Facade

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I walk into the master bathroom and find a square present with “Happy Anniversary!” written in silver. Granted, Bo and I got married on New Year’s Eve, so to see such a gift on Christmas Day wasn’t outlandish. In the bathroom, though…anyway.

“I’m so excited! Open it, open it!” My sister-in-law Bev revels in all things special occasion. She’ll spend hours at work planning lavish parties and celebrations, the tiniest details settled weeks in advance. The fact she has been written up at work for not doing work is beside the point. Parties! She sucks in her breath a bit to fit between the half-wall and Christmas tree. “I did it at work. So easy, so fun, you know?”

That’s comforting, I think as I unwrap…a photo book of my wedding to Bo. It’s sweet, nice. I say as much.

Bev looks over my arm at the family picture which includes Bo, his brother, her. We do not comment on the change nine years and a child have done to her once marathon-ready body. We don’t have to. Tears once again well up in the corner of her eyes. I flip the page and comment on Grandpa Varinski, already losing the fight to Parkinson’s. Grandma Varinski, bless the old bird, swooped in and grabbed the book with her talons before I could turn another page. Bev could talk to her about all the pictures, about the smiles. About the niceties.

I can see the appeal of The Show. Sure, our house is always this clean. I’ve always got time to scrapbook. Oh, this ol’ recipe? Sure it took three hours to prep, but who doesn’t have the time? Care for a race car made of crackers and olives?

That Show, it proves to others you can manage work and family with time for you to spare. PROVES it, beyond a doubt. In Bev’s mind, that is.

No one likes to think about Life After the Show. Of an alcoholic family who doesn’t understand what decades of neglect can do to a person. Of a toddler who bites and screams and kicks the pet. Of a husband who doesn’t want another child. Far easier to close the curtain on the Real, and embrace The Show. Make it go on, and on…

With the help of wine and pills, Bev nearly did just that.

Bo turned on his phone when he reached work at 4am to find a flurry of text messages from his brother: Bev locked herself in the bathroom and tried to kill herself. Cops were called. Boy is with the Varinskis. She has to stay at a clinic for an eval. Not sure if she’ll be out by Christmas.

It is not a reality many can easily understand. Grandma Varinski still thinks it has only to do with alcohol. Sure, alcohol didn’t help, but it’s only a microphone for the voices already there. Few get how those Dark Solutions can speak up in the calmest, quietest voices, the same voices that tell you to wear shoes because it’s cold outside. I can still remember my own:

Put your shoes on. Dump your son on the side of the road.

Fix your daughter a snack. Break your son’s fingers.

 

It all flows together and makes so. Much. Sense. For Bev, the Dark fixed on her rather than her son. You don’t matter. You’re a horrible mother. Your own family could give a shit. Why should you?

Bo receives word from his brother: Bev is out. We’re coming Christmas Eve. She doesn’t want to be treated differently.

O-kay.

So, here we are, Christmas Day, happy smiles and bawdy jokes, and Bev on the verge of tears. Always on the verge of tears. Everyone knows, but no one comes to her, asks her how she’s feeling. She requested this be a happy Christmas, so by God, we’ll make it a happy Christmas.

Facades aren’t allowed to react. We’ll go through our designed motions, provide loads of accolades to her for her baking, for how well her son sang with his class. Remain fixed on the excellent, and nothing else.

Christmas lights are always so good at softening the world, giving it glowing warmth and magic. Bev endeavors to capture the tree in as many pictures as possible, to capture proof she did, indeed, have a happy Christmas after attempting suicide. When her son refuses to follow her directions for a sweet pose, I point out I don’t even try with Biff and Bash. I point out my own shortcomings, my children’s shortcomings, time and again, and the façade grows ever more real with my reality’s harsh details contrasting her perception of how her life should be.

Inside, I can’t help but think, almost bitterly: I am no façade.

Shut up, Jean. Today is supposed to be a good day for the kids.

So why am I bitter?

The book didn’t help. Seeing my father’s face, so alive, so joyful, knowing he won’t hear Blondie talk about Darth Vader or watch Bash fly up and down the halls like a helicopter or Biff go around looking for words, spelling them out, remembering them. Knowing who wasn’t with me, in my house, made me bitter, yes. Life wasn’t perfect. It’s supposed to be perfect.

No.

That’s Dark Thinking, Thinking Bev invited, entertained, all too often. And that entertaining nearly led to her Last Show.

No.

I accept Biff and Bash can be right little bastards. But they are amazing, too. Blondie frustrates me with her lack of imagination, but that is only because she doesn’t have what I perceive to be the RIGHT imagination. My life is filled with little glowing blessings that one harsh moment, feeling, can cut out. But just because they’re turned off doesn’t mean they’re not there. I need only find the source of the problem, untangle it from myself, and throw it out. The glowing returns, and I sit, and stare, and marvel at how such blessings could possibly be mine.

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