The Prodigal Daughter?

Yet again, the phone proves itself an enemy.

Cripps returned a phone call I had made a couple weeks ago. Saturday night at 11:45. I picked up, thinking, "Well, it's not my parents. It can't be too horrific."

Cripps asked why I had called and before I could tell him he said, "Wait a sec... the Baby lost her bink. Have to go be a daddy for a second."

"Aww," I said. (A sincere "aww." I love Cripps' daddy skills.)

"I'm taking you with me," he says, and I can hear him going up the stairs and creaking the door open. "Hi Beaner... Hi sweetie... here's your bink, honey..."

I could hear her whimpering a little. He cooed and comforted her. I said, "Cripps, you're such a good dad..."

Then she started to really cry. She decided she needed to be held, so I said, "Should we talk tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he said, and Baby added an emphatic "WAH!" He now had her on his shoulder, as her cries were louder and closer. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Bye Cripps."

"Bye Jojo. Love you."

*******

12:40am

My book rests on my chin and chest, and the phone jars me into wakefulness. The book somehow flies across the room (and has not yet been found).

"Hey sis." Cripps again.

"Is the Baby asleep?" I ask.

"Yeah, she needed some cuddlin'. She's sleeping now." He says. I'm sure I made an "aww" sound again. "It's unbelievable. It's so cool. I'm her Daddy. I'm the one who knows how to comfort her and make her feel safe."

We talked about this for a while - how I think he and Lois are awesome parents (I don't think parents can hear this enough), and how none of us can really remember what life was like before Baby. Of course, that's not really true. I have a great memory that clings to emotion and ambience as well as facts and phrasing. I remember.

And then we're talking about Dad. I had called to ask his advice on some of the things I wanted to say in the letter I was writing. I don't actually know why I called him. Of the three siblings that seem clued-in about the goings-on at Chez Biv, Cripps is the most... deluded, I suppose. He only has a complaint if someone directly attacks him. Otherwise, things are dandy. I mean, the house could be on fire, and he wouldn't notice or particularly care unless HE went up in flames.

So when I talk to Cripps about things that I deem important, we end up having these circular conversations during which he plays devil's advocate, because this is how he sees life. "Well why not do this instead? You could. There are the following million quatrillion possible paths, and isn't that tiring to think about. Just give up instead. Unless your leg's on fire."

During our conversation Saturday night, he slipped toward his circular tendencies, but then he snapped out of it. He took a side. He took my dad's side, and I completely understood (somewhere deep in my embittered, blackened, defensive heart).

"Why do you have to tell them not to come to Boston? Why can't you let them take you out on the town and buy you groceries and meet your friends?" asked Cripps.

"Cripps, they don't have the money."

"Sure they do."

"They're living on credit..."

"So?"

"So, credit is not money."

"So?"

"I feel really sick just thinking about them taking me to some fancy restaurant that will put them $200 further in the hole, not to mention the hotel, other meals, all the crap they'll try to buy me..."

"Why not let them if it makes them happy?"

"Because it's self-destructive!"

"It is not."

"Oh yes, it is! Ultimately it is! Think about Grandma right now... she HAD money. She was set for life! And now she's just lived too long. Now things are tight. Imagine Mom and Dad at 87, Mom and Dad who have never had a nest egg or a retirement plan or a 401k..."

"What, you wouldn't help them out?"

"Will I be able to? Will you? Anyway, that's not the point. It's self-destructive. Dad's ego rests on a few big manly things, like his ability to bring home the bacon. I know it's not particularly affirming for Mom or Dad to tell me that 'it's like everything's free!' when they whip out the mastercard. Mom wouldn't be sucking down two packs a day if she truly felt that their life has a solid foundation right now. I refuse to let them parade around pretending to own the world to try to impress me or inflict their make-believe on me. I'm not fooled, Cripps. I'm disturbed."

"You can say that again. Hahaha..."

"Shutup. And to see any of their monopoly money going toward alcohol... I think I'll lose it. Dad will take us to some fancy place where the drinks are $12 a pop, and I will fucking lose it. In public."

"Why can't you just have a better attitude about this?"

"POOF. There, you've done it. I no longer feel any anxiety. Thanks, Cripps. Wish I'd talked to you about this back in '93..."

"Jojo, c'mon, why can't you just see it as your parents trying to do something nice for you?"

"Because it's never nice for me... it's always tragic and hurtful. I don't like lying to them or participating in their delusional escapades in any way. It just makes me feel nauseous the whole time. And they feel that... I know they feel that. Maybe it hurts them more to see me in person, reacting to them like that."

"Look, Jo..." He tapered off to silence. Was he thinking? Formulating? Sleeping?

"Yes?"

"Look, I just feel like... God, you know, he's your father. I can't even imagine the day that Baby makes decisions like these. It hurts me to leave her to go to work each day. I can't even imagine the first sleepover, or college, or Boston... and her telling me not to visit her."

I wanted to answer him somehow. 'Then you'll have to work harder than Dad has.' 'You'll be ready by then, you will have lived through enough arguments and experiences...' 'This isn't about you and Baby, goddammit.'

None of that came out of my mouth, and good thing. I just realized in that moment, yet another moment of swallowing words instead of saying them, that I should never have said any of it. He was the wrong person to tell. There isn't a right person to tell. My brothers would love it if my parents left Le Victoire for a weekend. They would love it if Mom and Pop shined around town saying, "We're going to visit our daughter in Boston! Whoohoo!" They would especially love it if I pulled my weight in Operation Keep Dad Afloat.

But since I don't particularly believe in that mission, they can either carry on buoying with beautiful consistency, or my father can come to Boston so I can pop the bubble entirely, then return to Le Victoire to the two sons who certainly cannot handle a tragedy of such proportions.

I said none of this. I said goodnight.

"Good night Jojo. Love you."

************

Mother's Day, 7ish

"So I gather that maybe it would be better if we don't come to Boston?" said my poor mother.

"I've been thinking about it a ton..." I said, half-convinced that I might just invite them.

"That's okay, Joey. I know it's a lot of stress," she said.

"You know how much I love you guys, right?" I said, trying to keep my sobs at bay.

"Oh god, of course we do... "

"And I want to see you. We just maybe have to pick another weekend... that's not so close. I dunno."

"Yeah, we'll set a date." Neither of us got out a calendar.

"Good."

"Good."

"This is a crappy Mother's Day gift, Mom. I'm sorry," I said.

"Well, mothers are made to take this kind of thing."

Ick. Swallowing words... "Happy Mother's day, Mom. I love you."

"Love you, too, Joey. Get some rest."

Apparently, even my subconscious, or whatever part of me kept me awake all last night, refuses to listen to my mother.