The Rom-Commers(87)

“We weren’t taking a vacation,” Sylvie said. “We were getting engaged.”

I stopped.

Then I said, “Engaged? Like, to be married?”

“To be married,” Sylvie confirmed. “Salvador asked Dad’s permission last week, and then the two of them cooked up this whole scheme—and they were so excited about it. Totally in cahoots. And Dad was having so much fun and really bonding—not that they needed to bond. They’re already like BFFs. Dad’s teaching Salvador how to play the harmonica, and they’ve set up a dartboard in the living room—”

“That can’t be a good idea—”

“—and Salvador loves Dad, and he’s so good at looking after people—just such a nurturer—and so he’s got this whole dream for us that we’ll get married and build our lives around Dad, and family, and being the best caregivers ever, and so that’s what we were trying to do: just take another step forward into our lives together and making it all happen.”

“And then you went to the beach,” I said, in a tone that clearly sounded much more like And then you killed our dad.

Which—granted—was maybe a bit harsh.

Sylvie descended into sobs.

But I didn’t care.

For maybe the first time ever, I wasn’t on Sylvie’s side first.

I wanted to empathize with her, I really did.

Objectively, their little fantasy was lovely. Who wouldn’t get excited about building a little health-and-wellness-themed life with Salvador—kids running around and trips to the farmers market and cutting-edge therapies to help our dad live his best possible life?

In another frame of mind, I might have jumped on board, too.

But as it was—in traffic while rushing to the airport with our dad in emergency surgery, still wearing Charlie’s humiliating fleece-lined sweatshirt—I was having trouble accentuating the positive. All I could see in Sylvie and Salvador’s plan was selfishness. Selfishness and hubris. They wanted to go to the beach? How dare they?

Didn’t they know that if there was some way to make life with Dad charming and delightful I would have found it already?

“You left him,” I said, feeling a howl in my chest that I now recognize as ten years of unspoken resentment. “To go to the beach! And he fell down the stairs. And now he’s on the brink of death getting a hole drilled in his head. That’s all there is to it. Did you think what I’ve been doing all these years was easy? Did you think I just hadn’t been creative enough in my approach? Did you think I didn’t go to the beach because I didn’t want to?”

Sylvie didn’t answer.

“I love the damn beach!” I half shouted.

Sylvie was still crying, but I didn’t care.

“I would’ve given anything to go to the beach! But I didn’t! Because I knew that I—I alone—was the only thing standing between the only parent we’ve got left and this exact situation! You knew that, too. You couldn’t have not known. But I must’ve ruined you. I killed myself to give you everything you ever wanted and I guess I taught you that’s how life is. But I was lying the whole time. That’s the opposite of how life is. You don’t get everything you want! You get a few tiny, broken pieces of what you thought you wanted and you tell yourself over and over it’s more than enough!”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvie whispered.

But I was revved up now. “It’s so tempting to blame myself,” I went on. “That I set you up for failing me by never asking you to sacrifice anything or think about anyone else, ever, other than yourself. I’m so tempted to say That’s on me, like I always do. But you know what, Sylvie? This one is really on you. This wasn’t complicated. This wasn’t confusing. You were told what to do! Never let Dad out of your sight! Simple! Not easy, but simple! I did it day in and day out for ten years—and all I needed from you was six pathetic weeks. But I guess I can’t have them. You can give up your internship and act all self-sacrificing and do this grand gesture of telling me to go off and live my dreams—but if you can’t do the job right, then I can’t really do it, can I? If you leave Dad alone and he winds up in the ICU and I have to race home to Texas at the crack of dawn without even telling Charlie what happened and I wind up breaching our contract and not even getting paid—that’s the same thing as not letting me go at all!”

But as soon as I heard those words, I had to correct them. “No! Wait!” I went on, my voice starting to tremble. “It’s worse! Because you got my hopes up. And it’s so much more agonizing to hope for something and not get it than to never even hope at all.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvie rasped out.

But I was so angry I didn’t care. “I don’t even know what to do right now,” I said. “But I know one thing for sure. If Dad dies? If your trip to the beach kills our father? You will never see me again—guaranteed.”

But I guess Sylvie had had enough of being called a murderer for now.

There was a funny half pause. And then Sylvie said, “If my trip to the beach kills our father,” Sylvie said, “we’ll be even. Because your trip to the mountains killed our mom.”



* * *



“OOF,” THE UBER driver said as the line went dead. “That was harsh.”