Chapter 17 #3
Now he’s talking out of his ass. I don’t believe a word of it. Jeremy’s known us both for a long time, and he can’t possibly believe it, either.
“How many of those have you had?” I joke. I stand up, clink my bottle against his, and take another drink. “Good talk. Thank you for the beer and for your profound insight once again.”
Then I pull a Kaplan-style disappearing act, except that I don’t bother to sneak out. I set my empty beer bottle on the table in the foyer, walk out the front door where everyone can see, and slam the door behind me.
At my apartment, watching Christmas Vacation, I can’t get that weird conversation with Jeremy out of my mind.
I’m exhausted. This holiday season, more than any other, has worn me down. I’ve never considered a career with the Hometown League, but Andre and Jeremy, two people I’ve worked with and admire, have brought it up. Maybe they’re onto something.
But something else that Jeremy said really sticks with me. I turn it over in my head again and again. You can get another job, but you can’t get another Abbey.
I think about what she said in the car that night, how she wouldn’t wait around for me to get my own store and get my act together.
But I can’t help but believe that if I can just get through these next few months, show my dad that I’m capable of success, and earn that GM position, maybe I can make it work with Abbey, too.
I turn off the movie and pull a stack of rumpled zines from one of the coffee table shelves.
I emailed the guy who publishes psycho logic and offered him a hundred bucks for a copy of every issue with one of Abbey’s articles.
I’ve read them a hundred times. She’s sharp and funny and compassionate.
She’s so talented. I don’t want to admit that she’s wasting that talent at Hometown Electronics, but it’s the truth.
I read all the articles late into the night, until the print blurs.
Christmas morning, early, as I’m making a pot of coffee and staring at the Snickers bar from Abbey, Mom calls.
My plan for today—homemade pizza and Christmas movies on cable—does not include my family.
Dad and Chanelle flew to their timeshare in Mexico this morning.
Kelsey and Andre will spend the day with Andre’s family.
Kaplan, apparently, has a new “special friend,” (that’s Chanelle-speak), and is meeting the special friend’s family today.
Although he hasn’t shared any details, I suspect it’s a guy named Jordan I met at The Cabooze on Kap’s birthday in September.
He’s a video game buyer at corporate. I like him.
I didn’t plan to speak to a single person today. But because I’m not a complete waste of a son, I pick up when I see Mom’s name on the caller ID.
“Merry Christmas, honey!” The connection is staticky.
“Merry Christmas. Where are you?” I should probably know this.
“We’ve been in Angola, but we decided to visit Cape Town for the holidays. It’s beautiful here. You’d love it.”
Would I? I probably would, although I’m not sure she has the right or the knowledge base to say that. But it’s Christmas, so I don’t push it.
“Nice,” I say instead.
“We’re coming back to the States soon.” I notice that she says States, not home. “Gregory’s niece is getting married. We’ve decided to stay for a couple of months.”
“That’s great.” It is. It’ll be nice to see her, although I can’t help but wonder how much time she’ll actually have for her children.
“I’d love to plan a weekend away. We know someone with a timeshare in Phoenix. Or maybe we could visit Door County.” She pauses. “Remember the year we camped there over Memorial Day weekend? We had so much fun.”
I couldn’t possibly forget, even though it was a lifetime ago.
The divorce was still fresh, we’d only lived in Wisconsin for a few months, and Kelsey complained the entire weekend: It was too cold, it was too hot, there were too many gnats, she wasn’t built for sleeping in a tent.
Kaplan and I found countless ways to irritate her.
I was, what, ten, eleven years old? I sat on the rocky shore of Lake Michigan for hours one day, alone, needing time and space away from my fractured family.
How could he do this to us, I thought. How could she?
I found no answers in the relentless waves hitting the shore or the sun beating down on my face.
“Sure, Mom,” I say, even though a weekend anywhere with a mother I barely know anymore and my grown siblings with lives of their own sounds awful. “Maybe you can be here for the kick-off game at the Metrodome.”
Every spring, early in the season, the Twin Cities Hometown League hosts an event for players and volunteers at a Minnesota Twins game, and it’s been one of the highlights of my year for as long as I can remember.
“That would be fun.” She sounds hesitant and so far away. “Email me the details, okay, and I’ll see if we can make it.”
“Will do.”
“I’ve got to run. Lovely to hear your voice. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, sweetheart. Love you!”
“Love you, Mom,” I say, but she’s already hung up.