Hot Damn(9)

“Hey, Dad,” I say, and he peers at me over his paper.

“Madison.” There’s a wealth of disapproval in the tone.

Why do I put up with this shit?

Right. Because they’re my parents. And I promised myself Christopher wouldn’t grow up not knowing them. He already doesn’t have a father in his life—it seems wrong to me to deny him his grandparents, too.

Most of the time it does, anyway. Other times I’m sure he’d be happier far away from their disapproval and their judgmental crap and their impossibly high bars for what constitutes success.

There’s another knock on the door, and Christopher comes running toward me. Mom must have set him down so she could answer the door. A moment later I hear Mel’s voice as well as that of her husband, Jeff. Dad visibly perks up, setting the paper aside. What am I, chopped liver? But of course I am. I always have been.

I pick up Christopher and settle into a recliner with him in my lap. Mel and Jeff come in, all smiles, and Dad gets up to greet them. He pecks Mel on the cheek, shakes Jeff’s hand. Christopher wiggles out of my lap to run to Mel, holding his arms up, as if he didn’t just spend most of the day with her while I was at work.

To my surprise, it makes me smile. Usually there’s not much that can make me smile at these family dinners. They could hire an entire clown troupe to perform on the table and I doubt I’d crack a grin. But my son? He can make me happy in the worst of times.

Dinner is typically elaborate, with several courses and too many forks. In spite of having grown up in this household, I never figured out which fork was for salad and which was for dessert. I never actually cared. But I can tell by the look I get from Mom that I grabbed the wrong one to spear my lettuce.

“So, Mads,” Mel says as Mom brings out the main course—chicken in some kind of wine sauce with mushrooms, rice pilaf, and a vegetable medley—“Did you tell everybody your good news?”

Shit. I’m not prepared to tell anybody about the acceptance letter from school. I didn’t even tell Mel, so I’m not sure how she knew it was an acceptance. Unless she held it up to the light and read it.

Of course she did.

She used to do that all the time when I was exchanging letters with my pen pal “boyfriend” in eighth grade. It gave her copious blackmail material.

“Um…” I’m not sure what to say. I really just wanted to get through dinner and go home. “No. I haven’t.”

Mel shoves my arm. “Tell them! It’s exciting.”

Mom and Dad are both staring at me now. Christopher is squeezing his rice pilaf in fistfuls, watching the wild rice and orzo slide between his fingers. “Masha tatoes,” he says. “Masha tatoes.” I can’t tell if he thinks it’s mashed potatoes or if he’s expressing a preference. Either way, it’s messy.

“You have news?” Mom says it the way she would ask what that weird smell in the basement is. It’s me, after all. My good news can’t be that great.

“I do, actually.” To my surprise, Mom’s expression shifts, and she actually looks interested. Dad’s eyebrows rise in an expression of cautious optimism. “Can it wait until after dinner?”

Mom and Dad look at each other, and Mel pokes me again. “C’mon, Mads. Tell everybody. We won’t be able to eat if you keep us in suspense.”

I glance at my dad, and the look of actual hope in his eyes makes me flash back to my childhood, those rare occasions when I did something he approved of. Got an A-plus on a math test, or a special note of recognition from a teacher. Maybe he’ll actually be proud of me.

I lay my napkin down. “I got a letter today from the Seattle College of Veterinary Medicine. I’ve been accepted. I can finally get my veterinary degree.”

Mel makes a visible squeal and claps her hands. Christopher echoes the hand-clapping, making rice pilaf fly everywhere. My mom actually smiles. Tentatively I smile back at her.

Then I look at my dad. That hopeful expression has fallen right off his face. Instead his eyebrows are drawn together, the corners of his mouth drawn down. My heart sinks just like it did when I was a little girl and he chastised me.

“Isn’t that cool, Dad?” I try. “I’ve wanted this forever.”

He gives a curt nod. “I thought maybe you’d finally found a father for your son.”

My mouth drops open, snaps shut again. I have no idea what to say to that.

“Dad!” Mel jumps to my defense. “What kind of thing is that to say? Mads wants to be a vet more than anything. You know that.”

“She should have thought of that before—” He stops under Mel’s sudden withering regard. Mom lays a hand on his arm, too, which surprises me. Mel stands up for me on a regular basis, but Mom rarely speaks out against Dad.

They manage to shut him down, but not for long, and after a few seconds he adds in an irritated mutter, “That boy needs a man in his life. It’s not right.”

We’ve been through this before. I’m not sure why I’m so blindsided. But I didn’t expect him to throw this in my face when I’ve finally gotten so much closer to my dream job.

“It’s not like I chased Troy off with a flamethrower,” I snap back. “He’s the one who chose to leave. He’s the one who didn’t want to have anything to do with his own son.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Christopher still playing with his food, though now there’s enough of it on his face I can assume he’s eaten at least part of it. I don’t like talking shit about Troy in front of Christopher. It’s a bad habit to get into, and I’ll have to be way more careful about it as he gets older.

Dad seems oblivious to my concerns. “You could have made sure things worked out. You could have worked harder.” Obviously he has no problem talking shit about me in front of Christopher. That’s going to have to stop, too.

My eyes are stinging. I’m not going to cry, but I’m so angry I could spit nails. “How much harder was I supposed to work? It’s not like I could have forced him to stay. We all would have been miserable.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten involved with him in the first place.” Dad’s voice is tight and spitty now, and I know this path is going to lead nowhere good. He half rises from his chair, more to emphasize his point than to indicate he’s about to storm out or anything. “And you certainly shouldn’t have gotten yourself—”

“Dad!” Mel breaks in.

At the same time, Mom says, “Madison, have you thought about who’s going to take care of Christopher while you’re at school?”

Dad falls silent. So do I. Mom continues, “Vet school is very demanding. You’ll have to be up late nights studying, going to classes probably every day—not to mention the time it’ll take to get hands-on experience and set up a practice. How are you going to manage that with a child who needs your attention?”

“Lots of women go to school or work full time.” I know neither of them thinks this is a good argument. Mom never worked a day in her life—God forbid she should depend on anyone other than her husband for her financial well-being. It’s so old school, and neither of them seems to understand that the world has moved past the “traditional family” model, whatever the hell that was in the first place.

“There’s day care,” I tell Mom, then shoot Mel a pleading look. “And Mel could keep helping. She’s so good with Christopher.” I’m never sure Mel understands how thoroughly grateful I am for the help she provides. I’d be up shit creek, not just without a paddle but without a canoe, if it weren’t for my sister.

She gives me a small smile, though, and I know she’s at least on my side in this conflict, regardless of how it falls out.

“That’s all well and good,” Mom continues, “but day care costs money. And so does college. How will you have time to work your job, go to school, and take care of your son? You won’t be able to afford school without the job, and you won’t be able to hold down a full-time job while you’re going to school.”

God. Why does she have to be this way? Why do they have to be this way? Some of the best news of my life, and they just want to shoot it down. “There are scholarships. And loans. There are lots of loans especially for single moms who want to go back to school.”

“But you have to pay those loans back.”

Wow, Mom. Thanks for pointing out the obvious.

“So getting a loan doesn’t quite solve your problem, does it?”

“Besides,” Dad chimes in, “I think you’ll be hard-pressed to get a loan given your credit history.”

My credit history that Troy trashed for me, and that I haven’t quite gotten repaired. Of course Dad would bring that up. My face goes cold, then hot. My eyes burn, and this time I think maybe I am going to cry, but I swallow it back. There’s a big opening here, a chance for me to ask for help. I can’t do it. I just can’t.

And then I do. “I could if you’d cosign for me.”

There’s a long moment of silence so tense it’s almost opaque. Even Christopher is quiet. I watch emotions wash down Dad’s face—shock, then anger, both quickly quelled. His mouth goes tight.