Read Online Surviving Valencia by Holly Tierney-Bedord - Free Book Online
Authors: Holly Tierney-Bedord
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about Swedish meatballs?” asked my dad, on cue.
“Really, it’s all the same to me,” I said.
“Passive aggressive,” my husband sang into my ear, disguising it as a kiss. His breath smelled of alcohol.
“Well, the pork chops are thawed out. That’s what we were planning on.”
I cleared my throat, trying to gather some nerve. I imagined myself saying aloud, Do you know, I actually am not a fan of pork chops. Or Swedish meatballs. Those were things your other, dead children liked. I imagined my mother’s disinterested response: Since when? she would say. She wouldn’t look up. She would be multi-tasking or munching on a carrot with her mouth half full.
I remained silent. This was no longer my home. I was a guest now, and I would eat what they served me.
“She’s always been that way: Picky,” my dad said to Adrian. “Once, when we were on a trip to Glacier National Park, she ordered a big plate of fish sticks and French fries. Only, you see, they weren’t the kind of French fries she was used to, so let me tell you, she starts crying and carrying on, and before you know it she’s thrown the whole plate on the floor.”
“I’m ready for another drink,” I said. I remembered the story he was telling, only he had a key detail wrong: It had not been me. There had been a little girl who was about three years old sitting at the table next to ours all those years ago. She had been upset that the fries were not crinkle cut. Furthermore, she had not thrown a plate of them onto the floor, she had thrown a small fistful onto the floor, and then had been backhanded by her father.
I looked at my mother but she was busying herself with the pork chops and a bag of Shake and Bake.
“Do you remember that, Mom?” I asked.
“Hmmm?” She shook, shook, shook the bag without looking up.
Adrian put his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Is that the truth? Would you actually throw your fish sticks on the floor?”
“French fries,” I corrected.
Adrian turned back to my father, “She still throws her food on the floor when I take her out, Roger. It’s why we can never go anywhere fancy.”
“All right, gang. We’ve got half with Shake and Bake and half without,” said my mom. She had arranged the pork chops on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil that was molded into separate trough-like compartments to keep the Shake and Baked pork chops from contaminating the plain ones.
“Love this Reynolds Wrap,” she continued, licking her fingers. “Makes clean up a snap.” Her hair looked big and she looked old. I began to feel queasy. Being here always made me sick.
“Patricia, goddammit, put barbeque sauce on the ones without the Shake and Bake,” said my dad. He looked at Adrian and shook his head in exasperation. Adrian gave me another squeeze.
“We’re going to look at your yard,” I said, taking Adrian’s hand and leading him outside to their spinning windmills and pint-sized wishing wells. It was the only excuse I could think of to get a minute away from them without causing offense. It was no use. My father followed closely behind us in his cloud of cigar smoke, coughing and spitting big slimy wads of yellow phlegm on the grass and melting snow piles.
“There’s not much coming up yet. Few things popping through. I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows again. Don’t let a warm couple of days fool you.”
“I know, Dad.”
My father thinks that moving to Savannah completely wiped out my understanding of how Midwest weather works.
“Do you have a garden in Savannah?” My parents have only visited us once, when they were on the way down to my aunt’s house in Florida.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he repeated. It was the kind of answer that made my father mad.
“Roger, are you going to grill these or do I have to do it?” called my mother. She had an oven mitt on each hand, holding the cookie sheet of pork chops, her elbows sticking straight out. She looked like a
“Really, it’s all the same to me,” I said.
“Passive aggressive,” my husband sang into my ear, disguising it as a kiss. His breath smelled of alcohol.
“Well, the pork chops are thawed out. That’s what we were planning on.”
I cleared my throat, trying to gather some nerve. I imagined myself saying aloud, Do you know, I actually am not a fan of pork chops. Or Swedish meatballs. Those were things your other, dead children liked. I imagined my mother’s disinterested response: Since when? she would say. She wouldn’t look up. She would be multi-tasking or munching on a carrot with her mouth half full.
I remained silent. This was no longer my home. I was a guest now, and I would eat what they served me.
“She’s always been that way: Picky,” my dad said to Adrian. “Once, when we were on a trip to Glacier National Park, she ordered a big plate of fish sticks and French fries. Only, you see, they weren’t the kind of French fries she was used to, so let me tell you, she starts crying and carrying on, and before you know it she’s thrown the whole plate on the floor.”
“I’m ready for another drink,” I said. I remembered the story he was telling, only he had a key detail wrong: It had not been me. There had been a little girl who was about three years old sitting at the table next to ours all those years ago. She had been upset that the fries were not crinkle cut. Furthermore, she had not thrown a plate of them onto the floor, she had thrown a small fistful onto the floor, and then had been backhanded by her father.
I looked at my mother but she was busying herself with the pork chops and a bag of Shake and Bake.
“Do you remember that, Mom?” I asked.
“Hmmm?” She shook, shook, shook the bag without looking up.
Adrian put his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Is that the truth? Would you actually throw your fish sticks on the floor?”
“French fries,” I corrected.
Adrian turned back to my father, “She still throws her food on the floor when I take her out, Roger. It’s why we can never go anywhere fancy.”
“All right, gang. We’ve got half with Shake and Bake and half without,” said my mom. She had arranged the pork chops on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil that was molded into separate trough-like compartments to keep the Shake and Baked pork chops from contaminating the plain ones.
“Love this Reynolds Wrap,” she continued, licking her fingers. “Makes clean up a snap.” Her hair looked big and she looked old. I began to feel queasy. Being here always made me sick.
“Patricia, goddammit, put barbeque sauce on the ones without the Shake and Bake,” said my dad. He looked at Adrian and shook his head in exasperation. Adrian gave me another squeeze.
“We’re going to look at your yard,” I said, taking Adrian’s hand and leading him outside to their spinning windmills and pint-sized wishing wells. It was the only excuse I could think of to get a minute away from them without causing offense. It was no use. My father followed closely behind us in his cloud of cigar smoke, coughing and spitting big slimy wads of yellow phlegm on the grass and melting snow piles.
“There’s not much coming up yet. Few things popping through. I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows again. Don’t let a warm couple of days fool you.”
“I know, Dad.”
My father thinks that moving to Savannah completely wiped out my understanding of how Midwest weather works.
“Do you have a garden in Savannah?” My parents have only visited us once, when they were on the way down to my aunt’s house in Florida.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he repeated. It was the kind of answer that made my father mad.
“Roger, are you going to grill these or do I have to do it?” called my mother. She had an oven mitt on each hand, holding the cookie sheet of pork chops, her elbows sticking straight out. She looked like a
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