or sad, this theatrical scene would have had a different flavor, and I would have picked up on it right away. There is no way to convey perfectly the story that he told that night, no way to communicate the full effect of the dozens of imitations that have meaning and recognition only for the three of us. Had someone been listening in the rafters, he might have thought he had stumbled upon an insane family, one that took great offense in small things. As my brother told it, our father had purchased two tickets to a concert for a musician that my brother enjoyed when he was younger. A nice enough gesture, but the existence of that second ticket hung in the air, permeating it with guilt. When my brother politely refused, my father acted devastated, and refused to admit that Eli had given up that artist years ago. As my brother told it, the conversation went something like this:
“Dad, I’m sorry, but I haven’t listened to Allison Kraus since I was seven! I don’t want you to get so upset.”
“I’m not gettin’ upset!” My dad’s eyes widened with innocence and his arms tried to wave away the accusation. “I never said that.”
“And now you’re getting defensive!” Eli, my mother, and I had talked extensively about the problem of my dad’s defensiveness, and agreed that we never quite felt that we were able to get him to admit he had done something wrong.
“Ahahahaha!” My father guffawed, his eyes squinting with false merriment that was meant to diffuse the situation.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Well, Eli, it sounds like you’re sayin’ that everything I say is wrong!” He generously explained my brother’s mistake, still smiling.
“It is.”
“Well, alright Eli.” The grin, as quickly as it had appeared, morphed into an exaggerated expression of disappointment that was maintained for the rest of their ride home.
As I listened to Eli recount the details of my father’s strange journey through the emotional color wheel, I mostly felt amusement. I had never really taken these problems seriously, especially now that we all agreed that they existed, and discussing them was a huge stress reliever for me. My mother was concerned about my brother’s feelings, but I thought he was okay. But, this incident was almost unprecedented. Here, together, the three of us could pin my dad down and, at least in our heads, hold him accountable for his subtle remarks.
To be fair, this does not represent my dad’s behavior all of the time. Normally, he is fairly easy to get along with. However, it’s spending extended periods of time with him that becomes difficult. I guess everyone has their faults. Although I enjoy talking to him, he can shut people out when he wants to. This is why I am glad that my parents separated, which is something that is very difficult to tell some people; now that we have time away from my father, we can enjoy the good moments we spend with him.
“Aww, I am gonna miss this place.” I was being conciliatory; after a couple weeks of being mad at the house, angry with the dirty, wet firewood that wouldn’t start in the morning, I began to appreciate the years I had spent there. It really was beautiful. When viewed through our six large windows that extended two stories, the sunset over the mountains was something I was taught never to take for granted. I have fond memories of seven-year-old me running through the mud, catching snakes, frogs, and lizards all day in the summer. With our move date approaching, I started to miss the house in advance.
A month later, my mother would throw an imaginary Molotov cocktail into the doorway of the house before closing it for one last time and fleeing the fictitious explosion that followed. I would laugh and follow her into the car to drive the last of our belongings into town. Only now does it occur to me that any family friends who witnessed my mother’s imitation of Stieg Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander would be deeply concerned. But this was an inside joke that I understood immediately; context is everything.
“Oh no! That’s so sad!” My friend’s voice sounded truly hurt over the phone.
“No, actually, it’s fine. It’s not like other separations; this was best for everyone,” I attempted to explain. However, I couldn’t convince her. How could I possibly tell someone that a separation was a good thing? I normally talk about it with sarcasm, but when I seriously consider it, I know that it was indeed the best choice for everyone, even my father, who can now move on and have his own life, while still seeing my brother and me.
“But dude, your house is awesome!” Matt was making the case for me not moving out of my home. The move date was drawing even closer, and I became more and more excited each day as I imagined the beautiful small condo that we had set our sights on. It was positioned perfectly, right in town where we could walk most places if we really needed to. To me, this seemed to be a lovely alternative to the miles and miles of winding, and sometimes icy, roads that stood between my current home and town each day. But would my friend listen? Of course not.
A few weeks later, we were finally doing it. We were in the car, on our way down the curving, serpentine hill for what seemed like the last time. I thought of seeing my best friend, who, miraculously, lived in our new neighborhood. The car pulled into the driveway, and we nervously approached the condo and opened the door; it felt almost like we had met the house online, and were on our first date. I gazed upon all of the empty rooms that seemed so much more spacious than they could have been judging by the outside view, and felt a thrill as I visualized all of my belongings put in their places. I walked into my room, directly to the right of the front door, and dumped my bag on the floor.
“Do you get to see your dad enough?” my aunt asked me. She had a worried look on her face. We were in Houston for a post-Christmas vacation, visiting my dad’s sister and her husband. “Yeah, definitely,” I replied. Later, I would realize that the perfect answer would have been “Whenever we want to.” That usually added up to once a week, although I’m not sure that that would have qualified as “enough” in my aunt’s eyes.
I’m crossing the street, talking with my friend and new neighbor. It feels strange to be able to make plans with someone and simply walk out the door to greet her. My friends had almost had me convinced that I should be upset over the recent changes in my life, but this new life with a smaller house and separated parents was somehow deeply gratifying. I think that I will want to visit my dad this weekend, and maybe go out for sushi; he lives nearby. We stop to stare at the sunset, which looks beautiful against a backdrop of car noises and tightly knit neighborhoods.