A Family Thing
by
Randy Beal
Copyright 2014 Randy Beal,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by The Route Group
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9850-5874-6
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is dedicated to
my beautiful and amazing wife, Emily.
I love you more every day.
Acknowledgments
Aunt Sandy, thank you so much for your support in my dream and allowing me to dream even bigger. Bob, thanks for being a great writing partner & even better friend. Michael, you keep knocking it out of the park thanks for everything. To the others that have shared their knowledge with me on this book, thank you.
Reunion
The house rose up to meet us on the right. "Can't miss that," I thought. It was the only house on this stretch of County Road 10. I was told it would be a white farmhouse, but years of aging and weather damage had yellowed it, like a smoker's smile. One of the shutters on the second level was missing a hinge and leaned inward, as if the house were winking at me.
As we turned down the gravel drive, I realized I was excited to be here--my first family reunion since I was a child. Dad and I made the trek down from the suburbs of Chicago early that morning. I smiled to see the porch swing in the same spot and remembered sitting there in Grandpa's lap, trying to stay awake to hear his stories as the sun was setting.
Dad popped the car into park and fished in the back seat to grab our obligatory out-of-towner's bucket of chicken. I grabbed some lawn chairs from the trunk. We made our way around to the back.
I saw a lot of familiar faces that were somehow hard to place. Groups of grey-haired ladies were bunched up under a patio umbrella sipping iced teas. Some of them waved. One lady carrying a casserole came over to hug my dad and motioned a man in a plaid vest over. "You remember little Donnie, don't you?" she nudged him. "And this must be Jacob." She transferred the casserole to her partner and pulled me in for a hug.
"Good to see you," I offered generically. Dad must have realized I was struggling, so he interjected, "Jake, this is Ellie."
"How have you been?" I followed up, just as generically. Thankfully, just at that moment, one of the kitchen ladies called her back for a consultation. Her casserole-toting partner (I assumed a husband, but didn't know) left with her.
Dad walked up to a man and woman that looked to be about his age. I followed. "There he is!" the man shouted, making a gun with his fingers and shooting it. He took a shot at me, too, then blew the imaginary smoke off the barrel. Dad didn't wait for me to make small talk this time.
"Jake, this is Gail and Clayton. They live in Kentucky and they took care of you after you had that accident."
By then, the masses of relatives had formed a circle around us. Dad began to introduce them in quick-fire fashion.
"This is Jack. And yes, his wife, Jill. No kidding. This is Lewis, whom you know. He lives about two miles up the road. This is Phillip. You met Ellie and Hank. And who can forget Chester, the saint of the family?"
I shook all the hands and nodded and repeated their names and then someone put a plate of food and a drink in my hands. So I found a seat and fell to it. I couldn’t wait to dig in. There was brisket, a couple of different casseroles, baked beans, and pecan pie. This was going to be a good day.
Good Times
I rubbed my eyes, the glow of the computer finally getting to me. How long had I been sitting here trying to finish the article? "Susan will kill me," I muttered out loud, though no one was in the room with me. Rachel was no doubt already in bed; she got so tired so early these days.
It suddenly occurred to me that my unfinished piece on a local charity just needed something from an old article. I knew there was a print out of that somewhere. I started shuffling through the various piles on my desk and inadvertently knocked one of them over, which fell behind the desk into spider territory. I was down on my hands and knees trying to tease it out when Rachel smacked me soundly on the rump.
"Careful where you point that thing, babe," she joked.
"What are you still doing up?" I asked without rising. "And I didn't say stop."
She smacked me even harder. "Look at this when you're done mooning me."
I shook my fanny a few more times, and rose to see what she had. A handful of swatches. Looked like she was still undecided on colors for the nursery.
"What do you think of this combo? And what are YOU still doing locked away in here? I thought your article was due at nine."
"You know I always use up my one hour grace period." I flipped through the swatches. "Seriously? You think I have an opinion between taupe and mauve?" I winked, just in case I needed to prevent a mysterious offense. "This one," I pointed.
Rachel tore the swatch I had pointed to in half and threw it in the trash. "Excellent work. Helpful as always."
I pretended to be more shocked than I was. "Why'd you ask me in the first place if you were just going to pick what you wanted?"
"I wanted to make you feel like you were a part of this, even though we both really know who's in charge."
I rolled my eyes.
"I saw that," she said. "The nursery color is no big deal, but you'd better up your game, mister, when this baby is born." She jabbed a finger into my chest.
A flash of anger rose up in me and for an instant I envisioned myself bending that finger backwards until she cried out in pain. Instead I said, "What are you talking about? I'll get the nursery done in time."
"Will you?" she paused for a moment as if deciding to push it further, then turned without waiting for an answer.
I huffed and went back to searching for the article. I found it a short time later, worked it in to the right place, ran spell check, and submitted it to Susan, all well within my one hour grace period. I should have been pleased with myself, but instead I was still in full-on stew mode with a low and slow setting and couldn't shake what Rachel had said about upping my game. Why did that bother me so much?
I put my head down on the desk to rest for a moment.
I guess Rachel's finger-pointing bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Maybe because she was right. I was dragging my feet: on the nursery, on being ready, on this whole dad thing, even though it was my idea to begin with. I had promised to read What to Expect When You're Expecting faithfully along with Rachel, but hadn't gotten past the first chapter. I did want to—DO want to--have a kid. It was Rachel who initially resisted the idea. I now found it difficult to remember the arguments I had used on her. Whatever it was, it did the trick and in her usual Rachel way, once she had resigned herself to the idea, she went after it hard core and by-the-book. She insisted we read the standard parenting books, dove into planning the nursery, reminded me at every turn how things would change. At first, it was endearing, seeing her finally excited about my dream. But her zeal got me thinking that I should be more excited and why wasn't I?
True, this was all new territory for us, but I usually was up for change, for an adventure. Like when Dad