My mom came back from the hospital without a baby.
It's difficult to speak from the heart about a brother I never had. The whole event didn't know how to bother me. That's what the doctors said; they said I was fine. I'm fine.
Right when she came home, my mom went straight to her room. Dad entered the kitchen door a few minutes later. Both of them didn't even notice me sitting at the table. Of course, I was busy watching Jeopardy. No one bothered me, ever, during that show. It was a rule that they learned a few years ago, when I stopped vacantly flipping channels and started watching the game. For dinner I had a frozen chicken-pot pie, the kind you warm up in the microwave, but our microwave hadn't worked for five weeks.
A few days later, around noon, my mom finally came out of her room and joined me for lunch. I was into the playing sick scheme from school the past few days. Mom didn't show any surprise or anything when she saw me. Actually, her eyes were all puffed from oversleep, so I couldn't read anything. Her arms were stiffly positioned in front of her, like a mannequin. And she was smiling down at her bent arms, swaying back and forth right to left.
"What're you having?" she asked in an empty voice.
"Eggs." I had a plateful of scrambled egg whites in front of me, which was pretty exciting. I was saving the yolks for some baking recipie.
"Eggs? That's good. I'll have some too. And could you warm up some milk for Benjamin?" She tilted her head innocently at me.
My first reaction was, Oh god my mother invited her weird friends over again, people whose drug abuse transformed their collective digestive system so they could only ingest heated lactose. But while I stared intently at her, I began to understand. I was stuck. I didn't know if she really wanted me to waste milk, so I slowly took out the pot and skim milk.
"Wait, don't we have any regular milk? The red kind?"
The red kind. I sighed obnoxiously, the kind of sigh that would make Dad raise his eyebrows. Mom didn't respond, however, so I continued to use the same old skim milk. I premeasured two cups of milk into half cups, simmering each half cup of milk and then adding the next. The whole preparation took about forty-five mintues. I poured the milk into a glass, spilling about a fourth of it on the floor, and brought it to the table. The plate of eggs was now clean.
My mom giggled, "In a bottle, a bottle."
I dug through the kitchen cabinets. I was sure we had a few. Most families prepare for the unexpected. I found one and washed it out before pouring in the milk. And I sterilized the nipple. I don't know why I bothered. After I callously tossed the bottle to my mom, I headed towards my room. I was exhausted, and the egg yolks were going to have to wait.
"Before you go to bed," my mom called out, "don't forget to ask your father to take you to school."
By the time I went back to the kitchen to watch Jeopardy, my mom had already gone to bed. The bottle lay empty on the table. Dad was eating some dry cereal, but he didn't talk to me because, like I said, I was watching Jeopardy.
The next day I actually went to school and explained to the teachers my life story. "Hi, my mom lost her baby, and now she thinks she's found it, and I had to help her take care of it." They nodded their heads as if they went through the same event--like a phase of puberty or something. Then they gave me all the work from the past three days and expected me to turn in everything by tomorrow. After school, I chucked all the books into my locker and rode home with Dad.
He was in a talkative mood on the way home. He was almost excited. I hoped it wasn't contagious.
"So, I was thinking about grilling some steak for dinner. We're gonna have a good dinner tonight. Could you make the rest of the stuff? You know, salad, bread..."
"Sure."
"I picked up the steaks at the store because they were on sale. I couldn't resist, not after seeing you eating those additive-infested institutional foods. I got real Vidalia onions, a bit pricey but fresh. And I bought croutons, which your mother loves. Where are your books?"
"In my locker. Did you get any lettuce? Usually salads have lettuce."
"Yup. All the groceries are in the back seat. Hope nothing spilled. At least a hundred dollars' worth of food. Unload the groceries when we get home, ok? I'll go wake your mom. Maybe she'll be up to making her famous banana pudding. I even got those silly little vanilla wafers." He held up his hand to show me how tiny the the wafers were. "Only a dollar forty-nine."
He looked at me thorough the rearview mirror with his hopeful eyes of his, and I just looked away.
When we got home, I unloaded the groceries and nosed around. Eight full bags--I had never seen that much in my whole life. And what's in paper bag number one? Cereal, Pledge, Tide. Behind bag two? Milk, orange juice, cans of Spam. You know, this was amusing. An exploration of the family eating habits. So far, I hadn't seen any lettuce. I looked in the third bag. Inside were cans marked with black and white baby faces and the word "Gerber." I picked out a can that had a brownish substance inside. "Strained Apples and Green Beans," I read aloud. Wild salad dressing choice, I tried to think. I looked at the rest of the groceries. One had a bag of Kroger brand diapers. I leaned back and sighed. She had gotten to him too.
Dad entered the kitchen a few seconds later and saw me still clenching onto the baby food. "It makes her happy," he pleaded.
I was about to say something until my mom came bouncing in, wearing a new bright pink jumpsuit. I despise the color pink. Pink was a scab scratched too early. My mom obviously cherished it. "Banana pudding! Let's do one of those family-dinner things, but you two better be quiet. It's Benjamin's nap-time."
"His nap-time," Dad repeated uncertainly.
"Nap-time," I finished. We were all in it together.
After the table, lacking a salad, was set , I realized if we went on, we'd scar--or worse, fester. Before the pink did. My mom told us not to eat yet, left the kitchen, and came back rolling in my old, squeaky high chair.
"Ta-da!" (squeak squeak) "Here we come," (squeak) "our first meal with family." (squeak)
Dad stopped eating and stared at her and the harsh yellow high chair with his mouth open. This was probably his first time to see Benjamin. I guess he was thinking the same thing I was.
My mom stared back, as if she were daring him to say something, as if it were his... "...fault the baby's a ghost," she challenged. Dad looked crestfallen, but he didn't say anything. He rubbed his eyes.
Tension was burning, and it was my chance to cool the two down. They were looking at each other, but somehow it all equaled up to me. I really would have done something, I mean it, but it was 7:35. I was already late for Jeopardy.
I'm not obssesed with Jeopardy or anything. I'd rather watch cartoons, but the good ones show on Saturday mornings. Plus my parents would think I'm a kid. So I watch this show. It gets intense. I just thought I'd tell you that, in case you think I have something to do with my parents' mental health. I believe I was born with a responsible adult mind. I'm just here, physically, to show the outcome of their sex lives. I still don't know why they're still together. I guess he loves her, in some sick, twisted way.
The morning after that incident, I went down to catch some eggs, sunny side up, of course. Also, I thought I was hearing tears, which is something I usually don't hear. My dad was in the kitchen eating this brown substance. I asked him what it was.
"Strained apples and green beans," he winced.
I wondered what time it was.
"Sit down," my father continued, pointing to the high chair on his left. I was hoping that my dad wouldn't catch my mother's madness, but I suppose that wish was just a dream, like all of them. I looked down the hall towards my mom's room.
"She left us," he said.
"Left us."
My father looked at me and turned away. His eyes were red. "Actually, I think she. . . my wife just wanted to leave me."
It's hard understanding parents. Because they are always wrong in emotionally interpreting their spouse. I stood there shaking my head. I realized her intentions. She was never able to convince him, not completely. My dad caught onto the madness, but not the sense of it all--he knew the answer, but not the question. He remembered me too much.
I watched him with pity. "Saturday morning cartoons are on."
I switched on the television.
--jmfe