Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
20
On Wednesday, Sheri reluctantly agrees to take some time away from the ranch to do something for herself. It took a lot of convincing for her to accept Patsy’s offer of simply heading out for coffee together, because I’m starting to realize that Sheri hasn’t done anything for herself in a long time. She works too hard.
I promised to keep Popeye company for the afternoon and I even offered to cook dinner tonight, and finally Sheri left the ranch with her hair and makeup styled to perfection by none other than me. It helps having a mom who’s a professional artist – I’ve picked up some tips over the years.
She’s been gone for a few hours now, and Popeye and I have been left to our own devices. We’ve played Scrabble, because Popeye says it was his favorite board game when he was younger, and now I’m in the kitchen peeling fresh vegetables because it’s nearing dinner.
“Do you want me to refill your tea?” I call through the kitchen to the living room where Popeye watches TV. I chuck a bunch of chopped carrots into the crock pot, then pause when I realize Popeye hasn’t replied. His hearing isn’t the greatest anymore. I wipe my hands on a towel and cross to the living room. “Popeye, would you like . . .”
My words die in my throat when I realize why Popeye is ignoring me – he’s engrossed in the TV, visibly aggrieved. He has switched the channel over from the old black-and-white movie I left him watching earlier to the showbiz entertainment channels.
The host of a gossip show is gesturing at a picture of Dad and his co-star, Laurel Peyton, at one of their press conferences, his hand around her waist and their eyes bright from the flashing of a thousand cameras.
“Everett Harding and Laurel Peyton are gearing up for their biggest box office success yet. The long-awaited third installment of the Flash Point series hits movie theaters across the country this weekend, and we have our leading couple here now! ”
The live audience erupts with applause as Dad and Laurel emerge from backstage. Dad’s in black slacks and a white shirt with too many of the top buttons undone – at the orders of his stylist, no doubt – and Laurel wears a butter-yellow summer dress that floats around her slim legs as she struts across the stage. They both have their dazzling Hollywood smiles plastered upon their faces. They wave to the appreciative audience, then sit down on a couch opposite the host, ready to respond to questions with charm and wit.
“He thinks this is real work,” Popeye mutters under his breath. “Smiling to a camera . . .”
I step in front of the TV and stare down into Popeye’s gaze. “Why are you watching this?”
Popeye only stares straight ahead, as though he can still see the TV through my body. I grab the remote out of his lap and turn off the show, zapping the living room into an intense silence.
Popeye grumbles in annoyance and fixes his eyes stubbornly ahead. “What – I can’t keep tabs on my own son every now and again? How else will I ever know what’s going on in his life? It’s not like I ever hear from him.”
“Oh,” I say, unsure. Popeye has never spoken to me in such a sharp tone, so honest and so open, and I’m taken aback by how agitated he looks. “I’m . . . I’m sorry that he doesn’t call enough.”
I’m not oblivious to reality. Dad’s life these days is far too glamorous and hectic; there’s no time for visits to the childhood ranch. I sensed the moment I arrived in Fairview that Sheri and Popeye feel a bit abandoned, relegated to pieces in the puzzle of Everett Harding’s former life, but I didn’t know how that must feel until recently. I know now how badly it hurts to feel second-best. And Sheri and Popeye . . . They are much further down Dad’s list of priorities than I am.
“Doesn’t call. Doesn’t visit,” Popeye growls with an anger I wasn’t expecting my words to trigger. “How difficult is it to pick up the phone? Are we really that forgettable? Not good enough for him?”
This is the most emotion I have seen Popeye show this summer. He is usually so warm and kind, but now he seems angry and wounded, his feelings raw. I wish I could fix this, but I have no control over Dad’s choices or his behavior. I barely have any control over my own.
I sit down on the couch next to Popeye and reach for his hand, holding it tight in mine. “I’m sorry, Popeye. Of course you’re good enough for him. He loves you. He just lives a busy life.”
Neither of us says anything more, because what else is there? Popeye doesn’t have to tell me how he feels – I know.
After a while, he asks, “Can you play a song for me?”
I lift my head to look at him. I nod and cross the living room to the polished wood record player that sits on a table by the window. This player is so old – beyond vintage – that I’m always amazed when I hear the tinkle of music streaming through the house.
“What song, Popeye?”
Popeye closes his eyes and inhales. “Play me ‘Close To You’by the Carpenters.”
I flick through the box of vinyls, which is Popeye’s treasured collection from when he and Mamaw were first married back at the start of the ’70s. Most of these songs I’ve never even heard of. Their sleeves are a little tattered and slightly faded, but that just means they’ve been well-loved over the decades. Finally, I find the album Popeye has requested and I carefully slide the vinyl out, lift the tinted clear cover and place it on the player. I move the needle into place and then stand back as the opening beats of the song ring out around the living room, and although I don’t recognize the song title, I quickly realize that I have heard this before. It’s so old, so slow, so ’70s.
Popeye keeps his eyes shut as he nods appreciatively in unison with the agonizingly drawn-out rhythm, and then he asks, “Can you dance with me, Mila?”
Dancing to golden oldies is not my forte, but Popeye needs some cheering up. This is what loving granddaughters do – slow dance to ’70s hits they only vaguely know.
I move back to Popeye and gently help him up from the couch. We are unsteady at first, toppling awkwardly, but then he wraps an arm around my back, and we balance ourselves out. Popeye’s much shorter than I remember him being when I was younger – I think he has shrunk. He clasps one of my hands in his, and we begin to sway. Then, after a moment or two, we hit the beat nicely together and move along smoothly as the record plays, and Popeye rests his head on my shoulder.
“I know you didn’t choose to come here,” he murmurs, “but I’m really glad that you’ve spent some time with us. It’s been wonderful watching you live the life you could have always had.”
His words hit me hard.
The life you could have always had . . .
If Dad had never gotten his big Hollywood break, we might have never left Fairview. I would have continued growing up here. I would have my own southern drawl, I would have been best friends with Savannah all through school, I would have met Blake a decade ago. Tailgate parties and singsongs around campfires would be a regular occurrence, and trips to Nashville to eat meat smothered in barbecue sauce at Honky Tonk Central would be normal rather than outlandish. I might have gone skinny-dipping in the lake, and who knows, I would probably even know how to ride a horse properly.
Dad wouldn’t have adoring fans who stalk his every move, we wouldn’t have Ruben controlling our lives, and Mom would be able to step out in public in sweatpants with her hair tied back without worrying about letting Dad down – or having the media pick over the “faults” in her appearance like carrion crows. We would maybe even live here, on this ranch. That was the plan, after all – for Dad to eventually take over once Popeye was no longer able to run this place by himself. Maybe by now we would have sold that house of ours on the other side of town and would be living here instead. Sheri would be out making the most of her life, enjoying her own adventures, and Popeye wouldn’t feel so estranged from his son.
I can’t regret the life I’ve had in LA . . .but growing up here isthe life I could have lived. Not this one – which I’m suddenly learning is jampacked with secrets and lies.
A voice from the kitchen breaks into my thoughts. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t even hear Sheri arrive home, but here she is right in front of us, reaching for Popeye to untangle him from me. Her expression is one of exasperation and something like fear.
“He wanted to dance,” I say. I stand back, confused. Have I done something wrong? Why can’t we have an easy little dance?
“Oh, Sheri, c’mon!” Popeye protests as he swats her hands away. “You act like that ol’ Grim Reaper is going to come knocking any day! Stop coddling me.”
Sheri shepherds him back to the couch, though Popeye moves reluctantly while tutting in disagreement. “I just don’t want you losing your balance again, Dad,” she says, her tone worried.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur from the sideline, twisting my fingers over and over again, unsure of what exactly is going on.
Popeye losing balance? Again?
“Don’t apologize, Mila,” Popeye says just as the needle lifts up off the end of the vinyl. “Thank you. You always were a sweet girl when it came to dancing.”
I am really, really lost. My brows knit together as my gaze flickers back and forth between Popeye and Sheri, trying to read their unfamiliar expressions. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Mila,” says Sheri at the exact same time as Popeye says, “Let me tell you something, Mila.”
Sheri parts her lips in protest and shakes her head fast. “Dad!”
“She’ll figure it out eventually. Things aren’t getting any better.”
“What isn’t getting any better?” I urge.
Popeye moves his stern gaze from Sheri to me. He forces a smile and his cheeks crease with deep wrinkles. “Sweet Mila, sit down,” he says.
Sheri rubs at her temples as I sit down on the couch next to Popeye. I can’t get comfortable – I sit on the very edge, my knees knocking together. I think I know what Popeye is about to say, but I don’t want to believe it yet. I can’t handle any more secrets.
“I am so glad that you’re here,” he says, reaching out for my hand, “because I’m slowing down.”
“You’re not that slow, Popeye,” I say, looking at him askance. Popeye is only in his early seventies. It’s not like he’s a hundred and six.
“Maybe not,” he says with a twitch of a smile, “but we think there’s something wrong with me.”
“How—” I swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the resurgence of tears from earlier, then I jump up and point at him in anger. “What do you mean, there’s something wrong? You’re fine, Popeye. You could have danced with me all afternoon!”
“We don’t know yet, exactly,” he hedges, but as he says this, there’s no denying the fear that flashes in his eye. “We’re running tests. I haven’t been great for a while. Lots of little things. Oh, Mila, don’t look at me like that!”
My heart shatters and the splices cut through me, leaving a burning wound in the middle of my chest. All of a sudden I can only imagine the worst. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, blurring my vision and making Popeye unrecognizable in front of me. I feel Sheri move closer to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. I don’t mean to cry, but the thought of something being wrong with Popeye, the grandfather I haven’t spent nearly enough time with, is too dizzying to bear.
“Does my dad know?” I force out, struggling to keep my breath steady. Dad has never mentioned anything about Popeye being ill.
“No,” Sheri answers, squeezing my shoulder harder and guiding me back down onto the couch. She sits next to me and wipes away a tear. “I really do think we should tell him.”
“No!” Popeye fiercely interjects. “Don’t you dare, Sheri. This may be nothing.”
“Dad should know that you aren’t feeling well, Popeye,” I say. “He’d come and visit you.”
Now Popeye turns his angered frustration toward me, a strong tremor in his jaw. “I don’t want him to visit out of sympathy!” he snaps, then shakes his head at Sheri and me. “Both of you stop looking at me like that! Stop! I’m not at death’s door! Nowhere near it, in fact.”
“We’re just worried about you, Dad,” Sheri says.
But Popeye is fed up of the concern, too stubborn to allow any pity for himself. Grumbling unintelligible words in a low voice, he rises from the couch and slinks off through the house, though now that I watch him with intense focus, I realize just how awkward his movements are, signs of the pain in his body.
Sheri collapses back against the couch, her hands pressed to her face, groaning a sigh. “There are a lot of things you don’t know, Mila,” she says quietly, but her voice is both apologetic and full of sympathy. She wraps an arm around me and pulls me in close, and, as she rests her chin on my head and hugs me tight, I sense that I am as much of a comfort to my aunt as she is to me.