Chapter 11

After my awkward run-in with Mr. Becker, I decided I needed a change of scenery; put simply, I wanted to run away, and that’s what I did, driving home for the weekend. I skipped Friday classes, surprising my mom with my appearance at the back door early in the afternoon. Not one to argue with having me home, she hugged me; knowing that my arrival alluded to discontent at school, she said nothing more than that dinner would be ready in a couple of hours.

I went up to my old room, did nothing more than sit on my bed and stare out my window. Like the many hours spent in high school. My stereo softly played my favorite CD of the moment. My mind wandered.

I was disappointed. The work I had done, the effort I had put into writing that paper, had exceeded any previous project. And what was the payoff? A thirty minute discussion of my obvious faults as a writer and the prospect of more research, more reading, and, of course, “stating an opinion”.

This was not the scenario anticipated, expected. Every other class, I did half the work and received glowing compliments; this time, I got what I considered a mediocre reception at best. Though Mr. Becker’s final comment still echoed in my head, I remained dubious. It was a comment made to pacify what, he thought, was a nearly hysterical student. He wasn’t that far from the truth.

I castigated myself for foolishly delving into this line of research while simultaneously questioning my reaction to his criticism. A Professor’s opinion, while important, never carried this significance. I did my own thing, defined my own standards for acceptable work. I purposely set standards higher than might be realistically possible, negating fears of failing a professor’s expectations. Now, faced with someone who demanded more, I was paralyzed. I should be stronger than this. That made me sick.

The smell of lasagna began work its way into my room. The tangy bite of basil, mixed with the hearty smell of ground beef and tomatoes, settled around me, wrapping me in the comforting warmth of stability. One of my favorite meals…my luck must be changing, I thought.

I made my way downstairs, surprised by the growing cacophony coming from the kitchen. As I neared the doorway, framed before me was a scene of classic domesticity; mom was sitting at a stool at the kitchen island, talking to my sister, who stood at across the counter slicing bread. In the highchair situated between them sat my niece, who happily chewed on the ear of her new favorite toy, a puffy and fat toy cat that resembled Garfield.

I appreciated the scene for a few seconds, pausing just out of sight. Though it might seem cliché, this was typical for our family. Dinner time was attended by everyone, as long as no serious obligations intruded. Even Dad, despite his long hours, would be there, though he usually walked in right as we were about to sit down, and would regularly return to the office once the dishes were cleared. It was, to both mom and dad, a priority; dinner time was guaranteed face time, when, for at least half an hour straight, we would be in the same room talking to one another. Friends were always invited when we were younger, but my sister and I understood implicitly that, if we were invited elsewhere, we were to politely refuse and get our butts home on time.

Nostalgia was interrupted by the sound of my name. Staying quiet, I listened as my mom quickly informed my sister of her concerns about my sudden appearance.

“You know him. He doesn’t come home unless something is wrong at school…something seriously wrong. He went straight up to his room and just sat there.”

“Mom, that’s that way he likes to work things out…in his head, always in his head. Either way, you won’t get it out of him unless he is in the mood to talk about it. Just let him be for awhile. If he seems really out of it I’ll corner him later…”

I decided now would be a good time to make some noise. Their conversation immediately ended, and as I made way into the kitchen, it was back to all smiles on both my mom and sister’s faces. Only the tight lines around my mother’s mouth betrayed how she was really feeling. I saw it.

“So lasagna, huh? Are you trying to bride me into moving back home, or is it just good timing?”

Hoping that would ease some of my mom’s worries, I then turned my attention to my niece who was happily tossing her cat around by its tail.

Of course everyone thinks of their nieces and nephews as the cutest, brightest, best kids in the world. We wouldn’t spoil them otherwise. But, regardless of the personal bias, my niece was absolutely the greatest. Maybe all the temper tantrums and screaming were being stored away, to be unleashed upon us in a hurricane of uncontrollable behavior once she hit the “terrible twos”. But, up till know, she had been a joy to sit for, be around, play with.

She had been startling revelation for me; when I baby-sat for her, I starting to imagine myself with kids. That first time I felt that paternal tug, the “hey, what if she was mine” was thoroughly unsettling - so much so that I refused to baby-sit for at least a couple of months. I wasn’t the kids-type, and most people who knew me whole-heartedly agreed with that. Mess, chaos, disorder – those are the things that I associated with the word “children”. And, in the world of a slightly obsessive-compulsive clean freak with organizing tendencies that had become legendary, children were not part of the grand picture.

So, whenever I saw my niece, it was with a mix of polarizing emotions. I was asking myself questions I never considered before. Could I be a good father? Or would I, like my father, make mistakes that I would spend the rest of my life trying to undo? Like the other extremes I wrestled with, this one weighed on me more and more. However, in this case, the consequences affected someone else; that was a responsibility I wasn’t sure I wanted to, was able to, accept.

Dinner remained a light affair; topics were avoided and there was a casual acceptance that my presence at home would not be discussed. Picking at my plate, I watched my family around me, distanced myself from the scene. My sister’s husband, who had just arrived, was helping feed my niece, using several methods to induce cooperation. To his side, my sister and my mom discussed the various immeasurable nuances of my niece’s unstoppable development, noting the differences as only mothers can. I saw the occasional glances between my sister and her husband, the unspoken moments of shared love for both their daughter and each other.

A pang of jealousy surfaced. My sister had found her husband in college, a friendship that became romance that became love. It seemed so simple, the way it developed; simple, subtle, but foreshadowed by their constant need for each other’s company, conversation, companionship. Their relationship had become another ideal for me to compare my own life to, a scenario I could occasionally dream of for my own life. But my time in school was running out, and so was the opportunity for such a narrative to emerge.

My sister and her husband did not stay too long after dinner ended. With bedtime quickly coming for my niece, my sister took a moment to find me alone while her husband gathered the various baby accessories that now caravanned with them from house to car and back again.

“Hey...so we have to leave in a sec…but mom wanted me to check in with you.”

“I know. She’s worried. But it’s nothing that serious, just problems with a class.”

My sister smiled at this. Perhaps because it was an excuse I had never used before.

“Really? A class? A class would worry you this much?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, do you want to talk about it?”

“No…not really. I’m just not doing as well as I want to. But I’ll fix it. Just didn’t want to deal with it yet.”

My sister looked at me. Uncertainty crossed her face, mixed with sibling sympathy.

“Well, I know that you’ll figure it out…but let me know if you want to talk.”

I smiled at her, glad for the support she so quickly gave. It helped, to know that it was always there.

“I promise that if it was a bigger problem, I’d ask you for help.”

We heard my mom call for her, telling her that everything was ready for her to leave. My sister waved a little goodbye and headed off. While I waved back, I felt both relieved and disappointed that I wasn’t pressed to share more.